Chapter Text
He is Cato Sicarius. The greatest swordsman, Master of the Guard, or rather, "Commander of the Watch," Knightly Champion of Macragge, Grand Duke of Talassar, and now Overlord of Ultramar. He is an incredible fighter, strategist, and leader. Moreover, he is devastatingly attractive, with dark hair and blue eyes. He is, damn perfect.
Cato looked into the mirror; he shouldn't look so exhausted. Astartes required less sleep than ordinary humans, and he was not just any Astartes; he was Cato Sicarius. The mission had taken a toll on him and his men. It showed on his face, which deeply displeased him. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.
It was time to seek out Uriel Ventris, a fellow brother with whom he had a complicated relationship. On the one hand, Cato greatly enjoyed Uriel's company and wanted to be close to him. On the other hand, he was an Astartes warrior and needed nothing more than his sword and armor; emotional trivialities were neither something he needed nor wanted. Yet, he longed for Uriel's strong body against his own and a bit of closeness. It was always a challenge to seek Ventris out, as Cato didn't want to admit how much he desired him.
After all, he was perfect, but sometimes – just sometimes – even the most perfect man needed someone in whose presence he didn’t have to be perfect. But Cato would never admit that. He attributed his desire for Ventris’ closeness to some primal instinct that even the long and painful process of becoming an Astartes hadn’t managed to eradicate.
He strode through the tall halls of the Fortress of Hera. The corridors were bare, as Astartes valued functionality over comfort. His steps were purposeful, tinged with urgency; if he didn’t reach Uriel quickly, Cato might change his mind and not go at all. It had been many months since Cato had last allowed himself to seek Uriel out. Uriel was his weakness, a vice he couldn’t shed. Each time, Cato wondered how some Astartes-made farm boy like Uriel Ventris could hold such sway over a noble warrior like himself, Cato Sicarius.
It was pathetic; he should be doing more productive things in his free time than seeking Ventris out for a few tender moments. Cato snorted, disgusted with himself. A passing chapter serf nearly had a heart attack. Cato made a sharp gesture, signaling the servant to leave.
Cato continued on, his red cape billowing behind him. He looked fantastic, and he knew it. With a confident grin, he knocked on Ventris’ door.
Cato waited as the heavy door slowly swung open. Uriel Ventris stood before him, dressed in a plain robe that Cato almost sneered at. Of course, Uriel was once again in his modest, provincial style, which made him seem like the simple farm boy he had always been. And yet… there was that inexplicable attraction that Cato felt every time he stood before him.
Cato himself was the exact opposite of this humble appearance. His magnificent power armor, resplendent in ultramarine blue and adorned with golden engravings, was a living testament to his perfection and pride. The symbol of the Ultramarines emblazoned on his chest plate, flanked by honor badges, bore witness to his glorious victories and loyalty to Macragge.
His helmet, crowned with a red crest, underscored his position as Captain of the 2nd Company, and his red cape, which swayed lightly with his movements, lent him an exalted, almost royal aura. Everything about his appearance screamed power, strength, and an unassailable claim to greatness. Even the weapon at his side—a masterfully crafted power sword, its blade glowing with an ethereal blue—was a symbol of his unparalleled skill.
Yet in that moment, Cato felt that all this external splendor did little to conceal the insecurity within.
“Cato,” Uriel said, a smile, open and sincere, flitting across his face. “What a surprise. What brings you here?”
Cato straightened his shoulders to mask his uncertainty and responded with his usual cool authority, “I had… a free moment. I thought I might… check on you.”
Uriel stepped aside to let him in. The room was sparse, almost primitive in its furnishing, as Cato saw it. A room fitting for a simple mind like Uriel's, perhaps. Yet, despite himself, Cato felt a peculiar warmth in this room, something that seemed oddly unreachable.
Cato stopped in the middle of the room, his gaze sliding over the shelf filled with hand-carved figurines and books. He curled his lip. “You waste your time on these… trivial things.”
Uriel shrugged, unperturbed. “Sometimes it’s the little things that remind us of who we are. But you wouldn’t understand that.”
Cato snorted softly and turned abruptly to Uriel. “I understand more than you think.”
Uriel regarded him silently, the warmth in his gaze unwavering. “So, why are you here? Really?”
Cato opened his mouth to answer, but no words came. He felt as if his perfection, his flawless self-image, was beginning to fray like a thin veil. He hadn’t admitted it to himself, but the mission, the exhaustion etched on his face, and the endless pressure—they had worn him down.
“I need no one,” Cato finally said, his voice sharp as a blade. “I am Cato Sicarius. The Champion of Macragge, the greatest warrior this chapter has ever produced. I am perfection, Uriel. And perfection needs no distractions, no… weaknesses.”
“Weaknesses?” Uriel stepped closer, his voice calm in contrast to Cato’s bristling arrogance. “Is that all you see in me? A weakness?”
Cato glared at him, but inside his mind, a storm raged. It was as if every fiber of his being drove him to despise Uriel—for his simplicity, for his humanity, for the way he captivated Cato. And yet… there was also this urge, this unexplainable desire, to be near Uriel, because in his presence, for a moment, Cato didn’t have to be perfect.
“I don’t see you as a weakness,” Cato finally said, but his voice trembled. “But what I seek from you is… dangerous. It makes me vulnerable. And a man like me cannot afford that. I am a symbol. I am more than a man. I am…”
“An Astartes,” Uriel finished the sentence, his voice soft but firm. “But even an Astartes is not infallible. We may be stronger, faster, live longer than any human, but we are still… alive, Cato. We need more than just our sword and armor.”
Cato felt something in him threatening to break, and he turned away to hide his gaze from Uriel. “You have it easy,” he finally said, the sharpness in his voice now muted. “You’re free; you’re just the captain of the 4th Company.”
Uriel stepped behind him but didn’t touch him. If he didn’t care so much for Cato, he might have broken his nose for the comment. Instead, he glared at him. “Stop being such a damn asshole for five minutes,” Uriel said.
Cato stared, stunned. Due to his rank and status, no one ever dared to talk back to him. He closed his eyes and fought down his anger. He deserved that. The storm inside him continued to rage. How could Uriel remain so calm, so honest? Uriel was always open about what he wanted, while Cato couldn’t even be honest with himself.
Pathetic.
Uriel’s gentle touch pulled him from his dark thoughts.
The warm light of the candles in Uriel’s quarters danced on the walls, flickering shadows playing across the room's modest furnishings. The air was filled with a strange, silent understanding—heavy and yet oddly light, like the moment before a storm.
Cato sat on the edge of the narrow bed, his armor removed, and the undersuit he still wore stretched lightly over his shoulders. His gaze was downcast, his usually controlled posture now broken, almost vulnerable. The cool air of the room brushed over his skin, but it was the presence of another that truly stirred him—and unsettled him.
Uriel stood behind him, quiet and calm, but the intensity of his gaze was palpable, almost tangible. His fingers—firm but not forceful—lightly touched Cato’s shoulder. It was not a combative gesture, no grip that conveyed dominance or control. It was something else, something Cato could barely name because it was so alien in his life.
Slowly, he let his head drop forward, closing his eyes as Uriel’s hand moved, softly gliding over the lines of his neck, touching the muscles tensed beneath the flawless skin.
“You’re always so… tense,” Uriel said softly, almost a whisper.
“I am a warrior,” Cato replied, his voice deeper than usual, but it sounded less like an excuse and more like a reflex.
Uriel smirked. “You’re more than that. We’re more than that.”
Silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Then—in a moment that stretched into eternity—Cato felt Uriel drawing closer. The warmth of his body was now immediate, the touch more than just on his skin. It was as if their boundaries blurred.
Cato’s breathing quickened, and he turned slightly, about to speak, but Uriel raised a hand, placing it on his cheek, and whatever he had wanted to say remained unspoken. Their eyes met, and in that moment, nothing else mattered—no Codex, no battle, no role they had to play.
Then came the fraction of a moment when both closed the distance. No words were spoken, yet the silence was filled with everything left unsaid. Cato felt Uriel’s breath meet his, the slight tilt, the gentle seeking—and then the touch. It was barely more than a whisper, a soft brushing, yet it ignited something in him that he couldn’t control, didn’t want to control.
Their movements were slow, almost tentative, like a dance whose steps they knew only instinctively. The touches grew bolder, the restraint giving way to a need that simmered beneath the surface.
Cato didn’t know how much time had passed when he finally wrapped his arms around Uriel, pulling him closer, savoring the warmth and closeness in a way he rarely allowed himself. In that moment, he was no longer the flawless warrior, no longer the poster boy of the Ultramarines—he was simply a man lost in an unexpected connection.
The fire’s light dimmed, and with it, the shadows on the walls faded. Yet in the darkness of the room, there was nothing but them—and the feeling of having something that needed no words.
“You’re still fighting,” Uriel whispered, his hand lightly tracing the flawless line of Cato’s jaw. The touch was featherlight but resonated in Cato like the echo of a battlefield that never truly fades. “Leave the battlefield behind, just for this moment.”
Cato closed his eyes. He felt the touch of lips on his temple, then on his neck. A slight shiver ran through his body, and he hated himself for this weakness. At the same time, he needed this moment more than air to breathe.