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Geta Headcanons

Geta always has a plan. In fact, he usually has two, three, four plans in the back of his mind. His brain is never not working; he’s always watching, always anticipating his and everyone else’s next move. He’s got it all down, he knows every exit in every room in the palace, he always has his back to the wall, he wears his sturdiest rings just in case he has to lash out. He’s thin, lanky even, but he figures he’s been on the receiving end of enough punches from his father to know how to land one himself.

Every blink, every flick of a finger, every word that comes out just a little bit off, he notices it. He sees how people watch him, but he watches them right back, and he sees it all. Things maybe they don’t even realize they’re doing. But Geta sees it, analyzes it, his mind spinning with reasons for why. Why do the senators fiddle with their robes when he is speaking? Why does Lucilla pause slightly before she answers his questions? Why does Tegula’s lip twitch whenever Geta adjusts his laurels? He’s got a million answers for each question, and not one of those answers makes him feel any better.

Geta doesn’t sleep well. He never has. He has trouble falling asleep and then staying asleep. As an adult, he grinds his teeth so badly he’s had one removed at the back of his mouth. As a child, he’d stare at Caracalla, passed out and snoring, completely oblivious to the world around him. Geta envied him for it. He still does.

Caracalla. It’s not entirely Caracalla’s fault he’s ill, Geta knows that. Geta isn’t even sure Caracalla knows he’s ill most of the time. Geta pities him as much as he loves him. If he thinks about it too much, he feels his throat seizes up and he has to close his eyes. He hasn’t cried in a long time.

Geta layers on the cuffs, stacks his rings, slathers his face with make up. Geta does not always like being himself. The thicker the eye shadow, the more elaborate his robes, the more 'Emperor' he looks, the less he sees himself and the less others can see him too, he thinks. He hopes. He doesn’t always feel that way, not when he is standing in the middle of a room, playing his part, and then something or someone goes off script and he’s left naked and exposed, a fool.

When that happens, Geta broods. He paces, he fiddles with those same rings he layered on for protection. He replays the moments over and over and over and over and over in his head, he can’t stop himself. His stomach burns and he’s found himself on the ground a few times, curled up and sweating, blinking back hot tears and swallowing bile. He’s pulled out hair before, he’s made himself bleed with his own fingernails, and so now he cuts them short.