Returning to Venice was frought with anxieties. Cesare had enjoyed Poitiers, but for Michele, being in France was necessary. After leaving Provence, there was no great rush for Italy. All that he'd needed was to be in his Alire's arms for a while.
     And a while became weeks. Months.
     Sometimes, Cesare could sit in total silence in the multi-story house, staring into space. Around him? An aura on fire. Lit in ways that it had not been before. An energy with which he was seeking comfort. It was in those nights, walking the house, that he found a box. A ring aged with the worn paint of a family crest.
     And other days and nights? He had to get up. To stand about the house, to walk the stairs. And when it was too much -- the rare occasion it was too much -- he'd jog to the woods outside of the city and set off a burst of energy that surged in invisible waves across the landscape.
     But Cesare would always return. And that familiar smile settled easily across his features. Hands found joy in cooking, and nervous energy tempered itself in massages. At least he'd be useful.
     All the while, questions were asked.
     What happened to you, after?
     How did you find Samuel?
     How the world has changed...
     While it all remained so common and familiar at the same time?
     The now was understandable. It was the in-between that was cloudy.
     But eventually, talk of Carnivale began. And a phone call from a friend -- come help me handle security -- was given an affirmative.
     It was time to get back to the job of living...

     To Alire d'Avignon there are two very distinct Venices. The Venice that glowed with promise and innocence -- two things that Venice is not normally associated with these days -- the Venice of his coming to get you, the Venice that will forever be symbolized by you standing beneath the clock and waiting for him. The Venice that existed when Michele was still dead and you were only Giancarlo. Nervous, excited Venice.
     The second Venice, while no less beautiful and no less loved, is like all cities when they become Familiar. Strange streets no longer seem strange. A new love is not new at all. Is it any less wonder-full? No, but it is not what it was before. Venice and Alire and Cesare have all changed.
     Nights were full of exquisite dinners and history-crammed conversations. Inventions, discoveries, new countries, new identities were peppered with orange ruffi and mullet citrus, Provencal frutti del mare and stories of revolutions past. Historical figures became like constellations, marking out the patterns of history and movements. And wars.
     But nights also came with nightmares. The things remembered that are best forgotten. One cannot choose one's memories, really. They always surface. Eventually.
     Routine is still comforting...
     Alire has new routines with you. He cooks for you nightly when he is able, waking early to do it when the sun is still visible if he knows he has meetings. This is where you have the first meaningful conversations of the day. It is the best start to his evenings he could ask for. In Venice, as in Poitiers, he is cooking for you, not deterred in the slightest by the smaller kitchen. The man could make a crepe over a campfire. The apartment, small as it is, is full of the smell of it. Pears, goat cheese.
     Alire stands in the kitchen over the stove, working the little magic that he knows. It is nothing like what you can do, but everyone has a talent. This is his. "I love your old sestieri," your neighborhood. "It has everything, you do not even have to go past Sant'Angelo to get good wine, great cheese... maybe I should have become the Doge of Venice instead," he teases gently.

     "I don't think you want that job," Cesare smirks, standing behind his chef. "Highly overrated, I understand." Arms slip around his favorite knight. Cesare kisses and sighs, then looks around the tall apartment. "You're right, though...about the sestieri. I have missed it, Alire," he confesses.
     "It is my home," Cesare whispers. "And France. But," he smiles, "...I guess I can have both."

     "It is the obligation of a long life that I have the one job that I do," Alire notes, agreeing quietly, pausing conversation and cooking to kiss you in return. "If only you had come around six months earlier, bello, to save me." He grins, turning back to fold the crepe, the cheese melting over baked pear. "It is ready," he notes and he twists to motion to your plate.
     "I know you have missed it. I have missed it for both of us, too. We will do our best to come here whenever possible," though he cannot travel too much, the nature of his job. "We will vacation here, I promise you. I do not want you to miss it too much, and one day... I hope to return with you here...to stay for a while." A pause. "Well, maybe we will wait to see what happens after the flood," the big one.
     Alire turns in your arms, depositing with artful motion, your crepe to the plate. And kissing you again.

     "Oh, yes?" arched brows quirk. "Maybe I should rush the flood up," Cesare smiles, tease in his voice. "Ah, crepes," he grins, clapping and rubbing his hands together with glee.
     Cesare steps away, and the lights in the room lower as the candles on the table he set come alive. It's all so easy nowdays.
     "I am so glad you are with me, bello. What would I do for food?"

     Alire smirks, light blue eyes full of humor as you rub your hands together in glee. His eyes linger a moment's attention and then he turns back to make his own, laughing softly. "You are so beautiful, tesoro, and talented. I am sure you would either do so yourself... or some other man would want to cook for you." He is not prone to jealousy, your d'Avignon, and that statement wasn't backed by anything green.
     "And do not wish the flood on us too soon. Guillaume is trying to save buildings. I want to see the renovations before our Venice becomes the new Atlantis..." As if that's a foregone conclusion. It will be bad, even if it isn't catastrophic.
     "I will miss you at the party," he says, pouring the batter in the flat pan. He watches it bubble a little. "I do not like parties so much. I only came because it was Venice," and you were coming. He was prepared to cancel, prepared to say 'No'. But then you said 'Yes' to your associate...

     "You keep saying that," Cesare grins, moving over quickly to take his seat. "I do not feel so talented," he says, pulling out the second chair before dropping into his.
     "As for the party," Cesare smiles, turning the ring upon his finger, "...I am sure you will have a nice time seeing those you haven't seen for awhile, bello. That will be good. Do not look so bored. It's too early," Cesare smirks, pouring wine.

     "I do not like big crowds of people... big crowds of vampires," he corrects himself. "It is like a zoo, tesoro," Alire laments, but he smiles in a quirk, a slight smile that speaks volumes. "And you won't be there. It is hard to have fun at a party without you... I will be bored," he sighs and folds the crepe, leaving his position to take another plate.
     "And you are talented, you are just humble." A pause, giving you an eye as he slides the crepe onto the other plate, grabs a fork and comes to join you. "Sometimes." Another pause. "Occasionally." It was never one of Michele's strong points, humilite.
     But Alire had enough for both of them...
     "We will be able to stay for a week, I hope that's enough time, bello. Well, I know it could never be enough truly..."

     "Ach," Cesare says, waving the fork in his hand. He chuckles and takes a bit of his crepe, eating it greedly. "Oh, Alire," Cesare grins, "...this is marvelous." A fast swallow. "And a week is alright, bello," Cesare agrees, "I...well...I know you have things at home. I think, I can...come back...on my own. If I need to..."

     "I do not like big crowds of people... big crowds of vampires," he corrects himself. "It is like a zoo, tesoro," Alire laments, but he smiles in a quirk, a slight smile that speaks volumes. "And you won't be there. It is hard to have fun at a party without you... I will be bored," he sighs and folds the crepe, leaving his position to take another plate.
     "And you are talented, you are just humble." A pause, giving you an eye as he slides the crepe onto the other plate, grabs a fork and comes to join you. "Sometimes." Another pause. "Occasionally." It was never one of Michele's strong points, humilite.
     But Alire had enough for both of them...
     "We will be able to stay for a week, I hope that's enough time, bello. Well, I know it could never be enough truly..."

     "Ach," Cesare says, waving the fork in his hand. He chuckles and takes a bit of his crepe, eating it greedily. "Oh, Alire," Cesare grins, "...this is marvelous." A fast swallow. "And a week is alright, bello," Cesare agrees, "I...well...I know you have things at home. I think, I can...come back...on my own. If I need to..."
     Cesare quiets, as if in thought. Then, he picks up his fork's motions again, returning to eating his crepe.

     The notion is concerning, but he cannot keep you. He cannot lock you away like a precious book, always to sit upon his bookshelf until he desires to turn your pages, read you up and down. Alire sits beside you, his fork cutting into the crepe and marzipan, and he looks at you, his face placid as you speak.
     And the look softens, the expression becoming utterly meaningful in less than seconds. "If you need to... even if you simply wish to, tesoro. You do not need me to protect you." He smiles at the notion, shakes his head at it, even goes a little pink for it, as the truly fair-skinned are wont to do and he particularly.
     "If you come without me... you will give me.. something of you? Something to look at," like the globe. The pink turns to a warmer red as he is quiet a moment, for the crepe's sake.

     The smile returns as Cesare chews and swallows his latest bite. "I can...I will," he says softly. But even he remains tense about the notion of venturing out alone. He's not done so in a year now. "Better than the globe," Cesare whispers, setting his fork down. A napkin replaces it, and he wipes at his mouth.
     "I am sorry...bello Alire...if..." Cesare frowns slightly, allowing his hand to cover the nearest of yours, "...if...things are more complicated. Sometimes, I think I see it there. In your expressions."

     "No," Alire says softly, but only after he swallows, his other hand setting down the fork. He looks at you directly, he smiles -- that slight smile that says so much -- and he shakes his head a little. "You have nothing to apologize for. And it is... not more complicated. I just... do not want to lose touch with you when you go. I ... worry by nature."
     He pauses, the smile winding more on one side than the other. "As you know...but," he says it with an exhale and Alire grasps your joined hand, "...I trust you with everything. And I trust you would only go if you felt you could, or if such were necessary. I only wish... that I were free to go wherever I wished. I would travel with you. I would leave my weary world of politics behind and join you in such things..."
     And now Alire d'Avignon laughs at himself. "Thus we see the progression," he says full scholarly, "... of a crusader into a wife, a wife into a fretful girl...."

     "Never," says Cesare, grinning now ear from ear. "A crusader once, a crusader forever," he says haltingly. Is that not what we said so long ago? "I never wanted a wife. Just Alire of Avignon..."
     "Who does make a fine crepe," Cesare admits, nodding his head in considering fashion. Time does change.
     "What if," Cesare asks, picking up another bit, "...you could...travel with me? When you can, I mean..."

     Alire nods his head in thanks for the compliment of his crepes, smirking, still, at himself for his own nature. Ah well, maybe such is just the way for Alire d'Avignon. Some conquer, some fret. He returns to eating a moment later. Waste not, want not.
     The crepe is half gone -- half inhaled -- as you mention his joining you. "I do not know, bello. It must be infrequent... and of duration...short. Or... so shall my reign be," he grins. Then makes a 'Maybe that wouldn't be the end of the world' look. But then... ah me... it would be. He makes the barest echo of a frown -- which for him is rather resounding -- and looks to the crepe as he cuts it. "Such is the life of a vampire prince. We are there to serve. We are... no different from ants, all. Serving the hive, as much as the bee, as much as the mortal man, as much as the angel in Heaven if such exist. But," and now Alire smiles again, to you, you who alone see such expression with such regularity. "... whenever I can get away, I shall get away with you..."

     Cesare grins, wiggling his brows in a familiar fashion. He eats his bite and prepares for his last. He does eat quickly now. "What, bello, if I told you that I had been doing some...investigation? Into...a place for us. Not of Poitou or Venezia, but...of our home. Where we shared..."

     His expression registers surprise so subtly, but it is there for the knowledgeable. A slight quirk of flax eyebrows, just up and down, and only for a flickering moment. And then there is something of warmth, maybe, like a light that passes over his face. And then his eyes narrow a little, sharpening, focusing while his mouth makes a little twitch.
     Alire d'Avignon blinks for a moment, crepe nearly finished -- he eats quickly now, too -- and then he looks rather... astonished. You have already started -- you know what you want and you are making it happen, while I merely sit here and look surprised. "A place... for us...where?"
     Something hidden...
     Something secret...
     Something sacred?

     Cesare smiles thinly. An older expression. "Ah, but you wish to know, oui, bello?" Cesare's brows wiggle again and he sits back, content with his meal. The napkin is tossed unceremoniously aside.
     "A guess then?"
     "In spring, there is no place more beautiful. Water trickles along the rivulets in the hills between the peaks. The tiny roses are delicate. In summer, the sun shines fiercely, but there is no heat. We ride our horses, and we meet together, you and I," Cesare leans in, "...and no one knows we are there..."

     "A place of great heights, of seeming extremes," Alire seems to be quoting something, "...but so tenderly wrought, it must be heaven. Our home," my home. "Switzerland... yes? Tell me it is yes..." Alire smiles, excited, but waiting for confirmation.
     "Someplace remote... a place only you and I could find... could discover...could know. Such would be a dream, tesoro," a dream, Michele... a dream, Giancarlo. "I would be, again, the happiest man in Europe. As I was that night in Prague and in Poitiers when I shared a table with an old friend..."

     "Then you are the happiest man," Cesare says, hand turning palm up as if to say 'there you are.' "A small place for us? The horses? I can't think of what else I am forgetting..."

     "Nothing... the rest we will make ourselves, from whatever we wish at the time," Alire says. There are degrees to his smile, and just now it is as wide as it is when you make him laugh, his crystalline blue eyes bright. Those are clear, Swiss days, those eyes. A late afternoon when he is impassioned; a clear morning when contemplative.
     "Maybe, since this is... a state visit... you and I can go there sooner rather than later, tesoro. To have a sanctuary with you... something just ...ours..." It means everything to the heretofore Stone of Chinon...

     Cesare nods. "It has been a long time, bello Alire, that I have seen our Switzerland." Cesare exhales and looks around the table and the spent meal. "The castle....I do not think that is possible. But...a small house?"

     "I have no use for castles," Alire says, crepe at last finished, fork set aside and napkin too, his other hand still grasping your own. "All I want is a small, hidden place with you. A small house, a cottage... hidden away or remote in the Alps. You... and me..."
     He grins and it brightens his whole face, makes beautiful that which was already handsome. "Maybe a few geese..." How Swiss of him. What's next? Cocoa?

     "Geese?" Cesare blinks and looks away, thinking about this. "Well, if that is what you want..."
     "Geese it is then."
     "Now...all this talk about Switzerland," the companion pushes back his seat, "...makes me think of old times." Cesare grins and lifts the paler hand to his lips. "I know I should not reminisce, but..."

     There is nothing wrong with remembering...
     So long as one may remember that is all they are...
     Memories...
     Alire grips your hand, then frees it, standing. Yes, and he clears away the plates, too. Horribly domesticated. But ...these are the things of routine. And routine is sacred for him, a ritual. "We should have wine if we shall reminisce. Maybe we should even get drunk. I do not know when I did that last..." When was that? Ever? Yes... long ago...
     "And I think maybe... in your loft," his voice takes on a certain timbre. A softness that is at the same time ...fathoms deep.

     In the last year, he has worked to keep the emotion of his new recollections at a distance, either through conversation, or worse, worked out in nightmares. Reminiscing was not such a safe place. It still is not, but one cannot blot out a life once held, even if he tries. Cesare will have to come to terms with them, that he does know. It is no secret.
     "If you...think it will be alright -- and don't worry on the dishes, bello. I can...handle them in the morning before I rest." When you are sound asleep.
     "Here," Cesare says, standing too and reaching for the bottle. "Maybe two," he thinks, turning about to find another."

     "Oui," Alire rolls out, very French despite being very Swiss, "definitely two, bello," he smiles. He looks to the dishes, to you -- are you sure? -- then finally, as you turn for wine, he sets them aside and heads toward the other room -- it is not a far journey.
     Tall, so tall... the golden Swiss guard. He still looks at the lintels of each entry way before stepping out...
     One cannot erase the past, no. At best, one can simply recognize it for what it is. Reminiscing serves its purpose. But neither does it do a soul good to wallow. And he has tried not to wallow. He has tried not to step back into shoes long ago discarded. But he moves with you in this process. His hand to your arm, your shoulder, your back...
     "My best memories of Switzerland," Alire begins, "... were always of you. To think of the sunlight and the green grass and the mountains makes me think of the laughter and boldness and quick desires of Michele. Always..." It is why he has not called Switzerland home in hundreds of years...
     But that is changing...
     You are here with him...
     It may be a home again...

     "Quick?" Cesare grins in mock-dismay. "I do not recall being quick," he counters, knowing what you meant. He begins the ascent up the refurbished stairs. "Well, sometimes," he admits. "But I will say it was because I was so excited to be with you, bello. Maybe I was hasty on more than one occasion."

     Alire laughs, following you up the stairs, "Well... that is not what I meant," he chuckles, "... but sometimes true. Though, I will say... in those... rare times, bello," he steps behind you, unconsciously ducking into the loft, a motion that really was more meant to put his mouth near your neck than to save his head, "...you more than made up for it in frequency."
     His hand lands at your waist and he lies across your bed, feet removing shoes heel to toe. "It was ... to feel so wanted... there was nothing I liked better than feeling your weight." Alire takes a deep breath, he holds it, he frees it with a smile, his eyes closing. "Still, there is nothing like it," he murmurs.

     The old wood creaks up here. The mattress still takes up most of the loft -- more like a wide alcove -- and on the floor near where Cesare's head would rest are a few items: candle, a book. A half-empty cup of tea. A rosary now, for when he tries to sleep. A ring. A small stone of blue glass to remind him of your eyes. Now, religion, ritual and superstition show in a young man not so used to such things.
     "You were wanted," Cesare says, "...more than anything else that I knew, Alire. The only thing that competed," he grins, sitting on the makeshift bed and opening the bottle again, "...was being a templar. There was nothing else." And both were taken away. That comment was left unspoken. The bottle pops open easily in Cesare's fingers, and he exhales as he looks away and sets it on the wood floor.
     "So, for every one memory of the past, I must find another of now..."

     "That is only fair to the present," Alire murmurs, his eyes opening, his head turning toward you. Shoes off, he moves to lie upon his side, his head held up by his hand, his elbow to the surface of the bed. He looks from you to your items, your touchstones.
     He has his own, doesn't he? His gardens, his pruning, his routine. These are not so different from rosaries, candles and beads.
     His hand rests on you, chest, stomach, torso. To feel you move, muscles moving in concert. "Our Switzerland now will be very different. It will be new. It is a new time and a new life. For every one memory of the past, you shall have more of now. Past, present and future, my Caesar," a pet name since you first told him, "... I love you..."

     Giancarlo looks over, coming to rest on his side as well. A mirroring set. The bottle is offered to you first, so he might remove his shoes while reclining.
     "Good," he smiles, "...because you belong to me. God has willed it, Alire. Maybe he had not forsaken us..."
     "Memory now," Cesare swallows, bringing a knee up to unlace his shoe. "I remember my mama making pasta for us. On Sundays, she would make gnocchi," he smiles. "I loved her food," he grins, knowing the connection, "...she'd make it especially for us. And her date cookies...ah..." A nod as the leather shoe falls to the floor.
     "But I remember you...and I...patrolling near..."
     A blank. Eyes narrow, but Cesare fails to recall. "A town," the memory suddenly escaping him. "With small streets..."

     "I will try to make the date cookies... the figs, for you sometime," Alire murmurs. "I had... forgotten those. They were very good." Alire closes his eyes. Can your mouth remember the taste, templar? The smell of the old kitchen. The earth before it new the fumes of the modern age? His eyes open slowly.
      There were so many small towns... so many narrow streets. Alire narrows his own eyes. "Hmm... I do not recall them. I have traveled too much," the mouth makes a wry turn, "... I have forgotten over the years some of the things I have seen..."

     "Not those cookies," Cesare chides, "...my...well, here," he tries to explain. "In Italy." You couldn't have had those. He grins as second shoe tumbles away.
     Hand reaches for the shared bottle. "My other...mother..my mother, she made these small cakes sometimes, with seeds."

     Alire grins a little. "Communion wafers... those I remember." And he makes a face. The body of Christ surely would have better taste than stale, musty crackers. "Oh, non...non, I never met her... or had the cookies with the seeds. Fennel? Poppy?" he wonders softly. He watches you reach for the wine. He waits his turn.
     "I would have liked to meet her, your mother... other mother...in Italy. To sit in her kitchen. To sneak looks at you as her back was turned..."

     "I was a good boy," Cesare recalls, smiling. "And I think again how hard it was for her," he thinks more seriously, "...to have a son like me." As he explained one time. "She was...a beautiful woman, to try and hide her son..."

     "I am sure you were...and I remember what you said before of her. But that is the nature of a mother's love, yes? To protect? To do so without thinking of personal hardship. A woman... knows more about sacrifice than many men..." Not all. Not the two of you. "You have a good heart, Giancarlo, a good soul. Who could not love you?"
     "I don't remember my mother. It has been too long. There are only..." Alire shakes his head a little. "...glimpses. Moments. I know longer know whether they are real or not... some figment of my mother that I have created..."

     Cesare smiles softly, not rushing to speak as the figment lingers. Only after another swallow does he finally comment, "A good soul? I think, bello, that I have done some horrible things..."

     "Even good souls sin, tesoro. We are not perfect..."
     Alire lowers to the bed, rolling to lie mostly on his back, his face turned up to you. There are many figments here. Figments of the past. The figments, too, of future hopes. Like you sharing the wine. Like you sliding over him.
     Alire catches himself dreaming and looks to you with wakening attention.
     He reaches for the wine. "I have, too..." I have had the blood of priests as my communion. Those I have not murdered for it, I have stolen. There is still sin...

     The bottle is relinquished. Cesare slides closer, to hover above. You think it, and it is so. His smile has gone for now, replaced with a considering look.
     "I know," Cesare says softly, eyeing lips. "Both of us," he affirms. Both complicit in things that were believed right, and even a few that were questioned then. A sin shared. A time that only the two of you can recall.
     Cesare bends to test the lips beneath him. "I forgive us," he whispers there, parting his mouth slowly as he closes his eyes.

     His head lifted to take a swallow, and another, before passing the bottle back. Suddenly you are his sky. He is comforted in this -- it is as he likes you to be. Past, Present and Future dissolves in such moments. All there is... is his mouth beneath yours, the joined flavor of wine and crepes... quiet breaths.
     "Nos absolvo," he whispers. I forgive us. "...etiam..." too.
     His hand rests gently upon the side of your face, holding you where you are. Holding you. Though a skimming touch, it is as powerful as a grasp in emotion. That intense emotion. Alire closes his eyes, his mouth parting beneath your own and he sighs something in Italian.
     Amilo...
     Love me...

     Kissing flushes full these nights. Heady with joy and comfort, and urgently aware of Time. A simple touch of lips quickly deepens into a heavier press and reach of hands.
     There's always so many layers, though.
     "Alire..." Cesare finally takes a breath -- he does need them -- hand at waistband, "...Alire..." He stops, needing to say something. To ask something.
     "Does this mean...we will be together forever?" A frown, as if this has now dawned upon him.

     "As long as either of us are on this earth," Alire answers. It is an easy question for him to answer. There is a pause. "And you have proven that... that it does not end even then," a comfort, and he allows himself to feel it. "For I have and will always love you. Where I go, tesoro, you shall go, too..." It is a lover's promise, a paramour's vow. There are layers there as well. It is as if the two of you are in all times, all instances of yourselves, all at once.
     He blinks, he smiles. "You have me as long as you wish to have me, for I am the creature who cannot die..." Unless killed. We can all die if we are slain. At least in this known skin...
     Alire lifts, mouth finding yours again. "As long, Giancarlo, as we are on this earth..."

     Hands stop again and Cesare lifts to avoid the kiss. "But...I think...I can die..." he whispers. "I can. I...did...once?"

     The look softens and Alire nods. "I can die, too. We are... no more immune than any other thing in a way. If there is a bigger... tiger than me... I cannot guarantee it. That I am as old as I am, well... that works in my favor. And you... you are already over a century... perhaps one-fifty? Is my math correct? Who is to say, tesoro, that there would not be another century.... and after that? Who is to say you would even still want to be around a, by then, eight-hundred-year old vampire who finds joy in pruning plants and making crepes...?"
     "The key to immortality," Alire murmurs, "...is the same for mortality, bello, and that is to treasure the time that you have and to live for this moment. In this moment, we are forever. And I hope we find it is so again tomorrow."

     There's a nod from Cesare, his brown hair falling forward to dangle in the space between. He seems to understand, but some part of him remains worried. Fearful.
     "I could not...stand...to lose you, bello. I...just couldn't, I think..."
     Cesare exhales and looks away to the nearby wall to stare for a long moment.

     "I... do not want to talk of loss," the voice is quiet, even. As smooth as the rolling of blood along the perfect, statue cheek. . "I don't want to think of it, bello. I ... only want to rejoice in that I have you... that we are together. To believe in the hope... that the tomorrow's will build into a future. And that I will be able to turn my head and to see you there... "
     He would be lying if he said he did not worry. The closer into his lifestyle you come, the more precarious. The more he loves you, the greater the threat and the worry.
     But he also has Faith...
     Faith has seldom failed him, though gods and priests and popes have come and gone...

     "Hope," Cesare whispers, closing his eyes. Sometimes, he feels he has none. But then, he remembers that is not true. That he never used to know such emotions.
     That, is what frightens Cesare the most.
     "I am changed," he whispers, "...and sometimes, I do not know exactly why."
     "Well," he starts again, "I know why in general, but not the particulars...of why I feel a certain way...that I don't I would have normally felt...?"

     Lying back flat, his body heavy on the mattress, Alire feels like a stone. But he moves, to make sure he doesn't freeze that way. Sometimes he worries about that too. But then... would he be Alire d'Avignon if he did not worry?
     "Much has changed this past year, for you and for me and for Us... you should be patient with yourself, tesoro. It will take a while, I think, before things will make sense... or begin to seem ... well, not normal," he smiles a little, cheek streaked with red from the tear of blood that has now landed on the bed. "... normal for you and I," he qualifies.
     His hand comes up, it rubs lightly against your side. To comfort. To be your shield. "We are both changed. I have to come up with all new routines... everything is different. It will take time..."

     The tear's fallen. Cesare's fingers curl to touch the trail upon your cheek. He knows you are right. Cesare's jaw clenches and he nods, dispelling the confusing agitation.
     "You always know the right way to see things, bello," Cesare nods eagerly, reassuring some part of himself.

     The smile is brilliant, warm, even if it is not so broad it commands his whole face, like some, or comes with a flash of modern white teeth, or even fangs. "It is the one benefit to age," Alire murmurs.
     And then he softly laughs...
     Alire, you told a joke!
     "But what I wish," he softly says, "... is for you to show me all the advantages of youth and beauty, mio caro..." Another joke! You are becoming too much, d'Avignon...

     "You're an old man now, d'Avignon, is that what you're saying to me?"
     Mercurial, to the last.
     Cesare grins broadly, exhaling as he rises from his current position to bend himself in half and straddle the lap open to him. Hand lifts to the so-low ceiling, to keep himself from hitting his head.
     "Ah, I have always been so easily led," Cesare observes, fingers moving to make quick work of his shirt. He smiles as fingers work each button open.

     Sky eyes -- Swiss skies, at that -- watch fingers as they move, the fabric as it falls, the skin as it is revealed to him. And for that moment -- a crystal clear moment -- innocence takes a holiday...

Posted by rowan at February 19, 2004 12:41 AM