Stuffed Mullet Provence, the fish of the neighboring lagoon was stuffed with a mixture of polenta, crab and prawns, fresh herbs mixed both within the stuffing and rubbed into the surface of the flesh, served over polenta with a tomato-based sauce. For all his admonitions, the meal was flavorful, plentiful, and lived up to the earlier praise.
     Praise which, of course, Alire would not accept, saying merely 'grazie', nodding his head and giving full credit to the Venetian vendors from whom the meal was purchased, thanking all but Noah leaving out only himself. I am no one special, the pentitent soul says, I am just another of God's creations.
     The guest lingered...
     Much to Alire's internal consternation, Nathaniel remained all the way though dinner and through half a bottle of wine and conversation. Conversation that Alire did not truly participate in beyond polite association, host to guest. He was reserved, even for Alire. He filled glasses, he interjected once every third or forth sentence or round. He seemed congenial enough.
     Toward the end of the evening, he began to look tired. Apologies were given and visitation was concluded for the night. Hopefully, Alire thought to himself, for the remainder of the trip. It was a meditation, the clearing of the table, the plates, the washing of the dishes, the packing away of the food -- there was some left for you -- the wiping of the counters. At the end of it, Alire felt better, looked better. The weariness began to dissolve and he seemed happy that you and he were at last alone.
     Yes, to that he now raises a glass and takes a good, long drink, letting the anger begin to release more constructively. Alire looks to you as he settles on the one piece of furniture that can hold you both, setting his wine glass aside, balanced on a table made out of stacked books. Necessity is the mother of invention, as they say. "I hate to make you leave," he says softly, he smiles a little. He looks to the ceiling and for a moment he listens to Venice: the sound of the house moving on water as all houses here do, the creaks, the lapping of water, the voices nearby, the vaporetto in the distance. "But I am always so thankful, so happy to have you with me," he continues, looking now to you. "Even though I make you leave such a city as this..."

     The boxes remain packed and high upon the shelves bolted against the walls. The box that was opened earlier's been repacked, but this time, marked with a large 'x', and replaced with the others. The kitchen is clean, it's true, and upstairs, the loft's been squared away for another season.
     Tomorrow, once the sun begins its downward arc, Cesare will waken his lover and head to Poitiers.
     "You shouldn't worry on it, bello," Cesare smiles, turning the small light off in the kitchen and making sure the door is locked as he passes it. "As long as I am with you, I am too happy and grateful," he smirks behind his glass, almost blushing. Grateful for all aspects. "But we will return to Venezia, bello Alire, I am sure," he finishes in a settle beside his eternal mate. "For now," he says, flush against you and leaning in to continue the conversation, "...I am looking forward to France."
     "And then...to find something for us in Switzerland," Cesare adds. "A horse or two," he teases, dipping his chin to look up into those blue eyes he loves, "...and geese. Cows," he smirks.
     What would an Italian boy know of such things?

     It is an extraordinary expression -- geese and cows? "I have not ridden now for many years," Alire thinks out loud. He is lost in thoughts for a moment, perhaps thinking of his native Switzerland, always a sanctuary for him, it was once for him and Michele, you. That, he is still getting used to. "Whatever you wish," a hand pats. That you shall have, we shall have.
     It is Poitiers and Venice that are foremost in his mind, the cities that bind each man here in this loft. Old France and Older Italy. "There is nothing like this city. If my business ever concludes with Poitiers, I will come here to stay," he notes, as much to himself as to you. Then his mouth cuts a smirk, "... even though I do not swim so well as to live on an island and I don't know any magic. I think it is a prerequisite to being here." He sips at the wine. "Your friend..." he begins in a hush. "Do you know much about...what he can do?"
     His hand reaches over to take your own, his fingertips steepling with yours. Alire watches them, feels you there, your heartbeat. He exhales, closing his eyes and brushing his mouth against your temple. Such intensity in so simple a gesture.

     Upon his lips, his smile grows. Eyes close. "I'd rather not talk about him," Cesare says softly, "...but the answer is...yes. More than...I'd realized...now that you ask. I do. But..." eyes open, "...I'd rather talk about us, bello. And your eyes. How you cook," he grins, "...how sweet you are to me and always will be. How we shall live between three places and what it will be like to walk together, at night. What magic there is between us...and what we'll do with all we know now."
     "How terrible it is," Cesare smirks, "...that our last night in our second city, we sit upon a sofa, well-dressed."
     Cesare blinks, then smirks, embarrassed at himself and his words. But he shrugs, a poor apology, and looks down to his lap.

     I do not wish to talk about him either, tesoro, believe me...
     There is soft laughter, there is a flood of color in his face, there is the look that realizes he is a homebody, despite his love for the city. "We can go out, amice. All of Venice sleeps by now. We will have the campi to ourselves. We can dance in the San Stefano," he murmurs, leaving behind another kiss. Another exhale. "Very well, we will not talk about him." And I will not tell you why I asked.
     "My eyes?" Alire suddenly asks, still pinkish -- ah, those poor northern blondes, who show so much of their emotion in their complexion. "What about my eyes?" he almost grins, well...for Alire it is a grin. He tips his head to the side to better see you. "Are you going to say more nice things about me? I do not know if my humility can stand more praise," he jokes.
     "Come," he pats you, "...let's walk tonight, hmm? It is a pleasant night, or it was earlier. Only a brief cold wind," named Nathaniel, "...but the rest was lovely. We go to the Campo San Stefano and dance in the empty courtyard. Just you and me. No one to see us," which is a lie, in Venice everyone sees everyone and there are few secrets. Still, most are in bed now at this hour. No discoteques to keep the youth occupied, everyone is in Maghera or Mestre.
     He listens to what you say, he smiles at it, a true smile not one making light or self-effacing. "The only magic I know is that which is between us," Alire murmurs. "And it is more than I could have ever hoped. So, let us not waste it. We need to work off all that polenta..."

     "I could think of ways to work off polenta."
     But, a walk's been suggested. Cesare exhales and nods, standing up. "A walk it is, bello Alire of the blue eyes -- no more compliments until after the walk though." When he gets what he wants.
     "Stefano it is then," Cesare looks around, but then decides, "No jacket," he murmurs, moving towards the door.

     Ways to work off polenta...
     When Alire blushes, saints sigh. And it is too easy, he thinks, that such happens, too easy that you can take him to such thoughts, to blush at them, again so easily. Alire sighs at himself but smiles. "No, it is not so chill. The winds are calm..." He leaves his jacket behind as well, wearing only the white shirt and navy trousers, no tie.
     There are things he is going to have to get used to. Such suggestions coming out of the mouth of his Giancarlo is one of them. He knows the tones of Michele duMontrachet. It was always easy for him to get to me, he thinks. Always so easy to make me laugh.
     At the doorway, Alire pauses himself and he pauses you. Hands rest upon your hips and the kiss is sudden, sweetened by wine and polenta and spices, as intense as the first kiss you shared when the two of you crossed this threshold so seemingly long ago now. But it is brief. Alire parts it, he rests his forehead against your own, he murmurs so softly that most others would not hear it. I love you, he says.
     His hand reaches out and goes to trip the latch, to open this door like a hatch out onto the sea itself.

     Cesare's surprise brings a wide-eyed blink.
     What was that for?
     Is a reason necessary?
     Cesare eventually smiles, shaking his head gently as his forehead touches another. "You should," he says with a smirk, "...how can you not," Cesare wonders, taking a step back so that you may see him in all his glory.
     Laughter comes again as Cesare pulls your hand, grinning. "I love you," he says, knowing that you must know his heart.
     I am here. I am still here. I am here again.
     For you.
     For myself.
     Cesare's eyes narrow a little with the realization. Some thought suddenly on his mind.
     Cesare stops in the doorway, pulling joined hands down in a halting signal.

     The hatch is not unlatched. Instead, joined hands are held, simply held. And he smiles. He smiles at your confidence, you in your glory, yes, I see you. Suddenly, dancing in San Stefano just isn't as important. You stop him. Do you think so, too?
     Do you know what is important? It is not dancing in San Stefano. It is standing here with you. Being here with you. That I am here and you are with me. We are here. We are still here. We are here again.
     Alire's face shows his question, blonde eyebrows raised slightly. His features open and warm to you, expressive, they speak his love and affection in silent, but tangible ways. "Something is on your mind," he whispers, his hands grasping your own, his thumbs moving over your skin.

     Cesare is quiet a moment, choosing his words carefully. He does not hide his thoughtfulness.
     "I am sorry, Alire," he says softly, "...for..." his brows arching, "...what I have wrought."
     Brown eyes look downcast, and he adds, "For not knowing before...and my sudden knowing...now." Of who or what I am.

     There is a slight shake of his head. Don't be. Don't be sorry. But he does not discount your words or tell you how to feel. It is important for you to say. "I am sorry, too," of course he is, he is always sorry for something. "That...I could not do more," he says it. "Then," he qualifies. And now?
     "What you have wrought," Alire repeats. "What you have wrought is restoration, Cesare. Of me, of you, of us. I need no apology for that," he smiles a little. "Nor for anything. You did what you did out of love, forcefully as you always did, but..." eyebrows sweep upward. "...what is to forgive. Between you and me...what is there to be sorry for. No," Alire shakes his head, his hand lifting to your face, to lift your chin. He kisses you. "No," he whispers at your mouth. "There is no need to apologize to me. It is... " thumb moves across your lips, and Alire smiles. At the corners of his eyes are tears of blood unfallen. "...it is everything that you found me, your friend, your lover. That you found me and came for me. It is a miracle, of the kind that used to happen when God still moved in the world."
     The kiss comes again. Softly, with great tenderness, with emotion. It lingers for some moments. "I have heard you," Michele, Giancarlo. "And though you need no such from me, te absolvo..." And from the kiss, it would appear that the last night in Venice will not be spent walking her streets but in this loft, this small universe where only you and he reside. This sanctuary. "I love you... across the time that is between us from Then to Now... there is no need to apologize for that. I am at peace now, with you here beside me."

     The kiss is accepted as tenderly as given. Giancarlo smiles weakly and nods, hearing the words from you, but perhaps not yet taking them to heart. Brown eyes still look slightly downcast. "God...does not care for us...does he, Alire?"

     "We stand here together," Alire says. "I have faith that it is with His ultimate care, tesoro. We stand here together. I find that proof to the contrary..."
     Something good, my love, something good has finally happened to us. "Is this not God's own reply?"

     The eyes look up, but there is no smile. Never a religious sort and now with disappointment driving him, Giancarlo is slow to answer. But he does, saying softly, "I don't know, Alire..."
     I don't know...what He wants.

     I don't either...
     But I have faith...
     I do not know why the universe moves as it does...
     I can only hope...
     I don't know...
     But I believe...
     Alire leans in, his forehead to yours again, his hands holding your own. "I will believe..." For both of us if I must. At least until you are able to trust in it, trust in what you wrought. For even if out of hate, hate is not what what given, my treasure, mi tesoro. What we received was salvation. What we received was love. If such may be made out of hate and despair, how can I doubt the hand of God?

Posted by rowan at March 24, 2004 02:53 PM