As noted in the summary, this is extremely old; I thought I'd put it here anyway. I wrote this nigh on three years ago during my second year of high school, when we were supposed to write a serious poem/short fanfic about Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. This was the first (and inappropriate for school) result; the one I turned in is on my account, called Redemption. I should warn you that this is stupid, contains strange m/m slash, and is completely pointless.

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Brutus sat by the small fire outside his tent on the outskirts of Philippi, roasting the members of Creed on a spit. He sighed and rubbed his hands together. It was obvious that he was nervous, and the pee stains on the back of his toga could prove it.

He had just had to kill his best friend for the good of Rome, and since then he had had terrifying dreams of Caesar's ghost. It wasn't only the ghost part that scared him. No, it was the ghost hitting on him and performing pole dances. He had never suspected that Caesar was gay, despite the 'Old Senators Gone Wild' pornos he used to stash in the bathroom and read when Calpurnia was slashing it up with Portia.

Something in the brush behind him stirred, and Brutus freaked out. He would never admit it, but he wanted his mummy.

"Who. . . who is there?" Brutus stammered. "Please tell me who you are, or else I shall rename myself Joanna!"

"Hello, Clarice," a voice from behind him panted. It sounded so familiar, so much like the voice of Caesar.

And Caesar the man was indeed. Brutus gaped at the figure in shock; in all honesty, this was not the man he once knew. Caesar was much taller, due to his four-inch heels, and he was clad in a fluffy pink tutu with a matching spandex top. Brutus was surprised to see that his old friend was even wearing makeup: way too much blush and fiery red lipstick.

"Hello, Clarice," Caesar repeated, a grin crossing his wrinkled face. "We meet again, my dear."

"I'm not Clarice and I'm not your dear," Brutus spat, his blue eyes wide with fear. "I thought I killed you!"

"Aye, 'tis true," he started. "But I forgive you, Brutie-Wutie Cuddly Fart-Miser, for now I shall always be able to see you. 'Tis one of the benefits of being dead, sweetheart." he cracked another silly grin and held up a bottle of champagne. "Want to have a drink with me, baby? It's on me."

"This is why I killed you, you creepy git!" Brutus shrieked, backing up to the tent. He turned around, hoping to run for the hills and never return, but Caesar caught his arm and winked. "Get off me, you fleabitten limousine!"

Caesar pouted. "Now, now, Brutus, there's no need to be feisty."

"Just. . . leave," Brutus said, closing his eyes in exasperation and fright. Quite honestly, he couldn't stand to look at Caesar, who was now performing a pole dance with his own sword. "Really, my lord, that's disgusting."

"Do I make you horny, baby?" he purred.

"Uh, no."

Caesar stopped dancing and looked at Brutus with a sad look in his eyes, then before Brutus could feel remorse for snapping at him, Caesar pounced on his friend and giggled like a happy-go-lucky schoolgirl. "You know you want me, sweetheart," he purred, his hand reaching under Brutus' floral purple toga. "You know you want a piece of this hot Roman ass."

"I never said that, my lord, nor is that what I desire. All I desire is for you to get your hands off me and leave me forever."

Caesar tweaked Brutus' nose and chuckled. "Aww, is Brutie-pooh in denial of his feelings for the great Caesar?"

"You are only my friend," Brutus clarified, hitting Caesar with his pillow to distract him from removing his embarrassing Disney Princess underwear. "But I consider this friendship over if you continue to act like some cheap rent-a-whore."

"I am not a whore!" he wailed. "You did not object when I said I’d see you at Philippi, so I thought I could please you like I was unable to do in my lifetime."

"This is not pleasing at all! It is positively nauseating!"

"Or you're homophobic."

"I did not. . ." Brutus started, but Caesar quieted him with a long, slobbery frencher. Brutus tried to pull away, but Caesar was too strong. . . and truthfully, he could not deny that Caesar was indeed a piece of hot Roman ass. But this. . . this was more than he could handle.

As soon as the kiss was over and Brutus had come to his senses, he reached for the sword lying next to him.

"Want another pole dance with that, baby?"

"Actually, I don't think so. I think I'll kill myself instead."

"Awww, does widdle Bwutus need Prozac?" Caesar cooed, pinching his cheeks.

Brutus brandished the sword and waved it about, and Caesar jumped back, stumbling on his feet (those heels were killers). Brutus knew this was his only chance, so he stuck the sword into his stomach, keeled over, and bit the dust as Caesar watched without a worry in the world.

He felt like his spirit was flying, and indeed he was. When Brutus first regained consciousness, he looked around at the expanse of green and happy people surrounding him. Ah, he thought, the afterlife must be great. . .

Until he realised who was with him, that is.

"Hello, Clarice," someone said. And, as he feared, it was Caesar.

"Did I not get rid of you?" Brutus shrieked. "Just go away already or I shall file for a restraining order!"

Caesar laughed. "Nay, good Brutus, death is forever, and so is our love."

"Great, wonderful, absolutely fantastic," Brutus sighed. "An eternity of extremely pointless and disturbing slash: what more could I ask for?"