He is everywhere...
     The feel of him is omnipresent. Warmth of him in the kitchen, the feel of his laughter in the brightness of the lighting... but subdued, even as Alire himself is, frequently. There is the sound of music, classical music, but Romantic. It moves through the house, as if leeching from the walls of the old maison.
     It is not magic. It is very subtle electronics, very tiny speakers positioned unobtrusively so that he may have his music everywhere with him.
     Particularly in his greenhouse...
     The greenhouse is attached to the maison, and takes up a portion of an exterior garden. It is not the only room full of plants that he has, but it is the largest. There, he tenderly grows and develops flowers and blossoming potted trees. He is there, with his gloves, his shears, wearing his hardier clothes -- which are still quite refined -- gently pruning an old rose bush that has been encouraged to grow, and shaped to fashion a kind of rose tree. He wears a smock to protect his clothes, even so.

     "I'm still hungry," Cesare notes for the record, walking into the greenhouse with a hand into his pocket. It's a tall, confident stride, broken only by his boredom and great monotonous sigh. "Mm," he thinks, twisting left and right. He does have the solution. "Penne and cream...sugar peas," Cesare thinks aloud to himself. Brows lift and he nods with conviction. In a bit.
     "Not to say that your dinner wasn't delicioso, bello," Cesare arights, eyes wide. "It was, indeed."
     "What are you doing?" Cesare stops, looking down at the plants. "Pruning."

     "I am. It is how I meditate." He smiles to you, and never known for his mischief the look is one of an angel playing a practical joke, "... it is also how I have meetings. I make them sit on the benches," he nods over to the wooden and cement benches gathered throughout, "...and I conduct meetings while working with my plants. I think they think that I am mad."
     Alire pauses his pruning, the small shears nooked in his underarm as he pulls off his gloves. He grins then, the easiness from his native home lingering with him still. Perhaps it is you. Some would say to make Alire smile would take magic. "Hungry still? Well, I can understand that. Do you want me to make a dessert?"
     Always the offer to serve you, to make you happy. Anything to make you happy. "How was the Floating City today, tesoro..." He is coming to you now, the gloves tossed to the bench. He pauses, putting the shears down to free his hands for you.

     "It was..." Cesare shrugs. "I saw an friend. No new place to live yet," he confirms. "And dessert would be good...I will make my own pasta," he notes. Comfort food.
     The uncovered hands means an embrace will come soon.
     "What kind of dessert, bello? And do you have meetings tonight? If so, I can do something with myself. I have calls to make."

     "No, not tonight," he says it softly, and when he takes you in an embrace, there is nothing said. It is warm, it is complete, and it is a pure moment. It is followed by a kiss, brief, welcoming, tender. "So, dessert... yes... hmm... sorbet? I have fresh berries from the market, the machine will do most of the work..."
     But he is not moving to the kitchen yet. He stands in your space, with you, a hand taking yours, a finger looping around one of your own. The easy posture of well-acquainted lovers, no? "Hmmm, that face... I see you've had a mixed day with that look. Do you wish to speak of it?"
     And for a moment, the teasing, almost impish look returns: "Should I start pruning again?"

     "No," Cesare insists, lunging into your space as he says it with emphasis. He smiles, shrugging. "No, no," his finger moving, "...we could sit on our sofa?" where you first kissed. "I will have my pasta, then your sorbet. Then...a drink," he nods. "Sambuca." Sweet and alcoholic.
     With that, Cesare turns to lead into the house again. "Are you resting well that I am not here?"

     "That is a horrible question," he laughs quietly. "How could I rest easier without you here? I'm sure a part of me misses you horribly. But..." Alire exhales a smile, "...a stone sleeps as a stone sleeps, very solid, very still." He comes up beside you, an arm around you as he moves into what would be a sunroom if he could endure the sun, which leads to the nook and kitchen.
     "I will get the sorbet ready. Ah, Sambuca," hmm I believe I have some of this? I must. But if I do not, well... I am sure you will get it if you want it, non? Our sofa. Alire smiles to you, it is a warm look, a tender look, and an intense look. "I have very good memories of that sofa, tesoro. Sounds like a good evening to me..."
     Another kiss and he heads to the cabinets, removing the sorbet machine. Yes, he cheats. He is moving to the gourmet refrigerator, fresh berries brought to him -- fresh fruit each morning by his house staff. "Raspberry? I think that would go well with the Sambuca...so... you never did say about Venice. Your days are going well there?" He turns to look at you, his expression open. Interested.

     "That is good," Cesare murmurs, moving to have a seat in the nook where he can watch you. Before him, on the kitchen table, a dish appears, filled with a creamy pasta. Cesare plops in, expecting to see his supper break there.
     "It is alright," Cesare waves off, picking up a fork that materializes. Frustrating. "Nothing so special, as I said. I see associates and I have not found anything yet." For living. There's a sigh as he bends to eat. "And I did not mean...as I said it. I meant to ask if..." he chews, "...you are sleeping alright although I am not here. I should work on my French," Cesare grumps slightly, the irony that it is one of his native tongues not lost on him.

     "It is always challenging, finding a place to live." Alire blushes as he realizes he is still wearing his gardening smock. He pivots in place, but no... he cannot take it off here. He heads past the nook and into the area just before the greenhouse, removing the smock and hanging it up.
     For a moment, he seems mortal and youthful. Not in a suit, not for gardening, but in a pair of khakis (albeit tailored) and over this a long sleeved (but not thick) pull-over. It is enough to hide the scars. "I remember when I was looking first in Poitiers, I had a hard time... I liked this place. We understood one another," he smiles to you as he heads back into the kitchen. He washes his hands, he preps the fruit.
     "Two old stones," he says again. "But... I am sure you will find something soon, tesoro. I like to dream of you on the roofs of the Venetian palazzi, with the clothes hanging, drying in the sun," he closes his eyes for a moment, as if he could see it, feel the sun, smell the drying clothes. He opens those blue eyes a moment later, looking across to you. "Your French is not bad. My jokes are not good," Alire counters, riposte! "I am sleeping okay," he softly assures. "I do not tease now. I miss you... but the sun demands I fade away, hmm? And so far, you have been here to greet me every night. So... when I am... dead to the world, what does it matter?"
     But I do miss you...

     "I just want you to rest," Cesare says in his oldest of voices, the one that worries on every campaign, every moment of every day. The observation should be followed up with 'we get so little of it.' But it is not so now. Now, we have all the time in the world.
     "And it is just a place to put things - I do not know why it is so difficult," Cesare grumbles, fishing around in his pasta. "I should...get someone to find me something." But that would be more money, or so his furrowing brow says.
     But something has him further frustrated. The fork clinks as it repeatedly hits the sides of his dish.

     He notes the sound, the clinking. The sound of a weighted fork made heavy with other matters than a place to put stuff. Alire glances to you as he puts the ingredients into the sorbet mixer and starts the machine. As it goes, he heads to the table.
     Alire pulls out a chair and sits perpendicular to you at the modest French country table. "That is not all. You forget I know your sounds," he mentions quietly, smiling slightly. "In stereo." Both of you, he knows. The you of Then and the you of Now.
     You always turn down his offer of money, so he does not offer again. He does not wish to offend you. "I rest," he assures with a smile. "Do not worry."

     Keeping things to himself is not Cesare's typical way. But he eats his pasta in relative silence, breaking only to see you sit down. "Your sorbet will be good," he smiles.
     There are a few more clinks as Cesare finishes up the pasta in short order. He exhales and sits up, picking up the napkin from his lap. Opening it fully, he covers his mouth and draws the cloth down over his mouth with both hands.
     "Someone I know," Cesare says low, looking down to his lap as he replaces the napkin, "...is accused of something. I am having trouble believing it," he frowns, uncertainty there. "Well, I do not...understand."

     "I am sorry to hear about your friend... " Alire tilts his head. He sits back, his eyes glancing to the machine briefly before returning their attention back to you. "Is it a serious charge? Legal or... personal?" He blushes suddenly. "I do not mean to pry, if I ask something you do not wish to answer... just... do not tell me," a small smile.
     "Here," he murmurs, "I shall listen, not speak so much." He sits back to do just that. He is a Confessioner. It is what he is good at.
     Most of the time...

     "I like to listen to you," Cesare smirks. "It tells me that you are still here and we are still together." He goes on. "It is personal. Well, against a code, I should guess. A witch has done something that will get her into trouble, against her husband. Her..." he waves a hand, "...others...are considering sanctions."

     "It sounds like a drama fit for Venice, but I am sorry that it is happening to someone you know." It sounds very Othello, yes? "What happens in some relationships... well, no... in all relationships... only those who are in it know what is really the matter, what is really happening."
     Alire exhales, a hand lifting and tussling his own hair, short as it is (though he likes to leave the forelocks slightly long these days. It is a vintage 20th century and thoroughly modern 21st century turn all at once. "Is there any truth to the charge?"

     "I do not know," Cesare says, "...and I cannot decide whether I should...do anything. Investigate. I am..." he frowns, "...not sure how much I care. I should care...it is an injustice. But then, part of me..." could not care. Cesare frowns and runs his finger beneath his nose.

     "In such matters, the brain is only so useful," Alire notes, hands folding against his stomach. "What does your gut tell you, tesoro? If you believe it an injustice, and your gut compels you, then... you should speak out for your friend. Listen to your gut."
     He stands after a moment, his hand resting on your shoulder a moment as he passes. He goes to check on the sorbet. "It will be good, I think. You know, if I had to have a job, I think I would be a chef. I am good with knives," he glances to you and smiles. "And I like being in the kitchen. I sound like a wife, but it is true..."

     "But you are the most amazing wife," Cesare explains, "...on a horse, with a sword, with food, in conversation, in politic, and in bed. This is no shame," the knight remarks. He grins and feigns innocence. A sigh follows as the diversion ends. "I do not know what to do, bello. Not yet."

     You make him smile and you make him blush. Yes, yes. Very well. The grin makes his cheeks burn. Still. He, too, requires a diversion. So, for a moment, Alire fumbles around with the sorbet machine. He opens it, checks it, dips a finger in to sample, and then looks back to you.
     His skin is still pink. He fed recently to blush so much...
     "It is ready. And... you will know if it is time to act, hmm? If there is anything I may do for you, you will tell me." He says this all so confidently as he heads to another cabinet, taking down two wine glasses. Wine? He pops a few raspberries into the glass, a little juice on the rim and then he dips it in sugar. Such a production number. The sorbet is as pink as his cheeks were before, as it spoons it in, topping it off with more berries.
     He brings your glass of sorbet to you, spoon in hand, and also for him.
     Setting it before you, Alire dips, taking a moment in that dip to kiss you. "Your dessert...tesoro. I hope you enjoy..."

     The preparation and presentation make him smile brightest of the night. "Bello," he whispers, eagerly staring at his glass. "As sweet and beautiful as you are." Cesare winks as he spoons a bit out, watching you as he does so. Brows wiggle.
     "It'll come to me," he licks and swallows, nodding his head. You're right. It'll be fine.

     "Yes," Alire says smiling, accepting the wink with another pinkening of flesh. "I know you shall." He has nothing but confidence and belief in you. Taking a bit of the sorbet in his own spoon, he touches his glass to your own for a saluting chime.
     "Now, I have come to you, so let's set aside the worries of another city for the night." Yes, he has come to you. He sits beside you now, his own glass taken in hand and he eats ice cream as if he has always known of such things.

Posted by rowan at February 24, 2005 08:00 PM