Chapter Text
A glorious day was today, as the sun shone strongly against the men as they trained, swung their swords, pushed themselves to their limits, all while overseen by Iago, standing proudly above them. Cassio may be the lieutenant but Iago was the one ensuring these men were ready to defend the earth they walked on. After all, Cassio was a mere arithmetician before his promotion. Iago was the one who had seen bloodshed in foreign lands, fought back against invasions with his general Othello, defended the citadel from coops and spies and all sorts of pathetic attempts of their enemies to gain ground on their homeland.
Iago was no coward. He had arguably more hot red blood in his liver than any other soldier in this arena. The veterans told horror stories to the new recruits about him, as though they were misbehaving children, and Iago couldn’t help but bask in a sick, sadistic delight.
Just as he was about to shout new orders to his troops, a messenger had arrived then, bowing before him before conveying to his ear, “Lord Othello wishes to see you at noon, at the earliest convenience.”
At this, Iago raises his eyebrows. Surely it’s not a promotion. Cassio’s promotion was rather recent, unless he had been demoted, but surely Iago would’ve heard the gossip travelling down the halls right into his eager ears.
Apologies Cassio, yet at once, I am not apologetic at all in the slightest.
“Why, whatever is it for, my good man?” He speaks in an oily voice as he turns to the man, shoving his fox-like expression right up to his face, invading the poor thing’s personal space.
His sharp ears manage to catch the faintest hint of a suppressed squeak, before the messenger backs up and clears his throat, “The lord claims he wishes to discuss diplomatic approaches with another city, Verona, under the rule of one Prince Escalus. He wants to seek advice.”
It takes all of Iago’s willpower to not groan and make a disrespectful show. Damned diplomacy, whatever happened to putting daggers to an enemy’s neck and tearing useful information or a land settlement out of them?
He does not voice this out, simply plastering an easy smile on and patting the messenger’s shoulder, “Thank you, dear messenger.” He purrs as he rubs his shoulder, before letting his hand linger on him, sliding down his forearm till Iago tucks it behind his own back, “Dismissed.”
As red as a rose, the man scampers off, and Iago chuckles, knowing that man will have some serious reflecting to do tonight.
He expels a sigh from his lungs, anticipating the boring conclusion to Othello’s plight. What’s a man to do to get some entertainment? Make up some gossip about how some man’s wife is cheating on him with the only evidence to that being a stray handkerchief in the room of the man she’s supposedly bedding with?
…
He snorts. An amusing tale. But he had better things to do than stoop that low for some entertainment. He was an Ensign, not a jester or a petty termagant. Besides, Othello’s clown was apt entertainment enough, despite how he may grate Iago’s nerves at times.
Perhaps he’ll visit that clown for a bit later before returning back home. In the meantime…
“Do you think because I was busy with the messenger earlier that I wouldn’t notice you slacking off?” He stalks up smoothly to one of the troops who had slowed down earlier.
“N-No, sir!” He stammered out.
“Do you think me blind?” He spat back, his smile turning to a scathing frown.
“No, sir!” He cried out in a panic.
“…” His lips pulled into a wry expression, “Another set of push-ups.”
He wilted under the order and Iago’s gaze, “Y-Yes, sir…”
Iago simply walks away.
Ah, it was good to be feared.
Which is why a very small part of him disliked being friends with Othello. Not to say they weren’t on good terms. Othello often treated him more as a friend, even a brother, than a mere military man.
But that was the problem. Iago has no idea how the average man deals with the peculiarity known as friendship. He has no idea if his unfamiliarity with the subject meant he was above or below the average man. He’d like to believe he was above most people in terms of status, wealth and power, yet that small part of him couldn’t help but feel inferior at the fact he knew how to simulate friendship but not truly live in the moment of friendship, whatever it could possibly be.
Approaching Othello’s office, he knocks politely on the door, “My lord?”
…
There was some shuffling…
…
The large mahogany doors were unlocked, groaning as they were pushed open.
“Iago!” Othello’s brotherly gaze fell upon him, and try as he might, Iago couldn’t help but feel younger in the presence of his general despite going at this for at least a decade now.
“My lord,” He goes in for a bow, but like with Desdemona, Othello stops him.
“None of that, it’s not as though we are in a formal meeting.” He speaks as graciously as always, and honestly, Iago can’t believe he used to be so unreasonably prejudiced against him when he was first enlisted under his command. All that talk of Moors being lascivious, barbaric beasts of men was clear nonsense and Iago couldn’t believe he was so stupid as to trust such information at face value. He fell victim to gossip! Fucking gossip! And after that humiliating instance in his life, he vowed to not be such a fool again, as war had taught him that, if anything, it is usually the palest Christian generals, and not their dark skinned prisoners, who tend to be blackest in heart.
Iago’s lips lift minutely into a hint of a smile, “You must at least permit me to give you respect, if only to humour me, my lord.”
“Only if you stop calling me “my lord” whilst in casual settings, or alone.” He places his conditions, and in return, Iago takes his hand and kisses the back of it as he bows slightly.
“I had decorum beaten into me. Respect is required to the bigger man, or so I have been taught.” Iago jokes as he stands straight again, going over to the array of maps and sail routes plastered and pinned all over Othello’s board, “It would not do to be so lenient.”
“But it would not do either, to be so fierce.” Othello replies easily, as he has always been a man of mercy to those he trusts and loves, and Iago is no exception.
“The messenger told me you wished to speak of…” Iago pauses to bite back a weary sigh, “…diplomatic approaches to one Prince Escalus of Verona?”
“Indeed. Verona is a city rich in steel and wine, Venice is a city rich in textiles and spices.” Othello continues, his gentle tone flowing matter-of-factly, “Alongside those, there’s the wine business. With our own special supply of rich wine, we could perform an amiable exchange. If we could officiate a steady trade chain, we could benefit from this exchange.”
“But of course, men always fall victim to the red womanly sting of good wine.” He chuckles, leaning against the wall, “Besides, I hear Verona is known for its extravagance, especially the Montague and Capulet families. They seem to hold events regularly.”
“We must be cautious, though.” Othello remarks, “I hear fights break out rather frequently on the streets.”
The freckled man barked out a harsh bit of laughter, trailing an finger absentmindedly across the frame of a painting, “If they dare to touch an actual general, I say we might as well cancel any plans of amiability. Clearly, they’d be too stupid to make deals with, no?”
“Ah, my friend,” The general sighs, “Your mouth proves to be as a rose. Very much capable of beautiful words, but just as capable of being sharp as thorns.”
“Being a soldier has taught me to be sharp, not beautiful.” He snorts, narrowing his eyes.
“And yet, in my eyes, and many others, you are such a beauty.” Othello smiles knowingly, “Especially, your wife. Emilia often speaks of you fondly.”
At the mention of his wife, he freezes, “Emilia talks about me? Fondly?” Iago waves dismissively, as though swatting a pesky fly, “Please, are we speaking about the same woman? That wench’s mouth would sooner swallow poison than inflate my ego further. Her words, not mine.”
“Ah, but deception comes in many forms.” Othello muses with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, “And while deception may have a negative air to it, often, it is employed rather harmlessly.”
“Truth be told, Othello, that look in your eyes frightens me.” Iago crosses his arms, an uneven grin on his face, but Othello either doesn’t notice, or, even more frighteningly, ignores him in favour of making Iago squirm.
“You’ve deceived me, Iago.” He smiles with the amiability of a cat, and Iago is genuinely scared.
“Deceived you?”
“Yes, you’ve deceived me.”
“I’ve deceived you.”
“Indeed.”
“How have I deceived you?”
“Well,” He starts walking up to Iago, and Iago totally doesn’t shrink back, “You once told me you were not fond of sweetness.”
The freckled man totally doesn’t swallow nervously as he grins, “Y-Yes, I do recall…?”
“But I’d like to think that was a lie.”
No, no, no, don’t tell me…
“Why would you think that, Othello?!” He laughs, but it’s totally not forced, “Sweetness? I’ve always preferred a savoury palate.”
“But a few birds have gone to me and told me…” He turns back to his desk, and Iago feels like he could breathe for those few seconds, “You actually crave a certain treat, one that’s red, and small, and most importantly, sweet.”
Iago wonders if he could sneak out the door successfully right now. But as he moves a foot toward it, the general comes back and seemingly towers over him, and Iago could feel his doom steadily approaching.
With a small box, like the one Desdemona had, Othello opens it, “Answer me honestly, Iago, do you like strawberries?”
He wants to die right then and there.
He had been deceived.
The deceiver deceived!
“No.” He bluffs with the straightest face he could muster.
“But according to several accounts, that would be a contradiction.”
“Well, those accounts all lied.”
Idiots…! I can’t believe they’d do this to me…!
“Is that so? Because in my opinion, my Desdemona has always been faithful-”
Oh god, no…
“-and Cassio despises lies-”
I am going to thrust my spear right up his arse.
“-and your best friend, I believe he is Roderigo, has also revealed your fondness for the fruit-”
He’s so dead to me.
“-and lastly, your wife has always spoken the truth, however blunt her words may be.”
I hate that woman so much.
“So, tell me, Iago, do you like strawberries?”
Never has an impish expression been so terrifying to Iago. He can feel his dignity washing away. He was supposed to project an air of masculinity and strength. How could he do that if every ally and relation he had knew he liked a dainty, sweet fruit like strawberries?!
“Good my lord, pardon me…” The Ensign laughs shakily, “Though I am bound to every act of duty, I am not bound to that all slaves are free to!”
“That is?” Othello tilts his head, his long, dark locks following his movements.
“Well, to utter my thoughts? Why, say they are vile and false-”
“Iago, just tell me the truth.” Othello’s face looks as though he cannot physically contain his laughter anymore, “All these bombastic words are not going to work on me.”
“My lord, you know I love you.” He presses himself into the wall, hoping to will himself to become one with it.
“I know you do, and I to you as well.” He smiles, hiding his laughter behind his sleeve, “Would you like a treat, my friend?” He lifts the box of strawberries to him.
“Othello, you could not possibly even waterboard this information out of me.” Iago deadpans desperately, knowing he’s fighting a losing battle, and the only other option he has is to beg for mercy.
But still, there will be no mercy, and the hand of God shall continue to strike him till he perishes in utter defeat.
“Oh, do not worry, my friend, I would not torture such information from you.” Othello nudges the box closer.
You are torturing me right now in this very moment!
Iago sighs. He shall raise his white flag, his hand…
…and it shall be stained red henceforth.
“There,” Othello says with a gentle happiness as he munches on a strawberry alongside his Ensign, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Iago could only grumble as he snatched another strawberry and deflated even further. How could defeat be so painful, yet so deliciously sweet?
“Why were you so reluctant to reveal this to others?” Othello chuckles, “Even I, a general, can appreciate strawberries.”
“I thought it was unbecoming for a soldier to delight in such frivolous things…” He could not muster the energy to think of a guiling excuse, “I had thought it a weakness for years.”
“You mistake weakness, for humanity.” Othello pats his shoulder, “Do not worry. Nobody will think lesser of you for this. In fact, it only makes you more admirable.”
The freckled Venetian simply glared at him, though there was no bite behind it.
“Another one?” Othello lifts the box to him again.
With a petulant, low whine, Iago succumbs to his humanity, and indulges once more.
(And if Iago starts to admire the humanity of Othello, and starts seeing his own humanity as a reflection of his strength, he’ll keep it hidden and nobody will know about it, for after all, it’s nobody else’s business in the end anyway.)