(fucking syrians)

“Play something,” Spartacus said. He leaned forward in his seat and Varro couldn’t help but smile. He suddenly felt shy. Unsure. 

He looked down at the guitar in his hands, and then up again. Past Spartacus, their friends, their family, all gathered in Agron and Nasir’s large backyard. Their engagement party was a small, sweet gathering. Varro and Spartacus had pitched in and bought the couple an antique sword. The seller said it once belonged to an Ancient Roman warrior. They didn’t believe her, but it was still an interesting item. 

Varro shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know what to play. His palms were sweating and he wiped them on his jeans. Spartacus laughed and reached over, running his fingers through Varro’s soft curls. He looked at Varro again, blue eyes asking nicely, and Varro nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “But I only know love songs.”

Spartacus smirked and leaned back in his seat. “I believe that’s appropriate, given the occasion.”