By the time the battle came to an end - a victory, of course, as always - they had successfully moved every injured soul into the hospital, not far from their camp on the frontier. Joshua’s capsa, a slight leather bag where he’d been keeping the bandages, was empty, hanging surely at his waist like an old friend, crinkled and tired but satisfied after a job well done.

He was a handsome young man, bright-faced, quick-footed. His fighting spirit left much to be desired but he had been by far the swiftest to draw a knife, the one who found it the easiest to follow instructions and get into formation, before his apprenticeship pulled him away from the frontlines mercifully unscathed. His hair was very dark and very curly, though not quite long enough to fall into his eyes - a Roman-influence cut. The tunic he wore was white beneath the armour he’d discarded, mostly stained red with the blood of those he’d helped reach the hospital; those he’d held down against beds as his superiors dealt with the worst of it.

Joshua walked amidst the wounded, looking at them all but not truly seeing anyone; it was easier to pass them by and pay little mind to their pained moans when their faces were blurred by indifference. Many beds were occupied, though there was no doubt within him that these were clearly less than what would have resulted should the second cohort not have come to their aid - disaster of the sort they hadn’t seen in a long time would have doubtlessly descended upon them; he could see it without having to resort to too wild an imagination. They would have been massacred; Domitian’s frontiers overrun with eastern barbarians thirsting for a bit of Roman land.

In midst of these musings, Joshua was met with the sight of a familiar face, not far from where he stood. A massive figure sat on a cot near the exit, as though he were uncomfortable to find himself surrounded by so many hurt others. Outside of the frenzy of battle Joshua was able to place the colour of the man’s eyes as something watery, kindly nostalgic, as blue as the still waters of Alexandria when the sun shone right through them like a prism. The man was clean-shaven like a Greek boy, though his hair was redder than Vestal fire, cropped close to his head like an Augustan statue. His face would have been easy to deem pretty if not for that awful scar that cut through his lips. It still wasn’t displeasing to look at.

A young orderly was conversing with him, promising that someone would come to stitch him up soon enough. There was a gash on his leg, clean of blood for now - the orderly must have had a hand in that - and not particularly deep. The man’s eyes caught with Joshua’s and the apprentice smiled, striding along towards him.

“Salvete,” he greeted, sparing each one a nod. The orderly - Marcus Ponthus, a reedy man from Carthago, with blonde-brown hair like honey and keen brick-brown eyes - turned towards him, smiling thinly too.

“Salve. Iacobus needs stitches. Shall I fetch a doctor?”

“No, I’ll do it. Do you have a needle?”

Marcus Ponthus retrieved one from a bag he carried, as well as some thread. Every bed had a bowl of water on hot coals underneath and the Carthagan brought it out, letting Joshua dip the needle below the liquid’s surface before he faced the redhead once more. Iacobus had yet to say a word, though he looked at Joshua quite raptly, like he couldn’t truly put his finger on where they had seen each other before.

The medic smiled at him reassuringly, holding the needle up for ocean-like eyes to see its metallic glimmer in the lamplight. “May I?”

Iacobus nodded. His mouth opened for the first time, a voice unlike the one he’d heard on the battlefield telling Joshua to go ahead. It was smoother, softer, kinder now that the din of the fight and his edge of a soldier were behind him.

“We met on the field,” Joshua remarked, carefully holding the split flesh together as he passed the needle through smoothly. Iacobus’ face twitched in a pain that left his features before long, replaced with curious understanding. “You saved my life.” The needle passed through again, neat, his pulse unwavering. Joshua grinned though he did not turn his face up for Iacobus to see. “Thank you, Iacobus.”

“Jack,” the soldier said. “Everyone calls me Jack. And it was nothing, really. You looked like you could use some help.”

“I admit I was in need of saving, O my hero,” Joshua laughed. This time, when Iacobus - Jack - hissed, his dark eyes slid up to look into his face, waiting for the pain to pass before continuing.

“Anyone would have done the same,” the redhead replied. Joshua pushed the needle through one last time; reached for his knife and cut the thread.

“Not everyone would have done it so well,” he countered. “I’m in your debt, Jack.”

Now, red tinged the centurion’s pretty face, a blush that ignited his pale cheeks like dawns through the canvas of a tent. His blue eyes were firmly glued to Joshua’s steady hands, still lingering on his leg, but they gravitated back towards the apprentice’s face when the latter smiled wider at the obviousness of his embarrassment. Rather than saying something about it, though, he switched his attention to Marcus Ponthus, to whom he requested more bandages that the orderly hurried off to find for him.

Soldier and medic were left in silence for a few seconds, comfortably letting the clamour of the rest of the hospital wash over them in absence of conversation. Just as Jack’s lips parted to speak once more, Joshua’s name was called again; though by a far more familiar voice, chirped with a purpose that had the young apprentice physician standing straight and expectant. Not an instant later Sylvius was there, holding his helmet under his arm; dirt had mixed with the perspiration of the combat, sticking to his face where the helmet hadn’t been protection enough, but it didn’t take away from his youthful charm, dark blonde curls framing his forehead and shining hazel eyes that fixed on him and made his pulse race.

“You must come with me, Hoshe’a. My father has to thank the Primus Pilus for saving our skins. He’ll be utterly humiliated!” He spoke in a hushed voice, though it didn’t mask his excitement. His free hand rested on Joshua’s arm, as inviting as always, beckoning him to leave his duties for the promised spectacle.

“I’m not done here, Sylvius,” Joshua responded after a beat, glancing back towards Jack. The redhead held his gaze. Joshua looked away.

It was only then that Sylvius took in Jack’s form, as though he hadn’t noticed the man until now - a hard feat, considering his sheer size - and he blinked, displeased. “Are you going to make me wait?” he asked, lowering his tone further, dismayed expression on Joshua as his soft grip on the medic’s arm travelled downwards to graze his palm. When Joshua’s fingers reflexively twitched to prolong the contact, Sylvius drew away entirely. “I really want you to come, too.”

The decision spanned several seconds, what it took for the black young man to look between Jack’s leg and Sylvius’ fragmented smile. Guiltily, the apprentice set the needle down on the bed besides Jack, not quite meeting his eyes. He smiled brightly regardless. “All you need is to be bandaged up. Marcus Ponthus can do that for you without a problem, don’t worry. I’ll see you around, hero.”

Jack nodded; thanked him; watched him trail desperately after an entirely self-satisfied Sylvius; released the disappointed breath he hadn’t meant to hold.