It's been this way since you arrived. The skinny loft filled with the sounds of two, getting to know each other better. Two people, in the fiery blooming of a new love. What starts with glances and polite conversation becomes far more heated and intimate. Occasionally, the fire must be relegated to a simmering boil, but the flame only needs a breath to return to a blaze.
     Shadows dance against the second level's opposing wall. Candles create distorted images, a movie flickering in the dimness of a darkened setting. The figures cast are but representations of a Truth, Plato would explain, the reality of it more stark and clear, more divine. A look into Infinity through Love.
     "What did you think," Cesare asks in Italian -- for he can speak it all the time with you -- "...of the marsala? Isn't it amazing, bello?" Cesare smiles, his body wrapped around yours. He sits in your lap, legs encircling your waist. His head just touches the ceiling of the alcove, and the mattress keeps you both from the cold stone floor. Cesare's not light, as you know. His arms rest heavily at your shoulders, and right now, he twists the longer portions of your blonde hair into tiny pigtails. His biceps take up the view, and his gaze is somewhere above the crown of your head. "I might miss that. I think that's...what I'll miss," Cesare nods.
     He's utterly unclothed, as he is in the evenings, once you come to life again. While the day conversation has been fascinating, comforting, and disturbing simultaneously, the night is when he can show you everything he wishes. Cesare smirks, his rear square over your thighs, and he grins as he continues to turn your hair into nice rows of teeny plaits.

     You found that the daytime ruminations of one golden soul to its chosen counterpart did not stick thoroughly with him when waking. But words, key phrases would shake off of his tongue most miraculously, particularly after lying with you for a while. Normally quiet Alire, penitent Alire, clerical and bishopric Alire can then transform into quite the chatterbox.
     Such conversations have wound, even as your arms and legs do around him now, or his golden hair in your fingers twining into plaits, in and out of one another (conversation's rhythm which bodies have strained, repeatedly, to match), in and out of history, in and out of last week, or this early dusk. A gaining comfort. A gaining confidence.
     Tiny, golden plaits. Blue eyes lift, but they only see your biceps. You are solid Italian. He likes to feel your solidity. Your mass. Your density. Your strength. The Male all around him.
     "You will not have to always miss it. I do not want you to miss it so much," Alire murmurs, his arms are around you, his hands hold you balanced. The smile. You are learning its ways. Though it lifts only a little, so much is conveyed. "Here, we will holiday. At least once a year. If I can do more, amore," you call him handsome, he calls you 'love'. "... then I shall, si? And... si... the marsala is amazing. And the wine. And the art, everywhere. And the secret gardens in hidden piazza one can only stumble on if one is horribly lost, which I always am here." The smile widens. Such a smile as few but you know. "I have you now... to show me the ways..."
     Show me...
     You have his golden hair twined. He kisses you, just a brief pass of warmth. "We will still have Venezia. It is in my soul now," as you've seen his soul, you should know, "... as much as in my heart," that's you, amore. "How could I just turn my back on her, tesoro," treasure, he calls you.
     There is a greater comfort between you, a growing ease. He does not worry for his scars, for you have seen them all. You have even seen and felt the one invisible to the naked eye but palpable to a loving heart. Alire d'Avignon has relaxed with the speaking of the truth. Of who ...and of what... he is. And you are still coming with him.
     "What else will you miss?" Alire wonders. "If it is the smell of fresh bread, then I will tell you which lane to walk down in Poitiers, close your eyes and you will be here again. If it is the wine," he grins, "...well... we," meaning France, "...will do what we can, tesoro."

     "Bread...wine. Chicken, stewing, in a pot. Roasted meat and pig fat," he teases, seeing whether it sends your stomach churning. Cesare smiles again, working over your ear. "Ah, roasted pig," he nods, "...cooked fat with tender meat..."
     That can't be palatable to a vampire.
     "And...cream. Cooked cream. Cream on bread," Cesare adds, nodding. "But...I have been working on a spell. So, maybe Venezia will not be so far away." A grin and his lips press at your brow.
     "I'm sure there are such things in Poitiers," Cesare thinks. "Maybe I shall not miss them so much." Wanderers have few attachments.

     His golden eyebrows, a shade darker than his fair hair, lifted in a sweep at your graphic, almost pornographic, description of roasting pig. A look that wavers between memories of feasts and repulsion and fascination settles upon an expression of amusement.
     You are teasing me. But how could you know I have the constitution of one of Hannibal's elephants?
     Alire's smile twists. "I find I have a Provencal appetite. Frutti del mare, fish, monk fish of course being my favorite," ah! Alire made a joke! "Prawns, lobster, melted butter and orange sauce." He sighs. "A moment upon the lips and tongue, and then an eternity of memories, filed in with the rest. And there are things in Poitiers, I think you will come to like it. It is an old city, not quite as old as Venice, but still older than both you and I combined." How marvelous to be able to say that.
     "In just a few nights," Alire breathes between you. You will be with me. In my city. He sits for a moment astounded. "And you will see the villa that was my first home after I came to be as I am." He pauses. "I have not told you much. You must have questions, tesoro. You may ask me... anything. I will answer it."

     "Ah!"
     Cesare laughs at your list, no less indecent than his own. He turns his face to the ceiling, arms wrapping around you as he leans backwards. "Lobster," he smiles, licking his lips, "...and butter. You'll make me fat, Alire," Cesare smirks, the weight pulling at you. "I can still do that, you know," he grins.
     He sighs, letting the air push from his nostrils. Questions. "You know, I do not ask, what I am not willing to tell of myself. And so," his Italian in academic debate, "...since we are both willing to tell," he shrugs, "...there is no rush to find out. It will happen, with time. As we love together, bello. We have time," he smiles, believing the truth of it. "Why rush to know all now? What will we save for later?" he tickles, hands thrust at your sides, into the pits of your arms.
     "I don't have questions, my paladin. Well," Cesare grins, growing hair flopping at his forehead, "...a statement. Just...never leave me." His admission of devotion.

     Leave you? The notion astonishes him. Shouldn't that be the other way around? "That is my line," Alire notes, a soft sound and deep. The humor comes with slight smile, but with eyes that ask the same of you. "I promise." He does not do so lightly. He has only said those words once before.
     Do not leave me, Alire...
     I promise, Michele...
     "There are ways of staying fit," he murmurs at your skin, at your throat. You know what he means. "But even if you do let the lobster and the prawns get the better of you, tesoro," he chuckles at this notion, "...what does it matter?" There was no shifting at the tickling, just the lifting of golden brows. A twitch at the corner of his mouth is the only indication that it tickled him. "You and I," he breathes sweetly between you, "... such academic debates we shall have. I can see it now. Circular logic of Anselm, Aristotle's shadow puppets, and Giancarlo's theorems of irresistability."
     Alire leans forward, his mouth trailing over your strong shoulder. His arms tighten slightly, he sighs against your skin. "Well, I will say only this," of the questions unasked, "... you will meet the man who healed these wounds," he says at your skin, he watches it color instinctively beneath his touch. Alire leans back, he looks to you. "And it is my hope that he will know how to solve the riddle of your headaches. If he can heal such a mess as this once was, I have faith that he will be able to help you."

     "You have mentioned him before," Cesare whispers, eyes closed as his face returns to the ceiling. There is nothing finer than to feel your lips upon his skin. "I will thank him and sing his praises to the sky. I will bless him and tell him that I am forever in his debt." Arms clasp at your nape, and Cesare swings gently left and right. "I will explain to him that he's completed a life that was broken..."
     "And..." Cesare smiles, "...I cannot be fat. I do not want you to look at me and not want me. The night that you find me undesirable, well, I don't know what I will do. So, I will not over do the prawns and lobster in butter, with shallots, and a cream sauce," it's the details that only imagination can bring, "...or your delectable French pastries, with delicious crusts and berry sauces."
     "Dieu, I'm hungry."
     Legs tighten, and Cesare puts his nose to yours. "I look forward to seeing your villa and your Provence. It has been a while since I have seen the coasts there."

     "If it will make you feel better, we will run, tesoro. But truly, there is no need to think such." That you would ever be undesirable. No matter what would occur. "Love... prevents such judgements." From shoulder back to your neck, that strong neck. He kisses, he breathes, his hands cup you to him, clasping as your legs tighten. Nose to nose as you are, you have a great view of his eyes. Cobalt rimmed. The inner part of the iris, the portion surrounding the pupil is a light blue, a starburst against the cobalt matte. He blondly blinks, his eyes lidding as his attention is drawn to your mouth. I live there and I die there. "A life that was broken," he repeats.
     So appropriate that phrase is.
     Alire lifts his eyes to you, blonde eyebrows lifting a little. "He will like you. Particularly if you sing praises to him," Alire smiles. "If you sing to me, I will get weak in the knees... or I will have to rush you upstairs..." a conspiratorial whisper. Something just between you two.
     "I miss the coasts and the villa. Pruning plants in the orchards and gardens. The fountains, the views, the smell of the ocean and of old books." He doesn't make fun of himself as he did last month when speaking such matters. It is who he is, is it not? Old books, plants and Alire go together. "My little garden in Poitiers is just a sad shadow of the villa's own. But... it is better than nothing."
     Alire does not close his eyes as he kisses you. He watches you. "Do you want to go have dinner? Tonight is our last night. Tomorrow, late afternoon... we will have to make our way out of Italy..."
     "Ah," Alire says suddenly, "...this reminds me. Tomorrow you must wake me. I will tell you how to do this..."

     He was about to speak, but then you speak of waking him. "Err," Cesare frowns, mostly out of amused dismay at the concept, "...is that a healthy thing for me to do, bello?" He smirks, quiet an instant as he's distracted by those eyes. "I can do this, but from a distance, yes?"

     "What?" Alire smiles suddenly, a smooth spread of mouth. "Are you going to stand at the foot of the stairs and throw something? Non," he chuckles, "... it is not so bad. I promise," he assures. "Tomorrow... at three o'clock, just before twilight but when the sun is still in the sky, come lie beside me. Whisper in my ear that I should wake. I will wake if you call me. The secret is to do it softly." A kiss. "Gently." Another.
     "The first thing I will feel is your closeness, your body. I will know it as You." Another, and longer. You know the signs of his own arousal. The way he kisses, long before blood makes him rise. "The first thing I hear will be your voice." And now his hands clutch, gently, but they clutch, fingers lightly pressing beneath your thighs.
     "We have to get an early start," he notes. "And I can be out in late afternoon sunlight. I am strong enough. We have a lot of ground to cover..." And I have limited time.
     "It will be alright," he assures and then Alire twists, the mattress shifts to receive you both. The kiss this time is not just a brush, it is not just a tease. It is slow, it is full. There is strength to it and passion, but there is always a great tenderness. "I have lodging for us midway," he murmurs, parting the kiss to look at you. His eyes are your sky now. Blue as a Tuscan afternoon. "A secret place. A small place. We will stop there for the night."

     When your mood turns, Cesare is quiet. Fascinated. "I already feel you inside me," he whispers softly, honestly. "When your mood changes, and you show me that it is time again." His hand lands at your cheek, cupping broadly and openly. "You think of everything," he notes, meaning both in bed and in your trip planning. "And I never worry when we are together. Never, Alire," he insists. "How...can I never worry or want? I feel...done. As if a long rest has come to me. A rest that I never knew that I needed..."

     I am nothing if not an able trip coordinator...
     He closes his eyes and he listens as you speak, his mouth brushing your forehead, kissing your eyelids. An amorous benediction.
     I am your protection and your shelter...
     I am your lover and your brother...
     I walk with you in daylight and at night I hold you, brave, beneath the moon...
     I do not worry...
     I do not worry...
     An old psalm, one of his own writing. Years, centuries it was locked away, hidden in some remote box of his mind. But you begin it, Cesare. You whisper it unknowingly and the words trickle back to his awareness. Alire looks at you, his hand lifting to cup your cheek in silent answer.
     Afterwards, there is the settling of his weight, great as it is, mass of knightly flesh, he is distributed evenly between you and your mattress. He speaks your name, a whisper against your mouth and then a groan. He slides against you, his hands clasping you tightly.
     So it goes...
     From one moment to the next, the to and fro of your conversations, blending into rapturous lovemaking, slow and aching, move as easily as a gondolier's oar in the Grand Canal. Or as the sea's embrace of the Provencal shore.
     Tomorrow, you will be able to smell that ocean, the Mediterranean, not the Adriatic that surrounds your Venice, pooling into the lagoon. The winds will be from Spain. You will swear that you smell myrrh upon the air...

Posted by rowan at June 02, 2003 01:03 AM