The downstairs of the aged, makeshift loft is quiet. A pot of tea has been recently made on the 2-eye stove. The boxes remain packed on the high walls of the loft, filled with the clocks, timepieces, books, and experiments that Cesare usually keeps strewn across the large table that takes up much of the open living area space. Saved, in case of rains, more than likely. The ground floor is strangely tidy and bare, and a single light is on near the old divan near the front door.
The space is cool, and the air is still. Cesare, dressed in neat slacks and a brown sweater sits beneath the light, empty-handed. The sun is setting in the old city, and the single window in an upper corner of the exposed wall shows drawing shadows. Cesare looks up at the twilight, then looks at the light on the table beside him.
Upstairs, there is the first moments of movement. The twitch of reanimating fingers that in the moments following, the last moments of Day, transform into the first resettling, the first breath, the first stretch of a New Night for an old knight...
If Alire d'Avignon were yet coherent enough to have thought that thought, he would have smiled at his own joke...
As it is, he does not yet leave the pallet bed, he is not yet that awake. Blood first must shift, must be commanded, must be animated to move as if by a living heart...
There is a sudden, and complete stillness. A stillness that Cesare has grown accustomed to over the years. It sweeps into the room from under the doors, and between the window frames, and gathers like windblown dust near the clocks. It is a palpable stillness, felt as it flows past the inhabitants of the room.
The clocks don't find it to be the least bit pleasant, and their protest is almost audible. They are measured, insistent, ordered and this is the opposite -- they are very much each other's antithesis. They tick one second forward in unison, and then screech backward an hour, each clock settling at a different time.
The familiar voice arrives first, fading in from the scattering of fading twilight sun. "Yeah, sure, Damien, I can handle that for you." It pauses, as it becomes more real "True, somewhat outside of your league. I'll just pop over and see what's up. I just need to visit a friend first, then I'll go rustle up those monsters."
His voice is already in room, preceding him coming in the door. Just listening to it talk, you would guess he was near the kettle.
The clocks finally tick forward one second, having paused to catch their breath, and Nathaniel is outside the door. His knock falls in time with the clocks.
It is the right Time for his arrival, it seems.
The man at the divan stands suddenly, blinking a few times. Startled, he spins about in an erratic orbit, then proceeds to the door slowly, not really expecting guests.
Time passes.
The door unlocks ever so slowly, and Cesare stands there, rather well-dressed. His head tilts to the side, as if registering the person there.
"Oh..." Cesare murmurs, "...hi, Nate...um..." he steps back, "...um...come...in." Confused brow furrows, and he moves to the side to let his guest inside.
The one just waking continues to do so. He is not wearing a watch (it is beside the bed, having issues along with the other clocks, despite the fact that it is a very expensive Swiss watch, very reliable...much as the Swiss who wears it). He does not feel Time stop. For Alire d'Avignon, Time stopped a long time ago.
But evening continues, does it not? And with the steady arrival of evening, he begins to move. A hand reaches out, landing upon the empty space where his Giancarlo should be. Fingers curl, and in that emptiness, finding only air and sheet, Alire opens his eyes. Sky blue rimmed in cobalt.
Voices? Alire turns upon the pallet bed, careful not to lift his head so much. He twists to glance over a shoulder and toward the exit of the loft. And listens.
Not exactly the enthusiastic welcome Nate was expecting. But, Nate always expects enthusiastic welcomes, even when not warranted. It better fits his ideas of the universe. "You alright bucko?" Fingers dart up to touch Cesare on the forehead. "You don't have a fever. Are you feeling sick?"
"Mind if I grab some tea?" He follows his voice's prior movements towards the kettle. Then realization dawns on him. "I hope I'm not arriving just as you are getting ready to go out. I don't want to stomp on plans. I can always come back another Time."
The henna designs that hide at cuff and collar dance, slightly, conveying his worry. They twitch uncomfortably at the thought of Cesare being ill, or inconvenienced.
"No, um...tea's fine, I'm fine," Cesare says, nodding as he closes the door behind. There's a glance upstairs, then to the cold, closed kitchen. No pots dancing, no steam rising, no spoons flying around, flinging sugar. In fact, there's a mundanity that has settled into the house.
"How are you?" Cesare smiles. "I have not seen you in a while," he observes, then stops, realizing that it may not be quite the same for his guest. "You are...alright? Oh, here," he blinks, stepping towards the kitchen, "...let me make you a pot..."
There is a sound from upstairs. The sort of sound that was trying to be quiet, but a sound nonetheless...
He didn't notice at first. He can be terribly oblivious to the world around himself, at times. Paying too close attention to the world that isn't yet around himself. Nate's hand was about to glide along the counter top when he noticed, causing it to hang held an inch above the surface. The fingers don't want to touch, don't want to make contact. That way they can continue to pretend that nothing has changed.
Nate's eyes lose a touch of shine as he looks around. "Moving?" He is confused, obviously.
Cesare stops and looks over to his friend. Brows arch. "Moving?" brows lower. "No...well...just back," Cesare smiles, thinking about it. Another glance upstairs. "And then, si, we are...going back to France."
We. Cesare twists to see upstairs again. "He's...there," admission in it. "...waking up from a nap." Hands move the pot to the sink, filling it with water. "A lot's happened," Cesare explains, knowing the limitations of the statement. "Well, since we last visited," to put a finer point on it.
The sounds are the steps of another person, a recently wakened person. A weighty person, from the sound of it, though it is trying very hard not to intrude. The sound of his earnest Not Wanting To Interrupt is clearly audible.
The steps stop, but there is the sound of a faucet, water moving through the old pipes and into the bathroom upstairs. Someone trying to get presentable, perhaps.
Venice will miss you, Amici. He doesn't say it. Tilting his head, his ears listen to the sound of motion but his eyes are confused. He didn't see anyone up there before, and he didn't feel them arrive.
It must be the changes, here, that have put him off center. How could he not have noticed someone upstairs?
Nathaniel is disquieted. He wants the pots to be dancing. He wants the tea to pour itself.
He hates change, ironically.
Hands twine his fingers together, held behind his back loosely. "You were gone somewhere, for rather a while. I lost track of you." Rolling forward onto the balls of his feet, and then back, he tries to contain his energy. He doesn't feel right, and doesn't want to allow his own whimsy free. "I should have worked harder to find you. Sorry."
Nate is already assuming the change in Cesare is a bad thing. Already assuming it is something he could have prevented. Already kicking himself for not preventing it.
"Why are you sorry?" Cesare smiles, reaching over to pat Nate on the arm as he moves back to the stove. The kitchenette's working overtime, trying to hold two people. Cesare half bends and turns the gas on, and the eye lights up immediately. He then moves to retrieve cups: one, two, three. "What are you sorry for, amice? I will say," Cesare smirks, "...you look quite well. Ah, you missed Carnival! It was...very interesting this year. I saw Paolo," Cesare's brow narrows, "..you know him, si?" He thinks he's remembering this correctly.
The sound of the faucet has stopped. Steps sound again from the loft above, but more softly, as softly as he can make them and still get to his clothing. Any other sounds that follow are infrequent, quiet. The sounds of someone dressing.
"I've never missed a Carnival in my life." Nate smiles, though his two-tone eyes sparkle slightly and at internal joke. He is trying not to show his distress, trying to ignore his own overreaction to the changes here. Calm blue ocean. If Cesare remembers, there was a man with two-toned eyes at the auction.
"Do you really think I'm looking better?" He pinches his stomach. "I've been going to the gym, but I haven't noticed much of a change." Nathaniel is still as thin as ever, just on the athletic side. "Got someone I fancy, and am working on making the best impression I can." This is all as a dead pan aside, making it entirely unclear if he is serious.
Then actually catching a clue, he shuffles out of the small kitchenette space. Small spaces, two people, and fire do not mix. "Yeah, I'll meet Paolo. Though that isn't for some time yet, if memory serves." He taps his forehead. "I don't think that has happened yet, no."
Cesare glances over and smiles. One day, he'll understand this whole Time bit. "You do look nice," he nods, "...and who is this you fancy?" he taking it as humor about his own situation. "Tell me yours and I'll tell you mine, is how it goes, yes?"
Time passes.
Molecules jump and agitate. Eventually, they will release energy and the water will boil.
Eventually.
"There was an auction this year," Cesare goes on, "...ah, a lovely event in the Grimani..."
"I met them at a hotel, they were working reception." Man were they working reception. "Anyway, we hooked up for movies and conversations about the existential meaning of the universe, and other light subjects." He is being candid, perhaps, or is just using his sense of humor as a shield.
A watched pot never boils, unless Nate will it to. The kettle steams, and boils. It is just a function of Time, after all.
"Tell me about the auction? It hasn't happened for me yet."
He is making no move to not be overheard by the other person in the apartment. Nathaniel hasn't really thought that perhaps he should be careful of his words around strangers.
"Oh," Cesare nods, preparing the cups and sugar, "...it was rather nice. At Lido. To benefit the orphanage at La Pieta..." then as an aside, "...make sure you buy something nice, hmm?" He leaves out mention of vampires, magicked femme fatales, and his own sudden sense of ferocity that same from nowhere.
"It was almost three hours, I understand," the tea steeping now. "They made a lot for the orphanage. There were guest auctioneers as well. It was a lovely event. Near the deck...of the museum ship."
The sounds, removed as they have been, are now approaching, and the person from up above, the one who was taking a nap (of a lifetime), becomes visible. Very large. Very blonde. Dressed very well, even if in a hurry.
Alire d'Avignon emerges from the upstairs loft, his hair combed but casually done (this is not a business meeting, Alire). The suit. Well, the suit is navy, there is a good, Italian stripe to it, thank god for Milan, and the shoes are, of course, black. The shirt is a very crisp white. There is no tie tonight, though there may be later if they decide to go out for dinner. All in all, he is a well-made man of some 6'5" in height, looking all of about thirty-four.
Blue eyes go to the one he does not know (he does not think), a nod of greeting, a quiet and a polite 'Buona sera' with a smile, and then he is looking for Giancarlo.
The gold and silver eyes -- were they not yellow and blue a moment back? -- turn to glance upon Alire. Nathaniel's face changes, his expression drops for the briefest tick. He can see the whorl of magic in the kindred vitae. He recognizes the frozen kundalini. His henna markings are cleaner, sharper, and thornier than they were a moment ago.
But he brings his expression back up, smiling an equal 'good evening' back. "I'll make sure that they benefited at the orphanage, though I really don't have need for material things." Nate adds, at length, to Cesare.
The tea is momentarily forgotten. Cesare's smile becomes brilliant as he brushes his hands on his pants and moves to greet Alire, hand out to the knightly figure. "Bello Alire," Cesare offers, his world instantly improved. A kiss is placed upon Alire's lips, a hand at his cheek. A stare into his gaze for a moment, then Cesare's reminded that there is a friend visiting...
The kiss was accepted (having been wished for, naturally), but Alire d'Avignon is very much aware that they are not alone, and his skin reddens in what could be called a natural blush -- were either of you average humans. But the pantomime can likely be seen for what it is, however well-practiced. "Tesoro," he says in very clean Italian, someone used to speaking it. Treasure, he calls him.
But sky blue eyes shift to the other, and as of yet unnamed, person in the room. A friend of his tesoro. So far, he has only met Albizzina. A very beautiful, if very Italian woman.
And all that implies...
"I do not mean to interrupt," a glance to the Other as the Italian continues, and the specific Venetian slant of it at that.
"No, no," Cesare smiles, delight in the introduction. He angles about to see both men. "Nathaniel...mi amici...this is my Alire..." a completion devoutly wished for centuries.
"Bello Alire, my friend Nate. We have known each other for some Time..."
To a creature of centuries of social warfare, Nathaniel's smile is an obvious fakery. It would fool a thousand mortal politicians, and media celebrities, but not so a creature such as Alire. Even his features are obvious fakery to Alire, this is no italian no matter what Alire's eyes tell him.
"It is I that was interrupting, for which I am sorry." That smile again, so genuine seeming. His silver and gold glance goes to Cesare, "That is what I was apologizing for, earlier." It wasn't, but Cesare doesn't need to know that. The explanation might even seem to make sense.
Alire has seen this man before, at the auction. Though this one seems younger in his movements.
"I am happy to finally meet the someone that has made Cesare so happy."
Alire's smile is congenial if slight. "A pleasure, it is always good to meet Giancarlo's friends..." But he is intruding. On something. He is not sure what. The face is familiar, however. One of the many he has seen in Venice during his nights here...
Alire turns toward Cesare again, the smile changing noticeably, for Cesare (or Giancarlo) is much loved. Adored, in fact. "Your Alire thinks he should go to the market and get a bottle of wine. Some things for dinner. You two... enjoy your visit, yes?" A glance to Nathaniel and then he turns back to Cesare. A kiss he gives this time.
"I will be back shortly. I want to go say my evening prayers," get his dinner, "...and then to the market and then back here." Alire pivots slightly. "Nate... you are welcome to stay for dinner if you like. If you like fruitta della mare," seafood. He smiles.
"Alright," Cesare murmurs, slightly confused by whatever's happening. "I will miss prayers for now," he nods, "...but yes, Nate, please stay for dinner..."
While talking, a hand stays on Alire's back. Cesare looks to his friend and smiles brighter at the notion of dinner. "Alire is the best cook, Nate. Amazing..."
Nathaniel channels his aggression towards a vase in his own apartment, elsewhen and elsewhere. The poor thing does not survive well, but the shards of blue glass will be scavenged by Phobos and taken yet elsewhere to its own private collection. The pulse of magic is brief, and afterward Nathaniel seems a bit more relaxed.
"I don't want to intrude, but I would be remiss to not accept the invitation." And therefore get a better handle on what this Alire has done to Cesare. Obviously being the source of the changes that Nathaniel isn't happy about.
"Is there anything I can bring or fetch to help out with?"
There is another kiss for Cesare, a smile at the compliment, an honest blush and a dismissive modesty. "A man from Provence who cannot cook fish is not welcome in Provence they say..." A gentle hand touches Cesare's back and he murmurs: I will not be long, tesoro.
With that, Alire d'Avignon parts from his lover and turns toward Nathaniel as he makes his way to the door. The smile is courteous, congenial, though still slight. But that is Alire's way, even to his best of friends. "Non... non... you and Giancarlo have a good visit... relax. I will be back in ..." He glances to his watch for the first time. Taps it and half-frowns. Maybe the moisture got it. "Well... in about an hour," he surmises.
A pause at the door and Alire glances back to Giancarlo. The look there is, for a split second, unchaste. But chastity gets the better of the Templar and he steps out, closing the metal door behind him.
Cesare stares as Alire departs, only returning to the Here, when the door's closed. "He is..." Cesare smiles, shaking his head and blushing. He blinks and recalls the tea, moving towards the small stove again to pour and present.
"That...takes much of my time," Cesare grins. He cannot help it. There's total delight there. "Being with him. It's amazing, amice...just...being with someone." Has there ever been anyone? "And him. We..." Cesare starts, then changes his mind, "...we...it's right now. It's how it's supposed to be."
"Here," Cesare murmurs, offering the tea to you. "This meal will be fantastic! Ah...you will never have a meal like it again, until you visit again." Cesare exhales and nods. If he should say more, it's held, and he motions for seats on the divan.
Nathaniel has never been very good at controlling his emotions. His usual tactic is to just let his emotions out, just in different places and times from where they originate. As such, in the Sanctuary, his rooms are in chaos. A godling's tantrum is brewing safely away from the fragile mundane world.
Nathaniel, to Cesare, just seems a bit strained -- though the rhythm of magic from him is obvious. He stands bestride two locations; not the quietest of feats.
He listens to Cesare's stumbling, love addled words with a smile. "How long have you two been together?" Nathaniel is a bit distant, but trying to make a show of paying attention. Even if he is losing the thread of the conversation.
Is he bound? Does the blood already bind his soul? Is Cesare already lost?
His memory plays over the scream that Toad's awakened soul echoed the moment Toad tasted his first of a kindred.
The shudder is obvious. There are few things worse, in Nathaniel's mind, than the willful destruction of that part of oneself.
How long?
Cesare's lips stop at his cup, then he takes a shallow drink. "Two years...now..." Cesare explains. "Since we met...in Prague." Another drink. "We read, talk." Other things. "Visit." Well, how in the hell do you explain 'relationship'?
Cesare settles into his seat and looks around the packed loft. "It's...amazing," Cesare says again, the smile affixed to his face. "Everything that has happened. I can't believe it has been so long since I saw you last, but then again," Cesare grins, "...I should not be so surprised either. What of you? Traveling Egypt? Sumaria?"
"Well, I..." He can't really describe that experience in words that Cesare would understand. "I've been progressing, I guess, would be the best term." Nate sighs, and pulls himself together -- back to this one location instead of bestride space. Throwing a tantrum is not going to accomplish anything but raising eyebrows in the Sanctuary. Rachel and Nod already think he has quite lost it. But, coming from them that means very little.
"Well, I did actually take on a student. He'll do well, I think." Nathaniel knows it already, and already knows the poor man's fate.
Nathaniel gives Cesare another glance, this time with eyes that are blue and yellow once more. He can't tell if the other man is bound, it never was his strength -- to piece apart a pattern of someone's existence.
"Students are good," Cesare smiles, tea on his lap. "I am sure you have many projects for him. Where is this apprentice from? Someone in Venezia?" he wonders, picking up the tea and enjoying it again.
Nathaniel finds a space to sit -- The table suffices -- as he lifts his own mug of tea. A mug he hadn't actually picked up, but just took. Losing track of mundane actions is the first sign that Nathaniel's mind is on other matters. Cesare knows that well.
Like the time they were taking a walk, and Nate forgot that he actually had to walk across a street in order to cross it. But that time was understandable, he was trying to demonstrate some of the flexibility in the universe.
The Smithsonian incident isn't quite so forgivable.
"American, actually. He was a clock-puncher, hourly waged slave at a hotel. I think it was Cincinnati, but I don't really remember. It has been a few years."
"Oh, American?" Cesare nods, finding that a little surprising. "And you think he has some ability, yes?" Magical, presumably. "How do...you tell, Nate? I wonder these things often..."
"I can see it." Is Nate's simple answer. "I see an unending thread of perfect possibility that ranges from the first Beginning out to the final End. I see an ourobouros of perfect circumstances." Is Nate's not so simple answer. "It is like the blossoming of a lotus of silver filigree right here" he taps his heart "and a shining light like the sun comes from here" he taps his forehead."
When did he become a poet?
"We do things different, Cesare. What I do is not born of lineage and refinement. It is not something of Houses and mastery. It is something Primal. Primordial. It is inherent and inescapable, but easily be lost or broken."
"I am as likely to find the gift in the back alleys of New York, as I am in Taipei, or here."
He pulls his knees up, and rests his chin on them. "Even more likely, even, as the magical orders do not notice their potential and put them in different situations first."
Having contact with these 'orders' is something he's not experienced. Somehow, Cesare's one of the Lost, and has been such, he'd explain. But a smile and nod comes anyway, even if he does not understand all that was said. "You can just see it," Cesare paraphrases.
"I...should get the kitchen ready for Alire," he proposes, finishing his tea. "I wonder what he will bring back," Cesare muses aloud. In truth, he's not sure where to take the conversation. It keeps going two routes: Alire and Magic, and Cesare seems guarded about both.
Shit. Too much inside voice again. "Sorry, Cesare. Didn't mean to get all heavy like that. Yeah, I just see it." Eyes glance down at the floor. "Sorry, I'm being a jerk." Mood swings much?
"I was in Boston last week." Last century. "At a garden party." He is trying to guide the conversation away from anything that might make either of them uncomfortable.
This feels oddly like a break-up, and Nate can't shake the feeling.
"You weren't," Cesare frowns, not sure where that came from. He smiles and moves to the kitchenette. "Boston? A nice place I hear, amice. Whose party?" he wonders. No projects, no interesting magical treats, and another man filling the space. And now we discuss others' parties. "Maybe you should take me on one of your trips...though," brows lift, "...the last one...two...have been rather enough, maybe."
The cup is put away and the pot set on the rear eye of the stove. Cesare pulls out a towel and begins to wipe the countertops nearest him. "Anyway, I am interrupting! What of this party? And, ah, I forgot, I saw Albizzina during Carnival this year. I worked at her store for the Grimani festival..."
"Albizzina? Have I met her?" Leave that one hanging. Journeys? "I was thinking of visiting the City that Stopped. I haven't been to its library in a long time." Olive branch in a war Cesare isn't aware "I could bring Alire too, if you wanted. You could meet with Victor."
It really is hard to hate someone who makes a friend so happy. And Nate can't even tell if the happiness is genuine or the result of the blood.
"The party was interesting. Melinda -- a woman from my, uh, order -- invited me. It was the usual staid turn of the century garden party amongst fellows. It would probably cause the rather liberally minded of today to choke." He chuckles.
"They really knew how to throw a party back then."
"We did," Cesare says suddenly, nodding. "Well, I didn't go to them, but I heard," he smirks.
"What is...the City that Stopped? Alire might like that," Cesare agrees, "...he is a scholar. Very educated and reads all the time. I may have to grow my library," Cesare smiles. "Albizzina? Friend of mine and Paolo. I thought you knew her..."
"I might know her." He shrugs. "Things are getting complicated, up here" He taps his forehead again. A very common gesture of his.
"What is 'The City that Stopped'? Well, that is a good question, Cesare. A lot like Avalon, and Atlantis, and such places, it was a place of high magic at some distant point in the past." He lowers his feet back to the floor, still sitting on the table. "Around the sixteenth century a group of powerful sorcerers got together and wiped its memory from the collective consciousness of Europe. Anything that has that happen to a large enough group of people tends to fade from History, unless it actively works against it. The inhabitants of the city fought against it, but weren't able to entirely reverse the effect. Instead the city simply came to a total Stop."
Frowning, he sips his cold tea. It cooled to fast. Typical.
"It continues to exist, frozen in Time, but nearly totally forgotten. I stumbled on it while journeying with Phobos to set up some..." Frowning, he choses not to bother with that direction. "Uh, that would overcomplicate, let me rephrase. I was out and about, and stumbled on the city. Now I visit from time to time."
"Haven't figured out its name, yet."
He is conveniently ignoring the vampire boyfriend. Out of sight, out of mind.
Strange, that. Cesare frowns, then turns to ask, "So...you all..." somehow you're included, "...just...erased the memory from people? And they had to struggle against that?" It seems hardly fair. Magicians manipulating people.
Maybe it's the first time he's thought of it.
"I don't think I want to know, now," Cesare half-smirks, waving his hand. "As for Albizzina, I can take you to her shop sometime, when you have a bit." Crossing the room, Cesare's gaze falls to the floor as he walks. He exhales as he takes a seat on his divan, giving himself a view of the empty table that used to hold books, maps, and projects on the go.
"Us all?" Nate actually frowns at that, feeling oddly insulted at being included in that group, in particular.
"No, different group, Cesare. Any time you get a gather of power you get politics. In the end, this city lost the election when it came to ballot time. Just like Atlantis, and Avalon." Fingers curl around the mug of cold tea, letting his own inner fire warm the tea slightly. About the extent of his strength with such things. Janus is so much better. "Politics is everywhere, Cesare. Some of us strive to stand outside it all, but that doesn't stop it from continuing."
He ohs and shrugs. Has politics ever really been discussed? If anyone lives within his own bubble, it's become apparent that it's Cesare. "I don't have much use for politics," Cesare's voice says, an edginess there, "...I guess. People end up at the bottom of it. But..." he looks up, "...that's neither here nor there, eh? I think Alire still may be interested," Cesare finally smiles.
And a quiet comes. Cesare's gaze returns across his living area. "Back to your student. What is his specialty, if it's alright to say? Oh. Did I tell you that the girl," Cesare's finger points, "...that we...saw in London that time...I saw her here, in Venice?"
The girl? What girl? Fiona his mind whispers to himself. "Ah, yeah, her. She travels a lot." Nathaniel can occasionally taste places upon people. Nod's influence, Nate assumes.
"If you want to go, just tell me. I'll always make a special trip for you." He smiles, there. "Bring back some postcards, perhaps a wall mural or two. A bottle of fog."
"And I can understand not having much use for politics. I was once interested in it, tried to make some positive changes. But the inertia was just too great." He's speaking in broken thoughts again, the dips and flows of his voice seem to run all the sentences together. "So I gave up, like so many others. Now I concern myself with important things."
"So, ah, how did you two meet?"
Cesare looks up from his seat, then shrugs. "We...met at the church I told you about." He knows there are Time issues, but even that was only a bit ago. "In Prague."
"You...don't like him..." Cesare observes, saying it directly. He smiles though.
"No, I don't." Nate's honest answer. "And I'll be the first to admit that it is a dislike that stems more from what he is, than who he is." Nate moves from where he has been resting himself, to wander around the emptying apartment.
"I don't like his kind." There is more there, "But I'll try to be fair."
What he is. Cesare's brow arches. "You don't know anything about him -- " Cesare replies curtly. Then almost immediately, Cesare exhales, as if mollifying himself. "He's a good person. He always...." has been, "...he's been nothing but good to me, Nathaniel. He's been through much and is the most loyal, thoughtful, giving man that I have ever known. Ever. Ever..."
His shoulders slump, there, as he puts his mug on the counter. "I know I don't know anything about him." And frankly I don't want to. "I've been around a very long time. The Past is very heavy, for me. Past actions weigh me down." One finger pushes the mug around in circles, on the countertop. "Just like anyone, I guess. Sometimes, experience is only negative, unendingly, unrelentingly negative." He isn't making much sense, but, then, he isn't really trying to either. "Its hard to see the few grains of the positive, amidst that ocean."
How many friends has he lost to those creatures? How many students, and students of students? He doesn't know. Too many.
"As I said. I'll try to be fair, as you feel so much for him."
"Grazie, amice," Cesare smiles again, "If you ask him, he will tell you of his studies in botany and alchemy. A student of medicine too. Somehow, it's made him a great cook." And no comment on what Alire may or may not be. "He's very intelligent, but soft-spoken."
"And it all only reminds me that....I'm starving."
And, of course, not to put to fine a point on things. "And the minute he hurts you --" He stops there, and adds a caveat purely for Cesare's sake "not saying he will, --" Though Nathaniel is sure it will happen. It always does. "I will be there." No mention of what will happen. No need.
"I know a good restaurant in New York." Nate's ideas don't always make the most practical sense, especially when he lets one mood go and lets his emotions wildly pick up some other random one. In this case, having released the serious and severe manner, whimsy is once again taking hold.
The shift in topics brings a ruffled brow of confusion from Cesare, who normally simply glides through the rampant and random changes that oft happens in conversations -- especially a conversation that's gone off and on for seven decades. "New...York?" As if he's never heard of the place. Then, a nod. "Ah, yes. New York," a nod following. "I've never been there," he observes, thinking on it a bit. He looks askance, as if drifting in that thought.
"So many people have not been there. But, just like everywhere else, you absolutely must see it. Sometime." Nate seems to have forgot his previous fire and brimstone, moving back to the Nate that Cesare has grown to know over so very long.
Hands in pockets now, the cold mug forgotten, Nate looks uncomfortable a moment. He feels the dying conversation. "I had brought you something, but I don't know if you'll like it anymore." His glance goes to the boxes and empty room.
The young man looks up, familiarly brushing his brown hair from his eyes. "Oh," he brightens, "...that is nice of you...why wouldn't I like it?" Cesare wonders. He smiles and stands, hands slipping into his pockets. "You didn't need to do that."
Nathaniel shrugs, pulling his hand out of his pocket. "Do you know babylonian myth cycles? Marduk used the tablets of destiny, or some such, to tame Tiamat and her offspring?" Something glitters gold and green in his hand. "I didn't know if you were still into books. Even ones as odd as this."
Fingers unfurl -- he really can be overly dramatic at times -- to display a wedge of gold with green enamel. "This is said to be a direct copy of some small part of the tablets of destiny. Not sure if I believe the old coot." It is like the blade of a fan, triangular and long. He holds it pinned between two feathers, showing the gold etching into words that snake around its surface.
Into books? Not into books?
Cesare blinks, then looks at the slice of artifact. The stare seems empty for a moment, then melts into a curious grin and the cock of his head. "I don't know about Babylonian myths..." Cesare explains, "...but I'll take your word on it, amice," he finally smiles.
"Amazing," Cesare begins, closing the distance between the two of you. Cesare's eyes narrow as his hands lift near the wedge, then his brown eyes look to you for permission.
"It's yours, Cesare. I have no use for such a thing." He shrugs, and leaves it spinning weightless in the air, for Cesare to take. "My knowledge doesn't come from books, or artifacts. They're all just trinkets to me, unfortunately."
Nate didn't fail to notice that initial empty stare, and his stomach knots with it. He never ceases to smile, though, as he refuses the changes that have come over his friend.
"Hmph," Cesare smiles, plucking the item from the air. He's fascinated, then looks to his friend with a bemused grin. "It's incredible...but..." a thought, "...this did not...come from a museum or something? I cannot take this, Nate, no, it is too...important?"
Nathaniel laughs. "Oh, heavens no." He chuckles again. "The tomb site that the museum archaeologists would have found it in was plundered centuries before they got there."
His mug is once more in those artists hands, long fingers wrapping around. "It is only important to the person who can figure out what it says." That smile of his returns, as his eyes glitter "Since you've got it now, guess you'll have to figure out what it says." Nate knows it is important. A shard of something greater, resonating to its connections. It bleeds a light that Nathaniel can see. "And if you don't want it, I guess we could always donate it to some charity."
"No, no!" Cesare laughs, waving it off. "A new puzzle," he smiles, nodding, suddenly cheered. He nods, having something new to do. "Thank you, amice. This is...beyond everything. As always," he leans in, smirking.
That is a the Cesare that Nathaniel knows. The one questing after puzzles and challenges. The one bent on finding the Doge's gold, or other strange treasure. Nate kisses the end of one finger and taps Cesare on the forehead. "You are like a child."
"When do you move, and am I invited to the housewarming?" The change comes, as always, without warning.
The man smirks and shakes his head, looking around the space for something. A book. No better time than the present.
However, all of his books are boxed and up on the shelves for safekeeping.
"Um...well, we are just to Poitiers," he notes for the record. "I pop in ever so often..." he begins, then blinks as he's realized what he's said. "Well, um.." when did he learn teleport, "...when I come to make sure everything is alright and...I need a book." Or something.
Yet another thing Nate takes completely in stride. Or doesn't even notice. He barely has a grasp on the concept of distance as it stands. "Ah, okay then." Then a puzzled expression. "Then you've already had the house warming party. Will I attend it? And if so, I hope I didn't make a fool of myself."
In brighter mood, Cesare smirks. "No, no housewarming yet. I do not think...it's really...to that," he explains. "We...are...just together," again, Cesare smiles. "No party," he murmurs. "I am here, sometimes in Poitiers. That's all," he finishes, looking to the kitchen. Almost simultaneously, the pot of tea lifts from its burner and floats over to him.
That is better. Nathaniel brightens, in reflection to the motion of the teapot. Clouds seeming to pass, revealing the sunlight in his eyes. "I can understand that. Sometimes I'm here, sometimes I'm --" He hunts for the word. "-- not." Of course, his /here/ encompasses all of the nooks and crannies of the earth. But, who is quibbling over details. It is simply a fact established long ago in their friendship.
Cesare nods, letting his cup float from his hand. It refills itself, while Cesare goes, with artifact floating beside himself, towards where the shelves are upheld. He paces a moment, thinking, then a box slides itself off the shelf and onto the floor.
"I guess this means you're staying for dinner?" Cesare asks, twisting about to see you. He grins, having felt that if asked earlier, that question may have been harder to answer.
The smile blossoms. You'd think he had completely forgotten about the vampire lover. "I have never been able to refuse an invitation." Ever since that nasty fiasco in Edinburgh, anyway. "Do you need help with anything? I could fetch anything that might be needed?"
"No, he'll do it. He'll be back soon," Cesare replies with confidence. His brows wiggle and he returns to the box now open near him. "And I'm glad you're staying," Cesare smiles, winking as he goes fishing with cup, pot, and gold twirling in the world nearby.
He had actually forgotten the boyfriend. Alire. Nathaniel brushes sudden frost from his hair, the touch of his hand melting it. The smile doesn't even falter. "Well, if there is anything I can do to help, just ask. Nothing is too much for a friend such as yourself."
There's another smile from Cesare, each one brighter than the last. He waves his fingers and the pot moves your direction, leaving him to rifle through the box to find some clue to his new gift.
Blinking to melt frost forming in his eyes, Nathaniel smiles to accept the pot's offer of more tea. His mug refills, the steam boiling in dragon shapes into the air. "Tell me of what you have learned, Amici. Your view of the world is always fascinating to me."
Elsewhere in Venice...
In the hidden quarters of San Polo -- for every sestieri of Venice has its hidden quarters, quarters that the tourists miss, never find, the calli shifting like secret stairways always leading them in another direction -- there is a small church, a forgotten church to all but the most penitent of God's servants, a building unremarkable in every way but in its age and in its determination.
Chipping plaster and peeling paint, the paint lasting only one or two years with the dampness -- and yet still they paint it! -- is the facade of the San Timeo, the small church dedicated to St. Timothy. There is a beautiful Gothic cross, lingering decor of Middles Ages past that may still be seen, this building from the 13th Century. One century older than the one who may be seen leaving its small confines.
A man made remarkable not in his looks but in his apposition to the structure itself. Where it is small, he is large. Where it is weathered, he appears young. A tall man, a golden man, a young man spending an evening in prayer. It is early evening and here in this off-path section of San Polo most Venetians are already in their homes for the night. He stands out in his very motion.
Alire d'Avignon gathers his coat to himself, the white scarf thin, mostly for decoration, but it helps to keep some of the dampness from molding his neck. The suit is very fine. He moves in ways not known by tourists and yet he must be one. He must be French. Look at the grandness of that man, grande-grande. With the French, it is always grande-grande...
He runs his hands over his suit straightening as he walks along the very narrow calli, the brick footpaths that lead to and from from secret place to secret place and home to home.
It is momentarily disorienting. In his mind, space folds like origami, becoming one shining point where everything resides. Zero distance to the farthest reaches of anywhere.
Far off, he can hear himself speaking. It is hollow, the sound of voices reflecting off ice. Cesare, in the distance, speaking of trinkets and Poitiers. The taste of cooling tea. The clocks running backgrounds, even boxed and crated away as they are. All these things stand just at the periphery of awareness.
Being between, like this, is hard. It paints him with the Paradox of the impossible, his own resonances laid bare upon his skin. Ice, in glittering crystals, hang in his hair, while curls of jackfrost paint across his eyes -- obscuring the shining sun and moon that glow behind clouds. Fingernails have turned blue from the cold, his skin pale as death, his lips the colour of the drowned.
"Alire." His voice is as cold as the ice crystals that formed in his hair. The voice carries, having lost any hint of the friendliness it holds near friends.
Posted by rowan at March 23, 2004 01:10 PM
