I could not sleep...
     For the passing of the day, there was the heaviness of death and the demands of the daily sacrifice. I think I napped. But it was not restful, this sleep of death. My mind was on the new lover two floors above, and the unspoken centuries between us.
     ...How am I going to tell you...
     It is not good for a prince to not sleep his full. He shall not be alert when he needs to be alert. It is not good for a prince to love, for in this climate of politics, little is left sacred.
     ...What am I going to do...
     By the time I rose, it was something like two o'clock. The sun was full, I could feel its heat. Summer. Short nights. I do not get to spend as much time with you, Giancarlo. Giancarlo. The name makes me spin and flush...
     He takes time assembling himself. Putting himself together. In soft camel, in white, in ivory. Alire goes upstairs, through the kitchen -- always as if he is coming in the house through the back door. Always now... with some clipping from his garden. It is the season of roses and lillies...
     And, as scheduled, the men were tere to check the ductwork. The filters. How air is moving. If anything needs cleaning. They arrived right-on-time. Alire was here to greet them. He was here to begin making dinner for you as they worked. By the time it is four o'clock, the work crew is finished...
     "...Non, monsieur, la maison est en excellent etat. Il n'y a aucun polluant..."
     "Filtres etaient bons, mais nous prendrions la liberte pour les changer, juste au cas ou..."
     Alire stands in the greeting den, arms across his chest, chin in hand, listening. Good news about the house. But no answer for Giancarlo. His arms unfold and he nods to the gentlemen. "Merci. J'apprecie votre perfection." Hands are shaken. But still, no answers given.

     It's easy to tell when someone is coming up the path. The gate creaks as it swings open and closed, and the latch sounds when it drops into its slot. Newspaper rustles at the front door, and a key jingles as someone tries to unlock the door, only to find it already undone.
     "Hallo?" comes his voice, Cesare now pushing at the door. "Alire? Hello?" Certainly it should be the air-conditioning crew, but you never know.
     "Oh," Cesare smiles, stepping into view, door closing behind him. It's as he expected.

     He cannot help the smile -- he does not care what these men shall think, nor anyone for that matter -- and when you enter, pushing through the foyer and coming into view, Alire beams. "Bon giorno, Giancarlo," he greets with warmth...
     The men glance behind them to the other voice, to you. A nod of greeting, the donning of hats in old European customs. They turn back to Alire. "C'etait notre plaisir, monsieur. Faites-nous savoir si nous pouvons faire toute autre chose pour vous." Cards are exchanged, and they smile and turn to go. "Good day," they say in Italian to the one who was greeted such.
     Who said the French are impolite?
     As they file out, Alire looks to you. His smile a little wan. "I am sorry, caro, that they were not able to find something. I was hoping. It does not please me that my house causes you pain. But," there is warmth again, the cresting of hope, "I am making us dinner. It is nice enough, perhaps we can eat in the garden if you like. Did you have any luck?" And he comes to you, in his warm golden tans, the whites and off-whites -- it's a good look for him, makes his hair all the more flaxen -- his hand reaching for yours. Fingers joining.
     Maybe we will get a house of our own one day...
     I do not want to be parted from you...
     How am I going to tell you...

     There is a bob of Cesare's head for the men departing. "Grazie," he murmurs, closing the door behind them. "Nothing?" he sighs, not understanding it. He walks towards you, leaning into put a kiss at your cheek. "Well, I guess it does not matter...I found a place," he points at a circle in the paper, "...maybe it will do for now."

     "Nothing," sadly. You, living even down the street. How will I be able to sleep in this house with you away? But... there is a good side to it. For will I not be able to come to you, to love you in your home? To have a private sanctuary?
     The kiss brings him from his thoughts and to you and to the Present. Alire looks surprised. "Already? What is it like... here...let us go to the room," that you and I have made, "... and you can tell me all about it. Maybe later, you can show me where it is?" I hope it is not far. "It is so good to see you, ami," he whispers, he smiles, he kisses you.
     It is gentle...
     It is warm...
     It speaks of his great love...
     The quiet passion...
     And as it pulls in parting, expresses the longing that lies beneath. Alire exhales, hands going to your waist, and he begins to ease into what has become a nightly adoration and study of your features. Where he quietly stares at you, mouth, chin, form and all.
     Heavenly Father, what have I done to deserve this. Or is he the face of Your Forgiveness...

     "Yes," Cesare nods, holding the paper up between you even as you hold him to you, "...three blocks and four blocks...it is a good ten minute walk, I think. I just tried it..." he notes for the record.
     Cesare glances upstairs, however, at talk of moving to a slightly higher floor. It is has gotten tiring, finding himself confined to certain areas. But he remains uneasy about simply living elseplace. He knows no one else in Poitiers, and the only reason to be here, is to be with you. "I have not rented it yet," he lets you know, "I wanted you see it and then I will give them a deposit."

     "You think... after dinner?" Will it be alright? he wonders without wondering aloud...
     Is it... alright? You seem ... and maybe it is too sudden. Maybe you are pushing too hard, Alire. Maybe he will resent it, leaving his home just for you. Maybe he will tire of Poitiers. Of his only reason for being here. Maybe he will think of a thousand and one things he had in Venice and the scales will tip...
     Maybe you worry too much, Templar...
     "Gian," he says softly, breaking out of his vortex of thoughts, "...you are... okay with this? I do not want to be ... so... " The brow furrows as he searches for a word. "...I do not want my want for you to stay here to make you unhappy. I would love to see what you have found," he says. He thinks: after sunset.
     I wish it did not have to be after sunset...
     You are going to get tired of my fussing...
     Maybe you are already tired of it...
     Alire smiles a little but lets you have your space. Not sure where to lead you anymore. "It is alright," he says, he pauses, he nods then, "...it is much of me to ask someone to...change their lives for me, just because I cannot pick up and leave. It is not fair, perhaps." It is not fair to him, Alire. "That you should have to leave everything you know to move to a strange city, with no friends..." I had not paused to think of your friends. I was only thinking of myself. My own comfort. My own peace. My own longing. "You are sure... about all this? I am sure about loving you," he follows, answering before question is asked. "That is what I am certain of. And I want this to be for you, too. I want you to be happy, Giancarlo..."

     Cesare smiles, turning towards the staircase. "I know you do," his brow furrows, "I want the same." But. "Come on," he grins, reaching out one hand as he curls the newspaper up with the other. "We can talk, we will dine, then we will see the apartment." He sighs as he glances around the room. No answers here, it seems. None upstairs either. Nothing is wrong.
     "I will not be so long at home...maybe a couple of weeks..." well, how will you respond to that? Is that too long? Ah, Alire. Maybe it will be too long for you. "There are things to do, to arrange. It's not changing a life, bello...maybe we shouldn't think of it like that."

     He nods to the couple of weeks. He takes assurance in it. "You will give me a number where I can reach you?" Alire smiles. "I will be sure to call you, you can imagine I think." He chuckles at himself. You should relax, Templar. "Two weeks without talking to you at all, this would be hard..." he admits it. But he does not cling. He has to put it in faith. I have to believe you will come back for me...
     In the end... faith is all...
     Alire takes your hand, he brings it to his mouth, he kisses it. He follows you. "I just don't want to pressure you... into doing something, oui? You would not be happy," Alire looks to you, understanding if you would say: no, I cannot do this. "And then, how happy would I be?" It is all so tied together. He ascends slowly, lowering your hand, lacing his fingers together with yours. "I am looking forward to seeing the apartment. Is it upstairs or downstairs?" And so the questions begin. He will want to know everything. What you like about it.

     "Upstairs," Cesare looks back, grinning now. "And you will be able to reach me," he explains, "...but it will not take a phone." Something more magical. And inexpensive. That brings a laugh and tightened fingers around yours. Cesare pauses at the landing, looking down the hallway towards his room.
     "It is not very big," he explains. "A room, a real kitchen," as opposed to what he is used to, "...and bedroom with ensuite." Payment? He'll sort that out later.
     But he has to ask. "Did...did they check everything, Alire? Top to bottom?" This makes no sense.

     Upstairs. I like being up. Maybe I have a little cat in me, that I like to be up high. Or perhaps it is years of putting up with a flooding France. Or maybe it is because I am Swiss. And what is a world without mountains? How long has it been, Alire, since you have returned to Switzerland? Oh, I should buy us a chalet. I should sell my villa in the southern climes of Provence and return to the silver and the snow, great hearths, large beds, formidable furniture...
     I will show you that one day, my Giancarlo...
     No phone? And Alire grins. Ah. "I will be able to use the gift you gave me the other night?" The globe that contains your room. I will see you there? "I must tell you," comes his whisper, low and deep, "...how much I love your magic. You make the world wonderful, Giancarlo. Every night with you is an amazing night..."
     "...and yes," he switches gears, "...they checked everything. Vents from outside, interior vents, all the filters. They tested the ductwork, to make sure there were not holes, where something could have gotten in. They checked the chimneys. They even installed new filters, even though the others were in good shape. Better to be safe, yes? But...non," a frown, "...nothing. I wish I knew what were causing it. Do you...think that the house could have some...I do not know...old magic on it...?"

     That is what is starting to cross his mind. Something wrong at less of a physical level. He walks you both to his door, shrugging. Not wishing to really dwell on it. "Maybe we should find papers of the original owners and all the owners since. Maybe one was a mage or wizard of some sort?" Who knows what a magic-user leaves around.
     In some ways, that eases the tension obviously upon him. "Yes, maybe we should do some research and find out who has owned the house," he twisting back to see you. Cesare's brow quirks, letting you choose what route is taken. It is, after all, your home.
     "And every night," he adds, pushing the door open with the newspaper, "...is a wonderful night with you." Maybe, we will have days soon. Days when you are not so busy with communications work.
     "Here," he whispers, turning to allow you inside. "Come sit. I can make tea for you."

     He goes into your room, the room that has become a shared space. It is already full of you. Your energy, there is a little of him left here. Memories of the nights you have. He wishes he could spend days with you. Days in the sun. He wishes not everything had to be cloistered in darkness. Like a secret.
     Why does love have to be secret...
     Alire removes his jacket, and the charade of having worked all day, or part of it. Beneath is just a shirt, button down ivory. There is no tie today, perhaps already removed. "I would love some tea," he remarks and he moves to take a seat on the sofa -- for all rooms but one have a small sitting room area. "And I will pull up the papers of the house, I should have them. At least as far as the last owners," he notes. "Before that, the town hall would have it. I can send for it. That is a good idea, ami," he notes.
     "If there are no hints there," he wryly, dryly murmurs, smile sliding, "...I will start thinking you are allergic to my cologne! Ah me, then what should we do? If you, Gian, are allergic to me..."

     That gets a half-twist as Cesare moves towards the small teapot he bought. No, that can't be it. "No, no, I am sure it is the house," he explains. "Something in the house." A wave of a finger, and the pot, with two cups, lift to float towards the ensuite, presumably to get water.
     "Why would the town hall have the papers before then?" he wonders. "It was empty for some time?"

     "It was owned by a family for many generations before I acquired it. The house is old...some families have lived in the same house for hundreds of years...it is not uncommon." Oh well, why am I telling you this. You're European. You know. "So, that is a matter of history, ne c'est pas? Maybe I should just move," he suddenly thinks. "A new house in Poitiers. Maybe one without so much history." Or the Cathedral that Guillaume surrendered to the city as an offering.
     He gives us a building and titles...
     I lusted after his husband...
     He has a big heart, Guillaume, whom nobody thanks...
     Alire grins as the kettle and cups float to do your bidding. It tickles him. As he settles into the sofa, his arm extends along the back of it, his fingers beckon you to him. I am going to be parted from you soon. I need to fill myself with you before you leave, everything about you, Giancarlo. "I had not thought of that. But... we should find out what the problem may be before, yes? So in case it is... " something else. And then he pauses, peering. Wondering. "What if it is not the house at all, ami, but something... in it. What if it is a painting or a piece of furniture, or ... some thing. Not the house itself..."

     Hands moves to put sugar and spoons on a tray. A matching set, bought at a local store. Cesare sighs again, hands lowering after tray is arranged. "I...hope not." And he'll leave it at that. "Something with magic on it? I do not know. Something bad?" he frowns, turning around as he inhales and picks up the small tray. "I do not know, bello," he shuffles over. "But, I guess..." he admits, "...we should find out."

Posted by Criseyde at May 29, 2003 07:01 PM