The evening arrived. Last night's dinner dissolved into conversation and laughter, leaving the tension of the night long behind. And as promised, then sun rose and set, and Giancarlo finished up the last of the tasks needed before parting from the loft.
     And as promised, once the sun set again, he was beside his longtime companion, waiting for this evening to begin it all anew.     Downstairs, boxes are repacked from the curiosity of tablet slivers and set perched high on the wall once again. The sofa is stacked upon the dining table that serves as study area. The pilot light of the two-eyed stove has been turned off, along with the gas, for safety reasons. The loft is cleaned and dusted in a vain attempt to keep away the dust that emptiness brings.
     A ward against decay will help too.
     And rodents.
     And water.
     Giancarlo lies on his back, staring at the low ceiling of the upstairs alcove that serves as bedroom. Up here, there is little fear of water. Candles will be left as they are, along with the makeshift mattress-bed. The evening's clothes are nearby, shared bags are packed, and his companion's shoulder bag rest at the foot of the bed. All that will need to be done is a quick dressing, the bed organized, and perhaps a bite of dinner on the way out of the city.

     He rests so stilly. But never on his back, never in any way that could be viewed as a pantomime of death, but naturally, upon stomach and side, curled where he last held you. His face resting upon the pillow, his blonde hair barely mussed, his fingers slightly curled upon the pillow. The marked form bare, concealed only by the thin sheet (the humidity makes up for the rest), rests still and strong. And upon it the evidence of his past. Crisscross marks of whips and the larger disfigurements that came from implements too horrible to recall. It is a miracle, yes, that he lived to die at all.
     He bears Samuel's skills upon his skin, for the scars are well-healed, marks more than rivulets and embossing.
     He no longer hides them from you or blushes when he removes his shirt. He no longer apologizes for them, these marks that most others could not bear to view, thinking only of how damaged he must really be. He is no longer embarrassed by them. They are... what they are. They mean...what they mean...
     It is always the same -- if he were conscious, he would scold himself for the routine of it all, how you must be bored with the routine! -- first his finger twitches, the first sign of animation. There is a momentary golden glow, the spirit's return, and then there is a sigh. Some word incoherent upon it. Another sigh follows moments later as he begins the act of breathing, unnecessary in function but necessary for this act of life. And then Alire murmurs your name: Giancarlo.
     Even before he opens his eyes...
     Which, on the very button at the same time and interval as the previous morning, those sky-blue eyes do open, blonde eyelashes lifting as he immediately seeks you out. The form is slower, great as it is, and will take its time in stretching, reanimating, getting the blood going, stretching again. Alire's hand moves, it reaches out to feel you nearby. Are you here this morning?

     "I am here, Alire," Giancarlo whispers, turning upon his side to clasp hands. Facing now, Giancarlo smiles, his brown hair falling at his face and hiding his eyes. I am here. "Welcome," he says softly, smirking at his choice of words. His fingers twine and close firmly to make his point.

     It is an adjustment from Everything to Nothing to Here, from 14th century to 21st century. From a lifetime in a bed alone to these two years waking like this, to hands holding him, to that face. When he looks, when his eyes are focused and he may see, it is always with a look of wonder. "Is it late? Have I overslept?" his voice pulls in that waking slowness, speaking your Italian, smiling a little -- in that slight way that Alire has. It does not show so much on the surface, but it is fathoms deep, as they say.
     There is a great groan, his hands clasp yours tightly as he takes another, long stretch, rolls toward you a little and places the morning's benediction upon your skin. "Grazie," he says at your ear. "It is good to see you again," Alire smiles. Rolling back, now one his back, he blinks at the low ceiling, this low-hanging heaven, and then turns his head upon the pillow to look at you again. "I will get ready... that way, we have some time before we must head to Mestre..." and to the airport, the Marco Polo.

     "You have not overslept," Giancarlo says, facing solo now. "We have time," he explains. "Everything is ready to go, bello, so there is no rush," he affirms. "We will get to your city in time," he smiles.
     "How about I make your dinner, hmm? I am not as bad a cook as you remember..."

     "You are a good cook," Alire insists quietly. "I would like that. Do you need me to go get wine? To get anything?" He rolls back upon his side, his hands back at your hands, covering. He says nothing for a time, he lifts your hands to his mouth and quietly kisses them. An exhalation graces your skin. It is not so warm as it should be. He looks from your joined hands to your face. Does it ever bother you?
     Alire smiles again, "You make the dinner. I will get the wine. We will have time. The flight is not long, two hours at the most. We will go... when we are ready to go, tesoro... " Another bow of his blonde head brings with it another grace of his lips to your skin. A benediction that he follows to your forehead, then at least briefly to your mouth. "My mornings are so much better than they used to be," he smiles there, and then he starts to rise.
     Carefully, of course. He's bumped his head enough to know how it must be done. The old crusader's form is there for you, not posed (he could not bear to do that, he would be lobster red at such a notion), but there for you to see as he makes his way to the bath, to the small shower into which he is now used to fitting his large form.

     Giancarlo's smile slides askance...something of the past in that. He indeed watches you rise, then sits up himself, careful of the alcove too. His hand lifts to touch it as a reminder.
     "Do not worry on the wine. I will take care of it," Giancarlo calls, pushing himself to stand as well. He's already showered earlier in the day, and so finds his shirt and trousers that will carry him to Poitiers. "When do you think we will find time for Switzerland, bello? I do want to find a place for us there. A small farm..." he says again, bringing the unfinished topic.

     There is a sound of thought, consideration, as the water is turned on. It will take some time for it to warm enough to get in it -- even for his preternatural skin. Though, Alire is more than acquainted with the notion of cold showers. He does not have to have his water steamy by any means. He is not so spoiled. "I think that if we can wait until July or August, that would be better for my schedule. And for appearances. We will see," he offers a compromise. "If things are going well and June comes without a fuss, I should be able to take another week."
     There is a pause. The water is ready but Alire appears in the doorway, hands on the easings. "I am sorry, tesoro, that ... I cannot simply go whenever I want to go somewhere. Maybe in a few years, I will have a little more leeway. It is... just so soon and things are just settling now. It is hard to leave and hard to stay away for more than a few nights."

     Giancarlo looks up from fastening his trousers. "I understand, bello," he smiles, though disappointed. "I do." He nods his head and picks up his shirt, sliding into it. "I'll be downstairs when you are ready," he smiles, waving his hand at the bed before he finishes his shirt near the top of the stairs.
     Behind him, in the alcove, the bed begins to make itself.

     There was a sympathetic look for your disappointment, but he may compromise only so much. Perhaps...one night. "It will not be long," Alire says, smiling at the bed making itself -- he delights in what you can do -- and he turns with a last look to you and heads into the bath.
     It will not be so long. He does not live beneath the water (though, he does like the water). It will be perhaps only fifteen minutes there, another ten minutes dressing. Not so long. Perhaps, too, it will not be too long before he may take a "constitutional" rest in Switzerland. Perhaps the wait will not be so long. Still, he knows that even in his hundredth year of power he would not be able to leave for long periods of time.
     He may have to have a seneschal...
     I will find a way, bello, that we may have what we want... even in the midst of the duty I must do...

     In the meantime, the alcove's arighted itself, stored away for another season. Downstairs, Cesare's setting a corner of the dining room table with two wood chairs, careful to avoid the perched sofa. The scent of fresh fruit lifts upstairs, along with coffee.
     Near the front door, the bags are all neatly piled, moved from upstairs.

     His motions are so orderly, his timing so punctual, he could be called a living metronome. It is fifteen minutes exactly from the point at which he step foot beneath water that he now climbs down from the loft, a casual suit, better for traveling worn -- a wool crepe for the spring, a nice dove grey with a light blue shirt, the same color as his eyes. Alire brings his hands together, a quick, light rub and then, smiling, he comes toward the table, to be near you when you cook. As you do with him. There is a light cologne, very faint in fragrance, but it lifts with the scent of the fruit, notes of berries somewhere rising.
     "Let me see what I can work out, bello," he murmurs, hands in his pockets as he watches you. "I will see if we can get to Switzerland before the summer. We can start looking when we get back to Poitiers. I think it would be good to line up some places, then schedule the trip to see them and make our decision."

     Giancarlo's almost done in the kitchen. But there is nothing on the stove, no muss to be picked up. The kitchen is resoundingly cold.
     The table's corner, however, sits with small plates and bowls. Small dishes of fresh fruit: strawberries, peaches, and apples are diced and covered in yoghurt. Toasted panini is sliced in half, and a dish of butter and fig preserves is set aside. There's a saucer with rashers of bacon and a service of coffee.
     Giancarlo turns about when you approach, smiling. He's got two cups of grapefruit juice in his hands, ready to be set with the others. A smile comes at the new suggestion, he visible brightened by your words. "Thanks, bello," he grins, "I will work on it, then?" If you allow.
     "You should eat while the bread and the rashers are still hot," Giancarlo motions.

     He was looking at you, but when you gesture the vampire suddenly notices the banquet and he blinks. Stunned, that look. Delighted, that expression. Your abilities, your magic still takes him aback. He is still so amazed by it all. "This is... amazing, how do you do this?" Now, he grins.
     It is not easy to make Alire grin...
     He wastes no more time, he takes a seat and reaches for the bread, the rashers. Soon, he has a little bit of everything on the plate. "I will never stop being amazed by what you can do. I am just an ordinary man," he shakes his head, smiling, "... this is just so beyond anything I have known or... could ever do. I wonder...how did you first know? I know you exhibited abilities early, you said," it was a burden on your family, "...but how do you just... know what to do? Is it like... being a musician? You get to a certain skill level and you can... improvise?"
     The rest for a moment is just the sound of delight. Figs, butter, bread...
     Alire crosses himself as he enters Heaven...

     "I don't know, bello," Giancarlo says, voice even. He sets the glasses down and then takes a seat himself. "I mean, I am no..." he blinks to bring it up, "...well, not like others I know. There are...schools of magic, they say. Paolo and Albizzina are better on these things than I am. I am..." another pause as he references himself, "...I think I know...some of a few of them, I think." The unsurity of a 13th century man who does not know, compounded by a 19th century man left in the dark. "But Paolo says that I am good at...conjuring...things. Creating, he says."
     "I..." someone is embarrassed, "I...do not really know...how...it all works..." And it frightens some part of Giancarlo.

     "I suppose it is not a fair question to ask," Alire notes softly, warmly. Reassurance for your embarrassment. "After all, did Mozart have an answer for why he could compose opera at the age of four? Some study, Giancarlo, others simply do. For some... I imagine it is like anything else. There are those who try to be an actor or singer or magician. There are others who are simply born to be."
     Yes, he nods, this is how it must be.
     "You are worried," he murmurs, swallowing. He looks at you, notes how you hold yourself, the expression on your face. There is a sympathetic look. "I know what it is to.... have things you cannot explain. What it is like to wake up and to be different. It will be alright, tesoro." He pauses, tipping his head. "Look at it this way, hmm? It gives you a puzzle to work out. The greatest one there is -- the Self."

     Giancarlo watches you, listening to hear some wisdom there. "I guess," he says in that tone of dismissal Michele was so good at. "Maybe," he whispers again, picking up a bit of the bread and shoving it into his mouth. He looks to the kitchen and stares while he chews, going quiet and within himself.

     "In the meantime," Alire's voice pulls softly, warmly and with a habitual humor, old and familiar and most often following Michele's dismissals, "... the conjured fig preserves, very good. My compliments to the chef. Can you also do red plum?" Alire peers at you, flaxen eyebrows lifting and then he grins.
     Do not worry, Giancarlo, for I do that well enough for both of us. It will be ... we will figure it out...

     Giancarlo looks back at the compliment, smiling. "If you wish red plum," he manages to grin, "I think I could do it," he nods firmly, narrowing his eyes. Humor. But a shrug follows.
     "I...should tell you something," he says softer, exhaling as he looks to you at the table's corner. "Or show you, I think." The embarrassment comes again, but with it is a resolve to make something known.
     "I don't...really understand," Giancarlo says, "...just like I told you, Alire. I'm sorry that I...do not." It is perhaps not such a good thing for a magician to be so unaware of himself. He exhales and puts both of his hands on his knees, pushing up from his seat.

     He is spreading the fig preserves on the pita bread when you rise and humor leaves his expression for an empathetic curiosity. Alire sets the food down and he gives you his attention. "I have every faith in you," he says gently. "With enough study, with enough time... you can become more aware." He pauses, features warming. "If it is one thing I know, it's books and study, yes? I am confident you will be able to understand..."
     Rising, interested, he takes the fig-covered pita and the glass of wine with him, rising to come along with you -- or for you to tell him where you want him. He is not sure what you are going to say or to show him. "What is it, tesoro?"

     "I don't know how to explain it," Giancarlo says softly, his worry now shown as honest distress. "It happened....well, I realized it the other night at the bookstore."
     Giancarlo closes his eyes and murmurs almost inaudibly. A series of sounds and then he opens his eyes.

     What was the open living room and kitchen of the small flat turns and shifts. The walls are suddenly orange, and nearby is a kitchen island, so often shared. A real room, this, filled with the hanging pots and pans that you love so much, the sinks that hold dishes, and a stove fit for a family. The next room, open through an archway, is a living room filled with bookshelves on botany, along with a few on medicine.

     He blinks again. He tries to do the math in his head. He cannot calculate so Alire pivots in place, looking all around. Looking lastly to you, perplexed. Then again around and he blinks. Speechless. "I... this is ... where are we?" Alire suddenly, softly wonders.
     And then he realizes...
     This is my house...
     "Merde," he whispers. It is a good thing he does not have to breathe -- right now, he is not sure he can. Alire pivots again, his hand dropping the fig-covered pita bread. It lands on the island, and then so does his hand. It is real. He looks to you again. "I ... this is ... I did not think such was... possible," he murmurs, now in French. A hand comes to his mouth and covers it a moment. "No wonder... you are a little ... freaked out," he tries on an idiom of the age. "You did this... accidentally one day? Can you ... go anywhere?" This is bizarre.
     Immediately, the practical Alire looks to see if you also brought the bags...
     He starts to move from his island, his steps and motions tentative. As if he wonders if it will transform again and he might bump into your sofa. But he crosses the distance in a mere step it seems (he has his own magic) and he reaches for your hand...

     The expression on Giancarlo's face slackens. "I...don't know what is wrong with me, Alire..." he begins to cry, stepping forward into your arms. "I don't understand...anything..." How he came here, how he has such a confluence of memories, all out of order and out of time, nor this magic that consumes him.

     His arms come around you, a hand to your head and he holds you to him. He doesn't shush you. He doesn't tell you that you shouldn't worry. What does he know, in truth? "I will help... if I can," he murmurs, his arms tight around you. "However I may. I am here, hmm? I am not going anywhere. We will... figure it out. We will ... be methodical," he nods. "Like scientists, you and I. We will work on it together. In the meantime, bello, try not to be afraid, try not to worry. We will... get to it, to the root of it together. yes?"
     Leaning slightly back, his hands come to your face and he lifts it to him. There is confidence, there is strength, there it is the face of the Stone of Chinon. As he did then, his fingers between the bars, so Alire reaches you now. "We will figure it out, and piece these things together with logic. There has to be an order, a pattern. You and I will find it, Giancarlo." Closing his eyes, Alire kisses your cheeks.
     "First things first," an eyebrow lifts, "...I will cancel our flight..."

     There was a nod in your hands as his face is cupped. Giancarlo tries to stop the tears, but finds it easier at the notion of canceling the flight. Through damp cheeks, he laughs slightly.
     But it stops soon enough, and he simply nods.
     "I...we...should finish...eating..." he swallows, hand reaching up to wipe at his face.

     His arm holds you to him, his mouth parts at your forehead. There, he whispers his love. It is only after that is spoken, a kiss is placed, that he moves to release you to eat, his hand rubbing your back as the grasp is loosened. Do not be afraid, his expression speaks it in volumes, for I am with you.
     "Go ahead, tesoro," Alire murmurs, his other hand reaching into his jacket and removing his cell phone. It is a French number, no matter where he is standing (of course, he is now back in France). "I will call the plane and tell them we no longer need their services before it gets too late. Then, I will eat the rest of the dinner. Since we are home," he smiles, "... we will have some more wine, I will put on some music, I suggest a long, hot bath, the two of us... and then we go to bed..."
     You know, he suddenly thinks, it does make getting back and forth a great deal easier. Why, in a way, one could have an entirely different life, completely hidden from all the rest. Who would know...
     Who would know?

Posted by rowan at March 25, 2004 11:21 AM