The Magister closed the door softly behind him. That something so softly borne could echo so loudly and so long. Alire says nothing for a time. The air around him remains unsettled but with the receding of the old man's presence, some equilibrium begins to return. Though, it is true, he remains quite agitated.
So strange to see this agitation of anger, this would be your first time. It is so foreign to Alire. But before he was a mild-mannered cleric, in love with his gardens and his books, before a lifetime of scholarly pursuits came those of struggle, war, betrayal and righteous anger.
He gives your hand a squeeze, he lifts your hand to his mouth and he kisses it. There is reverance in it, unmistakable reverance. Kisses are sacred between you. "I ...do not know what to say, tesoro," he murmurs. And he does seem at a loss.
And tired...
Alire relinquishes your hand with another squeeze and he goes to the bed, letting it bear his sudden weight, and he gives his eyes to the ceiling and all his questions to God.
Why...
How...
Why now...
Why at all...
For what purpose, oh lord, is this given rise to recur...
"Bello," Cesare says softly, his head coming to rest at your temple. He exhales, not knowing what else to do immediately. "Maybe...you should tell me." Tell me about him. We've never discussed him. Not even his name.
"I...cannot make you, my bello Alire. But I am trying to understand this. I don't understand..."
"No," Alire says, "... no I do not mind. He has been dead a long time. It does not hurt me to speak of him. Quite the opposite, in fact." Alire turns his head slightly, needing to see you. Your face, the face of the soul that he loves. Michele notwithstanding. "His name was Michele," his eyes go back to the ceiling, "Michele de Montrachet, Marquis Clevigny," all of that tumbles from his mouth with intimate familiarity. "The man... was amazing," he shakes his head, and a corner of his mouth upturns just slightly, barely a motion. "A Templar, like myself. I met him in Avignon. I was on the personal charge of Pope Clement V. He had come from the north after a campaign..." Alire peers at the ceiling and at his memory. He looks to you again, platinum eyebrows lifting. "Now, I do not know which one. There were so many."
Blue eyes drift to the ceiling again. "I met him then, and I traveled with him to the Eastern churches, I ... still playing apostle." Perhaps I should not have given that up to be a prince. "He was very strong, very bold. Everything was big with him. He was hard on his men, but good to them. No one laughed like Michele de Montrachet, and no one bellowed like him either." The look softens. "I think it was two years, after several meetings," he smiles, "...after staring a while, that we... approached one another. My duties in the pope's detail had me travelling frequently. And always Montrachet was there when he could be. He loved with as much passion as he did everything else." Alire looks to you again. He pauses his story there for a few moments.
Cesare nods, still pressed against you. "He sounds...like a man who you could love. And loved you." He manages a small smile, his expression not so pained now. Perhaps the headache has lessened. "I am glad you had someone as this. And I think...he was a smart man with taste," Cesare smiles still, "...to love you."
"And I understand," fingers moving in yours, "...that those times were not these." For such things to happen between men.
An arm slips beneath you, and Alire partially turns. "No... then, it was.... more than a crime, it was an affront to God, which was the greatest of all crimes. Despite the fact that bishops and kings practiced it as well as I. We had to be ... very discreet. Well, that is an understatement. We could never be discovered, or it would..." It was the end of us. "It would be the end of everything."
Alire turns, he kisses your temple. "We were masters of silence by the end. But ... in the end it did not matter. The pope was a weak man, he sold us to the King of France. We did not know this, of course, until it was too late. We had arranged to meet in Switzerland, the land of my birth and of my family's holdings -- my property. We were to meet there and then we would head to Prague, our stronghold. That church, tesoro, where... you and I met." No, it is not so strange now, is it. "Michele was nearer to Switzerland, he would make it before I did. They held him there, so his horse would be there, and I would see it and think nothing of an ambush of the king's men. We were arrested and spent our last year in the dungeons of Chinon."
"And... thank you," Alire murmurs after a moment. "You are kind to say. But ... yes... he was a smart man. When he wished to be. Headstrong. I loved his stubbornness though it drove me to distraction on more than one occasion. Everything with Michele was ... big... daring. He was beautiful, bello. Just ... beautiful."
"And," Cesare says softly, looking down, "That is...who you...think this to be? The one possessing me?" It is easier that way. "A spirit," Cesare trails off. He would have never thought of such a thing possible.
"Maybe I have never said that," Cesare offers, eyes even with yours and only a breath away, "I am sorry for what happened to you, bello. I am. I am sorry for your sadness," he finally speaks, fingers now at your cheeks. "I hoped to lift such sadness from you. I saw it the night we met." At that church. What was I doing there?
"I had... not yet met the man whom I thought would bring me joy again, in whom I could trust enough to be happy, until I met you. There were others, even one I...coveted, who belonged to another, a good friend of mine." He smirks, would you ever think me so dastardly? Alire moves, turning to lie upon his side, propped up on and elbow.
"I have had... joy. I have had sorrow. We all do. You have had your own, I'm sure. Mine was... more gothic, more bloody, perhaps. Certainly regrettable. But speaking of it has not troubled me, there simply was ...no need to... and no one I trusted with the details. As for the... spirit. Yes... yes that is who I think it to be from what I heard. And who else would be hard-headed enough to do such a thing if not Michele de Montrachet?" He smiles a little at that. "Hard headed enough to try to find me after six centuries. It speaks to his usual tenacity. But... tesoro... though I will always love him, as the love of that life, it is you I care for. I do not love a shade. I love you. The magician ... hard headed enough to follow me from Prague to Poitiers..." Hard headed, tenacious. Maybe it is so.
Alire leans down, he kisses you, gentle and warm. He has a mouth made for such as you have discovered, and enjoys it a great deal. He parts it with a breath. "Thank you," for saying you are sorry. "I was worried... as I always am," a slanting smirk, "...but that when you would see the scars you would... think maybe there was too much story to love. I have.. had that problem in the past."
"I am not afraid," Cesare whispers, returning the kiss afterwards. "I fear nothing, bello Alire." And who would dare say such? Cesare smiles, arms about you wherever they may land. "Everyone deserves love," he explains, "...and that includes me...and you."
"And now I know," Cesare adds. Michele for him is a universe away. Someone else. A ghost present, but a ghost still. "And I am lucky I see," Cesare grins, his hazel eyes bright once more, "I have found a prize that a ghost would come centuries to have again. A man who has not forgotten you, as I shall never."
"Maybe he and I have much in common," Cesare teases.
Who thought that when this night began that Alire would be smiling. It is that quality you and Michele have in common. The ability to make him smile. He has not looked for other similarities. "I am glad I am cemented in your memory and in your heart. As to... having something in common?" Alire kisses you again. "In your fearlessness, you confirm it," he whispers.
And he kisses you again. This time, it is not brief. And it is unafraid of consequences, of being caught, for there is no one to catch and nothing clandestine. It is a kiss that expresses deep love, great passion. That intensity. You know from which it springs...
He takes a breath, he lets you take one also. Cobalt eyes focus upon you, your mouth and your bright eyes, your hair. "Thank you, tesoro, for looking for this friend of yours," he murmurs. "What would I do without you..." He shakes his head. Let me never have to find out.
Alire is flush against you, rolling you slightly so you feel a part of his weight. And his need. "We will fear nothing ... together," Alire says in a hush.
"Nothing," Cesare smiles, voice firm. "We fear nothing." Arms slide, drawing you forth. Feeling improved is an understatement. Cesare smiles, but does not fall back to the bed as feelings dictate. Another question.
"What does it want from you?" Cesare asks, concern there. "Does it want anything, Alire?" Would something take you from me. "After all this time?"
The question stops him, your concern stops him. A hand reaches up and touches your face, the face of the treasured one, his tesoro. "I do not know," Alire replies. "I do not know if it wants anything though... there must be a reason for him to exert his will." Could it be to part us? Michele, would you ever be so cruel? "I cannot imagine it means to hurt you." A pause. "Or us..."
But what if it isn't possession...
"Or maybe... it is not possession. Maybe, tesoro, the headaches are... memories. I do not know. I think it would be good for us to find out. If it is possession, then... we will need to find out what it wants and expel it. If it is not possession... if it is... that you are Michele reborn then..." his eyes soften. "... then there is nothing we must do but acknowledge it. And love one another as we already do. Of the two possibilities, I hope it is the latter. For I would not want to believe that Michele was so cruel, so angry as to wish me unhappiness and you harm..."
"I cannot believe that," Cesare says earnestly. "I have my life. I have lived it longer than any mortal." The latter option concerns him. "Then, I am someone else and I cannot remember?" How is that? What is that? Cesare shakes his head negatively, pursing his lips. "I do not want his memories. His life. It is mine now, Alire..." hazel eyes focusing on you, "it is mine." Not his. Not anyone else's.
Cesare closes his eyes, feeling himself becoming upset.
An exhale. "I know. It is your life and it should be your life. This is an intrusion, no matter ... how it is happening. And I, too, deserve to have my time. I do not want to have to rehash old and very unpleasant business."
Alire rolls off, giving his back to the bed once more, and his eyes to the ceiling. "I did not mean to upset you, tesoro. I do not want this for you either. I do not want it for us. For me," he whispers. "You are you. You are Giancarlo. No one is going to take that from you." But would it mean that if you were he Then that you are not you Now? It is so confusing. It must be so confusing...
"And I have you now," Cesare murmurs, rolling over to become your canopy. "We are together," he whispers. "That is all that is important to me, bello."
When Cesare bends over to kiss you, his hair falls forward, spindling golden in the room's light. "Instead of talking about us, maybe...we should be us." Your cue, knight. Has it not been a few nights? "I am tired of all this," Cesare confesses, laughing a little in the expression. "I just want...to be as we were."
A hand comes up, the large hand of your Templar, so gentle in its touch, though he has killed... innumerable people perhaps. That hand reaches into your hair as he lifts, his mouth at yours. He does not speak of how tired he is of it as well. You know how tired he is, not that you can tell from the spirit in his kiss. His hand holds your face to his, his thumb stroking your cheek. His other hand pulls you to him.
"You have me now," Alire says against and into your mouth, his lips playing, his mouth suckling. Parted, his mouth brushes against your own, teasing before assailing. Or maybe you will assail him for a change. He does not move to change positions, he does not roll you over. Alire smiles. "Tired of this, but ... not too tired, I hope?" Blonde eyebrows lift. "I belong to you," Alire murmurs at your mouth, breathes against you. "Show me..." and then his mouth covers yours again.
A little weary, yes, but not so much that he cannot fulfill such a request. Cesare's grin warms as his eyes first meet cobalt, then look to your expert lips. He cannot resist, Cesare's growing smile says.
"Ah," but first, "...what is a night for us, without something, hmm?" Cesare's brows arch as he makes sure you agree, and as he glances to the light nearby, he whispers, "Resecere."
Instantly, the light in the room recedes. The lamp does dim, certainly, but shadows crawl across the room as if consuming the light that filled the space.
"Better?" Cesare wonders, feeling himself again.
"I love that you can do this, you are a wonder to me, Giancarlo," he murmurs, Cobalt leaving you only so long as to watch the receding light. But it is not so dark that he cannot see you. He likes to see you. He takes pleasure in watching the two of you. He does not like total darkness when you make love.
No, let it be done boldly and in the light, where if eyes were tuned to it the eyes would see...
"Better," Alire murmurs. His hands are at your side, sliding against your back. He holds you flush against him. Strong fingers press against the cloth, feeling you beneath it and slowly his hands begin to find a way to get around the clothing.
"I love you," he says, speaks it more than whispers it. "Show me how much you love me," Alire grins. "I want to feel it, tesoro..." I need to feel it, Giancarlo. It will steady me. It will ease my heart and my mind. Alire's desire is honest, it is real, and vocal. The Stone of Chinon is silent no more.
Cesare stills as you speak, the words causing desire to swell. That was an epiphany -- that someone could so instantly inspire him as you do. He had never experienced such in his entire life, long-lived as it had been. But that night at the church, a fire suddenly burned him that wanted something. Someone. It has yet to diminish. Now, Cesare suspects it never will.
His hand that remained extended, draws in. Cesare sits up and removes himself from your embrace long enough to unbutton his shirt and peel it from his shoulders. "I love you," he whispers, letting the shirt fall behind him on the bed. Cesare's smile has gone, and he comes not at those lips again, but instead kisses your stomach, his lips pressing cotton while he seeks to remove the shirt separating you.
"Crepusculum."
The magician cannot see the results. But you can, Alire. Above you both, within the room, is the night sky. Dark shadows fill the spaces between grey-white clouds illuminated by a moon. The artificial light of the lamp ceases, and in its place, the heavens, pinpricked by brilliantly cobalt stars.
Alire draws in a breath, a gasp, not just for your mouth -- though that would have illicited the sound on its own -- but now the night sky arches over head, the universe spans across what was once the ceiling. There is the breath of your name. It evaporates on the air around you, as if it were caught by an evening breeze.
And Alire smiles...
His hand lightly touches your head, combing through your hair. And though to feel you begin to undress him, though this would normally cause his eyes to close if only briefly, he cannot look away from the sky you have made, or you.
His other hand cannot reach you, so it help you by lifting the cashmere. Soon, you have the strong flesh of his stomach, marked though it is with the outward signs of torture. But are not the scars also a sign and symbol of healing? Alire murmurs your name, the sound of it pulling in his throat, lingering earthy in the broad chest. That is the sound of a man experiencing pleasure and wanting more. And making no effort to temper itself.
"I love you, bello..."
I have since the day we met. Tell me you have not forgotten me. Was it all for nothing? A promise I swore...
Cesare repeats the words with each kiss. His hands push at the cashmere, sending it above your chest and to your chin. There, he leaves the rest to you. As his lips widen and close, suckling as much as kissing, his hands return to release the belt and button below.
"...does it mean nothing to you?"
Cesare stiffens and his head lifts, his mouth parted. He exhales, lips pressing together, and tears roll down his cheeks.
"Do I mean nothing to you?" Cesare asks earnestly in that archaic French that falls strangely from Italian lips. "Tell me, Alire..."
Words of affirmation, Italian words of love -- where love sounds best, it is true, the very language of Romance (no matter what the French claim) -- sounded, and his shoulders twist, pulling off the cashmere. Your hands move at his pants, the sound of the belt being moved is followed by the curling of his fingers against your scalp.
And then he stiffens. The language that follows, he knows it. The recrimination. Alire sits up quickly. No... no... not now... not now, Michele...
A hand comes to your face, a gentle touch, the capture of tears against his thumb. "You mean everything to me," he insists upon Italian for that sentiment. "Don't do this," he breathes, he pleads in that same French. "Giancarlo..."
But it is not my bello Giancarlo now, is it. Michele... please ...don't do this. It is enough that this was done to us. It is enough that we suffered Then. Do not hurt him. Do not be cruel to me. I loved no one but you, no one but your memory, your blessed memory for centuries. Can I not be allowed to love again. I am still here, Michele. I am still on earth. Maybe I should not want the things of the earth, but I do. I want to love. I want to be touched. To be desired.
You would call the other? The one...that has me? Giancarlo's face looks at you in disbelief, but it is not he that wonders. That does not understand. The expression is familiar; the look would come when his heart ached. When you parted in the woods. When either of you spoke of ending things, of stopping the risk and ache you inflicted on each other. But those moments would pass, and you'd collapse together again, vowing that such words would never come to pass.
Michele does not know age or time. How long it has been. Was it yesterday? His expression and emotion burn through Giancarlo's features.
"We promised," Giancarlo's lips whisper. "I am here...where else can I go? I came here for you..."
The tears flow freely. Giancarlo looks left and right, then up to the sky...the ceiling...and around the room.
"Provence," he whispers sadly, closing his eyes in recollection. "We're home..." he wonders aloud, seeing the space. And you and he, in bed. It is familiar, this.
What am I supposed to do, Michele? Tell me. In all your planning, in all your effort, did you think of that? Do you know what I am? Alire's face is the picture of aged anguish, no matter how young he looks. His experience has aged him, and would have regardless of the passing of six centuries.
"And I am here... what else can I do?" he speaks that French again, his eyes reddening. "I have been here... alone ... Michele. Solitary in this world for years... years you cannot even imagine," tears roll from his eyes over his cheekbones, trails of red left behind. "Do not look as though I have betrayed you. Please. In all my years, I have never been unfaithful. You came for me? You come through the body and through the soul of a man I have come to love. Why can I not just love him, Michele. After six centuries of being alone in our cell together, this life I have had with you silently beside me, me in an empty bed. Why now... when my bed is finally full and my heart has felt joy... why now do you do this? Did you ever love me..."
Don't be so selfish, Montrachet. "I have never known you to be ...vindictive... you would be with me always. You are with me always. But am I to go on living forever... and alone? And he... Giancarlo... is he not to have his own will? His own joy? Simply because he found me? Michele... as I loved you... I never knew you would be cruel..."
The words are effective. The young man at your stomach recoils, sitting up suddenly in shock and continued disbelief. He blinks at the speed of it, of the reality of it, and stares at his hands. Giancarlo turns them over several times, then presses his left hand to his face. His fingertips are greeted with dampness.
"I love you." And we were not cruel? We were the smiting hand of a pope, the sometime ally of kings. Cruelty we knew in spades.
"I...I...I never left you, never...I loved you..." It is, of course, how Michele answers the questions. You're confusing him. His act of supreme devotion called cruelty and not love.
"Don't say that, Alire," the anger subsiding to suppliance. "d'Avignon, I want...I want us to be together, just as we said..."
Cruel for God, yes. Cruel to one another? We knew cruelty, but did we visit it on one another? Is that what love is? It cannot be. "You are dead, Michele," Alire croaks. "And I cannot die. How can things possibly ever be as they were." His eyes narrow at the ache of this, at the sickness this stirs in him, his will power turned toward keeping the blood he last ingested within him. That which is not raining from his eyes, streaking his pale complexion.
"I loved you, Michele. I loved you so much that I nearly bit my tongue in half in order not to scream out confessions I did not mean. I suffered and I said nothing and I had to watch you leave me to go to the flame and still I loved you. I loved you and love you still. I always will love the man for whom I would sacrifice everything, and did. But this is not your time. Is it true then... is it true you are taking over this body? Tell me, Michele. You must tell me. Are you taking his body or is this... some reincarnation? I deserve to know. I have the right to know. And he... he has the right to his own body, Michele. His own time. His own will. His own love. Do not take it away from him."
Alire reaches forward, his hand laying upon a shoulder. "Michele, I never wanted us to die apart. I never wanted anything that has happened to happen. I understand your pain, for I have felt it for ages. But you must not take your pain and give it to someone else. It isn't fair."
Fair?
The darkness rises behind hazel eyes.
"Fair? Fair! Speak to me not of fair, Alire d'Avignon. We know not fair. Fair was not done to us nor shown us!"
Giancarlo exhales, trying to settle. His hand, once on his cheek, now lifts to touch his temple. He winces faintly, looking down at his lap.
"Look at you," he smiles, the now-called middle French rolling fluidly. "How handsome you still are..." Hand at temple comes to your cheek. The blood there. Giancarlo looks at his fingertips, rubbing them together. Your question of intent remaining unanswered. "How is it, yes, that you are here too? That is," Giancarlo smiles brightly, "...the true mystery. That I should find you. You cannot die?" you said. "How is this then," he smiles, happy for that.
"Because we were treated poorly and without grace, you should do that to an Innocent? Can it be that a vampire is more holy than a Templar?" It is not happy news, Michele. "I am a creature that cannot die. The remains of a man," he whispers, "...unable to go out during the daylight. For many years, the only thing that brought me pleasure was feeding off the blood of priests. Crimes I'm not proud of now, and ones I still have to commit in order to continue living. And until recently, I lived only out of habit."
Alire exhales, a hand reaching up to wipe at his face. Wiping the blood from his features. "The man you are inhabiting is a good man, and I love him. I found someone who cared about me. Were you waiting for that? How could I have known? We made mortal promises, Michele. But what do immortals do with mortal promises other than break them? If I had known it was possible for you to return, I would have called out to you three hundred years ago. Now, I have found someone. He loves me, and I have learned to love again. Now... now you come, and I cannot touch him. I cannot speak to him. You have possessed him and you," his eyes bleed again and his face goes stony, the Stone of Chinon. "You have taken him from me. If this is how you show your love for me... I should not want to see your hate." Alire pushes Giancarlo's body gently, enough space for him to move. "You did not answer me, but I guess I know the answer. You are possessing him... he is not your reincarnation. You... you are forcing the issue..."
I would never have imagined you could be so cruel...
Those two words confuse him. "God let me be here," he insists, "by his grace and mercy. I asked him, Alire, I asked him. And I am..."
But you have pushed at him. The confusion begins to become panic. Your words, they are not what he expected. Not that he knew...consciousnes arrived, and so Michele was. He looks frantically around himself, trying to understand what is going on and why you speak to him so.
"I have done nothing wrong," the voice says, so unsure now. "I have done nothing wrong..." it insists, but moves once more to tears. "I have done nothing wrong..."
"Please let's leave God out of this," Alire murmurs. He did not go far. He thought about it, but your confusion, your uncertainty stops him. "Now, I am being cruel," he sighs. "I am sorry. I am just..." Confused. Tired. Hurt. Worried. Ravaged, he looks to you. "You do not think you are doing wrong. By coming to me, how could returning to your lover be wrong. Oui?" Alire's blue eyes soften and he shakes his head. A hand comes out, it touches your face, cups the nape of Giancarlo's neck. He draws you to him, his forehead touching yours. "I love you," he whispers it to Giancarlo, "..my bello," he squeezes his eyes shut. And you, Michele. I will always love you.
But can I not hate this situation just a little...
And Alire trembles, his hand cupping strongly. He weeps, not merely the falling of tears but with the hoarse cough of a man crying. Why. That is the word that most comes to mind. Why...
Why ...
And what now...
It is that embrace, however slight, he has needed. The man with you cries as well, his arms seeking you. Giancarlo's arms are familiar in more ways than one.
"I love you," he whispers over and over, in the tongue you once shared. "I love you," Michele says tiredly, pulling you closer. Blood stains him as well, but as to what you have asked and explained, it seems to have bounced off the Templar's understanding.
"Mi bello Alire," his voice whispers as the man closes his eyes, grateful to be so close to you.
Something else shared.
The touch is familiar on both sides. The same hands, though the clothing is vastly different. The same tenderness in his grasp that belies a familiar intensity of emotion. Alire pulls you to him, his arms surrounding you. "I love you," he responds. He whispers it in the shared French. He murmurs it in the modern Italian.
Alire lies back on the bed, he draws you with him. He seeks shelter in the hold, and in the balance that the bed can offer. Let it hold us up, let it bear the weight for a while. His hand brushes over your hair, his mouth finds your mouth, kisses your tears, drinks them, and returns to your mouth with the taste of salt. He cries into your mouth and he speaks flush against it, words lost in the embraces there. Fingers curl against your scalp, fingers moving and capturing strands of your hair.
And still the touches are tender. The words soft. Bello he says. Tesoro he calls you. Michele. Giancarlo. Those names now don't make much sense...
Your displeasure subsiding. It brings comfort to the other, allowing his panic the space to dissipate. You do not send him away. You do not speak confusingly at him. Instead, you open to him, and he, relieved, opens with you. It is what he has wanted all along.
His kiss is filled with longing -- one that Giancarlo cannot bring to bear. It is water for the man desolate in the desert. The return home for the wandering knight. The only love he has had and has ever known. He reaches for it, and in it, is as vulnerable as a newborn.
Above you, the cobalt stars in the night sky still twinkle. Despite the upheaval on the bed beneath, the stars and their firmament continue to move gently, the magic persistent. In truth, it seems the glimmering twinkles shine brighter in their blueness, and the moon gleams in the fullness of its magical brilliance.
Strong hands pick up where they left off, pushing at the opened panels of linen. Fingertips are nervous though, just as they were centuries ago when you had been parted for a while. But the mouth at your stomach and drawing lower -- there is a confidence and need there, an urgency to fulfill and please. To show you - I was to show you - how I felt. How my love feels upon you.
The wish is the same. To be swept into a whirlwind with you. For comfort, to show love and devotion. To remember and perhaps to let go. Giancarlo's skin is everywhere upon you, and he buries his face in the folds of linen, his fingers reaching upward at your sides to hold your hands, if you will let him.
To comfort one, is to comfort Both. To kiss one, is to kiss Both. To Love, not separately but simultaneously...
His kiss is an alchemical reaction. The longing he feels in the lips he joins is beyond one lifetime. The elements of body and spirit, indeed of Time, are burned away in it. It smolders no less than it would have for Giancarlo, but it sparks and reacts to older knowledge with a greater intensity.
The unseen stars and the unregarded moon blaze above. Are they merely symbols of what burns below? Twisting, two male forms are in motion. One, mouth dragging from mouth to trail down the torso of the other, whose freed mouth lets out a groan that the house cannot mistake. Nor could his lovers, Past and Present, who move with one mouth and one purpose upon him.
Alire lifts to watch, his hands coming out to clasp your offered fingers. You make a helix of desire between you. He watches your face bury in the linen, bury itself in his trousers, and he twists his hips to let his length find you. It is there, desperate where it is held by the fabric that does not like to give and therefore traps him. Alire is far from quiet. Let Them listen, let Them hear how much I need You. How much You please me.
His fingers curl tightly in your own, using your own hands for leverage as he twists his hips again. His blue eyes are intensely bright, cobalt with the inner swirl of sky blue. The mouth is parted, wanting some part of you to hold.
The linen moves easily once the body twists. The hands that caress also pull still, drawing the trousers down and over raised hip. Giancarlo kisses there, his mouth following the skin's exposure. A trail of tears dampens the flesh, but Michele's sobbing has waned. Sadness yields to released anguish, and he becomes awash in grief never expressed. Michele cannot hide it. Every muscle burns with it, causing Giancarlo's body to take a softness mingled with urgency.
The fallen slacks pile between you at your knees. The lover does not seem to mind -- he cradles the lower half of you, his mouth wandering over to sink warmly around the now-freed length. One hand pushes from behind, encouraging upwards, while Giancarlo drinks deeply, his head slowly rising and falling. After a few moments, he inhales on a rise, the sharp intake of breath and the press of his lover within his mouth the only noise from him.
He cried the first night he made love to Giancarlo. He cried tears of blood, his body shook, he had no idea how alone he had truly been until there was a man with him, loving him. The intensity surprised Giancarlo, even worried him once or twice. It is there again. Blood borne tears that streak the face, the body tight with an intensity of emotion, emotion that is in everything.
Lust is grief and pleasure is anguish and tears of joy are also of sorrow. Even as the mouth that moves upon him is at once Giancarlo and Michele. It becomes less about how your mouth moves, about that sex is occurring at all. The moment is greater than that. And it always has been -- it has been since he met you...
Alire does not need much in the way of encouragement. A hand frees your hand, the hand that now pushes from behind, his finding your hair, following your motions. His other grips where fingers are still joined, using the leverage again to lift. To watch you. He swells in your mouth, and his breaths, though he thought he didn't need them, issue rapidly. On them words, bilingual endearments and encouragements. In some of that emotion six hundred years unexpressed. Grief. Regret. Helplessness. Anguish. Love. Desire.
Alire's other hand frees yours at last and reaches to clasp himself at the root, his other hand curling against your scalp, entangling itself in your hair. He lifts your head, guiding himself out of your mouth, a moment around it and then away. Lifting, thighs spreading as much as trousers around his knees, now calves, will let him. Blue eyes plead.
It has been so long...
With Giancarlo, the sexual relationship has been that of trading 'leads', not one fulfilling one role, but each fulfilling both in turns, topping each other whenever desired. With Michele, it was more one-sided. For it is true, Michele was always at his best when he was in command. It is something that suited him. And something that I could surrender in our time together, this command. I preferred it that way. To be desired, to be the focus and the end for that desire, and to have Michele de Montrachet clasp me, fill me and grunt my name.
Maybe this night is for him. Maybe it should be for Michele. Not for me. Not for my bello Giancarlo. How ... narrow of me not to think of it before. How cruel of me, Alire d'Avignon, the man who loved him, not to have seen it earlier. Forgive me, Michele, my love. Forgive me.
You stop him, and there is another brush of panic. But it soon vanishes. Giancarlo's parted mouth closes softly, and his hazel eyes are attentive as you move before him. He watches in wonder as you move, until the presented trousers causes him to move. Hands reach out and pull at the linen, pulling it over legs and feet. Giancarlo drops the silk helplessly aside, piled onto the cashmere and his own shirt discarded earlier.
The sky above continues to flow past, clouds occasionally shading cobalt stars. But the magic of the heavens pales to the gentle smile Giancarlo finally allows himself. You do still love me. You haven't forgotten me...us. And I still have meaning. I still am. Not obliterated from this world, striken down as if I were as insubstantial as a leaf. Burned to nothing. You restore me, Alire, you always have. You make more than I am, more than I was.
Water still fills his eyes. Michele cannot help but stare at you, as if he is seeing you for the first time. His right hand tentatively brushes up your left leg, reminding himself that you...and this...are real.
And through it all, your lover remains silent.
After a breath, Giancarlo moves from the reverie. He leans forward at his knees, right arm fixed to the bed. It lets him unfasten his own trousers while he watches you, something that always brought him pleasure.
In a time when there were so few pleasures, each one that was managed and captured was held for all it was worth and more. Our times were brief, brief explosions. The time when we could remain in one another's arms even were rare. In the wilderness, it could be managed. All we had to do was avoid the notice of God.
Or maybe God never minded...
The tinkling of a belt is modern and old. The belt of modern trousers or the buckles that held armored trousers on. Pieces were removed, only so much as were required, particularly on those instances where we were... not sheltered by the wilderness. The quick grasps and copulations against a tower wall, a stable's stall, the hidden chambers in old cathedrals, then new. And so the sound moves through me. I stiffen in my own hands and freed of my clothing I spread for you. I let you see me move my hand over my length. We have time that we never had before, Michele. We have leisure that we never had. Freedom that we never knew.
I could never forget you. I can hear your laughter, that sound rising from your gut, that sound that would always make me tremble. I remember how we would murmur things in the quiet, when we managed to get it. I remember when we argued, giving new meaning to papal bulls. I love you. I have always loved you.
Te amo. Latin is breathed out, pulling in his throat as he moves his hand over himsef. Te amo. Latin is whispered, leaving his lips as gently, as softly as his own tears leave his eyes. I love you. I have always loved you.
Alire remains partially lifted, his eyes wanting to watch you take him. His other hand lands at your hip. It will clasp in mere moments. He will pull you into him and speak your name in a rhythmic litany. And he will, for the second time this year, thank God.
"Alire..." he whispers, amazed at what is happening. How you look. For the mortal body, breathing is an indication of his anxiety. Ragged and panting, Giancarlo moves forward, hand disappearing into the darkness of his loosened trousers. He strokes gently, for he could not stand much more.
How many days and nights did we dream of this? When we were still together, though separately confined, whispering memories of nights together. When fingers could barely touch. There were months that way, until we were separated more permanently, and then forever.
How we've won, Alire. We have won.
Hazel eyes glance tentatively at you, to see if you still wish this, as much as he wishes to give it.
Giancarlo's hand leaves his receding trousers to pick up your hand. He places a kiss on the back of it as he moves up further.
"I knew," his French comes, "...you would not forget me, Alire. You would not leave me. I asked God to help me, to help us, and my wish came true." Michele smiles weakly, the tears sliding down his face. "Say that we will be together always. Promise me, my Alire..."
"I will never forget you," Alire says. How could I forget you. "We have always been together, and we always will." He speaks it without hesitation, with his eyes locking onto yours, not watching you cover him now. His wishes become known with the grip of his hand at your hip. "I promise you," he murmurs. "I promise you..."
Even if we are only together in my memory, as we have been these last six centuries, I promise it. It is easy to promise that which has always been and always will be.
Perhaps this is winning...
You move his hand, you kiss it, he closes his eyes, and the weeping does not end. Alire smiles a little, corners of his mouth upturning just slightly. "Where else would I be, tesoro?" His arms enfold you, and his thighs relax beneath you, letting you settle between them. He clutches at the small of your back, both hands pulling, and he lifts, his mouth warmly, softly covering your own, remembering that he had watched it embrace him.
And the sparks fly again, and the air fizzles with the reaction. Let the bodies clap until there is explosion. Maybe we will both turn into gold.
The smile comes again; droplets fall at your chest. Michele nods, accepting your word as Truth. It washes over him, and the strain of another life falls away.
"We always will be together, I promise you, Alire d'Avignon. My hand and heart are yours pledged forever..."
I went to the Lady Beneath the Chain to speak to you there, in the place we were to have gone before we were captured. I went there to think, to think of how I arrived at such a life as I had. Alone. I thought of the one I was interested in, the mate of a friend of mine. I went to the Lady to beg her forgiveness. And yours.
How was I to know that you were there. Is that where you saw my Giancarlo? Or was it before. For he had come looking for a friend and I, naively, had not been aware that it was me. I was not aware until he showed up again in Poitiers, just weeks ago now. Two? Three? And it feels like years.
A young love crammed with six centuries of longing...
We touched that night in Poitiers, the second night in Poitiers and we both cried. We cry again and there is no masking it. The love that is grief. The pleasure that is anguish. The relationship that is new... and old...
Giancarlo...
Michele...
Please forgive me...
Posted by rowan at June 03, 2003 03:06 PM
