We wait in winter like plant bulbs. We germinate in silence, sipping our warm teas, eating our warm breads, wrapping ourselves in robes taken straight from the dryer, knowing that while we wait the world is turning. Soon, spring will be here and we will spring from the cool earth...
     ...like magic...
     In the winter, there is not much to do but wear warm clothes, keep warm by making love -- a technique that I threw myself into with great enthusiasm -- sitting by the fire reading and talking. The food is heartier, the nights are quieter. And we passed through it, my Giancarlo and I, with a rhythm now growing familiar.
     His days were spent sometimes in Venice, sometimes further. I would hear of these things. My nights this winter were frequently spent half in the house, half out, meeting him sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes finding him in bed. I brought him wine, myself, frequently food, and my apologies.
     But there have been spaces of the winter when I did not have to leave the house at all. When I could simply Be. And I could prepare my writings, issue my bulls, and prepare for the next round of sabbatical journeys that take me from my new role as prince to my primary role as priest.
     When I saw the Miraculously Repairing Villa, it is as if all of the craftsmen and workmen of Provence had visited this summer and autumn to have it ready for me for a new year's gift. My mouth hung slack, but then I smiled to my Giancarlo, my Cesare -- and past him to my Michele -- and noted that like the villa, he has restored me. He has repaired my bricks and mortar. He has made me whole.
     I should like to say that centuries of prayer have made it so. Perhaps it has. But I am sure to give credit where credit is due. And my lover deserves to hear it from me.
     Alire stands in the middle of what was once a cracked and ruined chamber now beautifully restored to be what it was meant to be -- half courtyard garden, half living room, with the fountain of cherubim working once more. He smiles easily, his hair allowed to be a little longer these nights, though still quite professionally trimmed. He gives a pivot, gloves removed.
     Outside, the wind off the sea is quite fierce. Winter is not the best season to see Provence. But the cape is mostly protected from the mad, dervish swirl of it. But you and he do not travel by conventional methods. It will put a damper in swimming, however.

     "I am not sure about having horses still," Giancarlo striding in with a suite of bags behind him. The world shimmers in a oval picture frame around him, the conversation utterly in medias res. Whatever was required from Poitiers and Venice arrive safely, following their lord in humble obsequience.
     He shall forever never be reliant upon anyone.
     Stepping across Space (and Time) comes naturally; one of a million tiny conveniences afforded, if not completely understood. Giancarlo looks over to you, unfazed by the gentleman living room becoming one of stone and fountains. "What?" he wonders, seeing the slack-jawed stare. Immediately, the young magician looks up and around, wondering where the problem might lie. "Oh, I'll show you the stables," he murmurs, "I expanded on them slightly, just in case."
     Here, Giancarlo now spends his time. Landscaping, in a literal sense. Sometimes, he stood out on the plain, his eyes closed as the energy flowed from him to every blade of grass in the land he defined as His Lover's. Stone moved quicker on those days, and trees gained lifeforce missing. And when he was not there, the villa continued on its own, small shards of glass reversed in a wave of Time, forced to remember, much as Giancarlo had been.
     Edelweiss now grows in Provence. Alpine roses of another castle, trapped in his mind, will bloom in a nearby creek, mistakenly transported, local botanists will say.
     Misremembering is still remembrance.

     "I do not think it looked this good when it was new born from the limestone," Alire murmurs, a wave of his gloves to indicate what you have done. He has not seen it in months. Pivoting again, he looks at you and he beams. You could light a candle from his look alone, a cigarette from his smile.
     The insubstantial air becomes our valets. One could get used to this...
     Ungloved, a hand comes out to take your own, and he leans into you and bending downward both takes and leaves a kiss. "Tomorrow...just after three... I want you to wake me up so I can see it in the sun. I think we will have sun tomorrow, the man on the television seems to think it so." Alire chooses to believe his own barometer. He can feel solar changes like a tree. He knows when it will come and when it goes.
     "...Oh," getting back to the conversation, "...the stables. Oui. Expanding them is fine, tesoro. You are not sure now on the horses? I should like to have a pair. Fine and dark. We could go riding along the beach... inland through the vineyards and to the fields of sunflowers. While we are here," Alire softly continues, his arms coming around you, "...we should look into our bird collection, yes? Geese make good sentinels, as you know..."

     His lips rejoin the kiss with a nod, but Giancarlo is distracted. There is a nod on the geese, "But you wished a full aviary, yes? Owl barn," he goes on, turning to see the cases set themselves upon the ground. He'll finish with them later. The rippling circle begins to close once two large saddles arrive, stirrups laced to a fit. They are not new, these saddles, already broken in by previous owners. "I will work on the aviary," Giancarlo says outloud, mostly a mental note to himself. He watches the portal close, and then gives his full attention to his companion.
     "If you are up earlier," Giancarlo goes on, hand still in yours, "...maybe we could see the western woods. I think you will like them." He grins, proud of your delight, and leads inside.
     Who would have known that a young city Venetian would know much of saddles, geese, and landscaping. They are newfound talents, and Giancarlo seems to accept them as easily as his new skill as judging horses and rebuilding fortifications.
     "I think I should leave the decor to you," the villa still empty, save where remnant furniture has been restored in the general. "What do I know of comforts, bello?"

     Alire smiles at that, releasing you from the hold to simply take your hand again. He seldom likes the connection to be broken. Who knew that this stolid and solid Swiss would be so amorous beneath that top layer of cool reserve. "I do know what I like and... though I am sure it is a mark against my soul in the end," he smirks for that, "...I do like my comforts. I will... begin collecting. But there are things here that had been repaired. These shall do for now. When we go to Venice next, I will... go antiquing."
     How he smiles at the term. Not slimly, shyly but fully and grandly, glowing with the joy he knows that such gives him. And to be building a home for the two of you, what could be more enjoyable?
     Apart from you with him, and you and your newfound talent at landscaping.
     "I look forward to seeing what you have been doing," the smile remains, his thumb moves along your hand, pressing and stroking in his need and his love. You are warm. Reassuring. He moves with you, wandering wherever you wander. He is more than happy to do so. "I will buy us an antique bed. Solid. Rococo. In fact," he glances around, "...I think Rococo will be a good general fit. You have made it... lush," his voice quiets instinctually whenever he speaks something of great interest, meaning or passion to him.
     Sky blue eyes rimmed with cobalt, splashed with cobalt in the center blink. He looks to the joined hands and his complexion is splashed with sudden roseate red. Who knew that your redecorating could be an aphrodisiac? He looks from the joined hands to your face. He lets you see it, and then smiling and reddening more he looks away.
     "So... tell me," Alire murmurs, "...how exciting is the new kitchen?" Can I bear it? "Have you stocked it with food and wine already? Are you hungry now? Ah, look at it....feel it...hmm? It is our home. I ... love it." And now he must kiss you at least once. "I love you."

     Giancarlo's smile broadens, and the blush is shared through a twisting smile. Giancarlo rolls his eyes, dismissing the shared moment, even if his hand remains joined. The blush will have resolution later.
     After the kitchen.
     "I..." Giancarlo teases, "...love you so much...you have a marvelous kitchen with which to feed me! Come, bello," Giancarlo pulls, excited. "Copper, hmm? Things of Provence - well," he laughs, "...of what I know." In truth, has not seen anything outside of the villa. "The range hood, the...stove...ah! It is better than anything in my apartment," he smiles. "You will like," Giancarlo walks within, moving beneath the archways and towards the central kitchen off the large living area, "...ah...the island, yes? Several sinks with the wood, yes? The grill...by the stove fires. A few ovens...the stone fire one did come out well, bello," he assures. "And there is a little food, but I did not know what you would wish."

     "I will have to become a better cook," Alire teases in kind, stepping beneath the archways and to the work of art that is his kitchen. "Clearly, amice," he chuckles then and releases your hand only reluctantly, only with the slow pulling of fingers that seem to reconsider leaving you even as they slip away.
     Alire inspects the space, opening cabinets, wood stoves and traditional. The lighting in here would be amazing during the day. He wishes the Day were his once more. Smiling, he closes his eyes. "I can already smell the bread..." Grinning, he opens his eyes and nods.
     "Very grand, very good. I will endeavor to cook worthy dinners for you in it, yes?" Yes? He says this as you do, picking up on your usage of it and repeating it. Such as couples do after time. "This kitchen is like a palace. Look at all the room. You can stay with me here and I won't trip over you. Tomorrow, I will send you shopping with a list, but this..." he nods at what he finds here and there as he inspects the kitchen, "...will get us through the night well enough, I think. There is plenty of cheese, plenty of wine. There is some fruit and pasta. I'm not sure what else we need... but I am sure I will think of something else to buy."
     He who spent lifetimes spending virtually nothing has learned to enjoy spending the fruits of his labor. Sharing it with you. Letting you buy as it pleases you. It pleases him.
     Alire leans against the island, his hand reaching out for you. His fingers motion slightly as if twitching. Need is there again. You have been too long parted already. "My favorite thing? The stone fire stove and grill. We will be making much use of it. Think of the rustic breads and the meats..."
     Please, the blue eyes speak to you. In their blinking, their colors splash in blues again. Alire smiles. His cheeks begin to hold color again, his pale complexion giving him away.
     "The house looks amazing. You have made a home out of it," he whispers. "Out of what was just rubble and cracks and old furniture. And...you have made a lover out of me." His cheeks redden deeply. "Out of what was just..." Alire shrugs. Out of what was just an empty person, waiting to be filled.

     "Bello," Giancarlo says softly, blue eyes speak to him. Something wrong, something felt. His coat rustles as he walks around the island to meet you, hand sliding against pale cheek. Giancarlo's hand massages roughly as he stands flush against you.
     I know, I understand. Who understands us, but us?
     Giancarlo looks down, lifting your hand to his lips. "I have always loved you, Alire," he promises once more. "Your home...is yours again. As it should be. If I have done that, then," Giancarlo smiles, "...I feel that I am satisfied. Complete."

     Who understands us, but us...
     "Merci," he thanks you. For what you say. For where you stand. He is immediately comforted. Alire closes his eyes, he smiles, and the hand you lift to your lips clasps the one that carries it.
     "I do not know what to do without reminding myself to duck the falling stone and gravel," he teases. "I can be here with you...and ...though we will work, I am sure, on the house and the things we put in it, we can relax here. It is ours." And who understands us, but us.
     His thumb strokes your hand and presses, conveying these things he cannot say to you by touch, his own kind of morse code. How grateful he is that you are with him. Now and Again. He has so much emotion. You know your Alire. No matter how quiet he is or may seem, there is much happening in that quiet.
     "Are you ready to show me the rest?" He smiles lightly despite the welling of emotion within. "I go where you go." Blue eyes are glassy bright. "As always."

     "I should show you the rest," Giancarlo smiles, still joined at cheek and hands, "...but it can wait, bello. Maybe we should have wine, sit, and enjoy our family kitchen, si?" No rush, all in good time. Giancarlo lowers his hands, motioning to take your coat. "I have walked here so much bello; like walking in Venezia," he smirks, hands up and open. "I had not remembered it so large, the villa. And the grounds...ah...they are so spectacular, bello. Wait until Spring, and you can see what has been done."

     Alire comes out of his coat and he relinquishes it to you, your hands waiting for it. Beneath the coat is another coat -- he is like one of those Russian dolls, yes? -- but this belonging to a nice wool suit, one suitable for winter. Its colors are alpine -- greys and blues.
     "It is large," Alire smiles. "It was added on century by century, cobbled together. I do not know what I was thinking, having a house so big and all to myself. I guess I wanted to get away from everyone so... I kept adding rooms." He laughs now, but it is true. It was large once precisely because its size was isolating.
     "But now," he offers warmly, "... we will just have more rooms to fill with ...whatever we wish. You can have rooms all to yourself for your books, you can make your own library, arranged as you like. Rooms for experiments, if you wish. And I have gardens in almost every room, I can sit on the sofa yes? And prune my plants," he nods to the garden-living room. "I like it, you being in every room. You being here..." his hands have to find you again, "...working on it while I am sleeping."
     Apparently, this notion of you coming here, spending time here, working here, just simply being here during the day delights him, has great meaning for him. The intensity that had first blossomed on the sofa in Poitiers on the edge of the first kiss is back again. It leaps between you as he places a hand at your waist, his mouth finding your own.
     Alire releases this wave of emotion in that kiss and in the sigh that follows it. A rest of his forehead against your own stills him. He smiles. "I will get the wine," he murmurs. "What is it about kitchens and us?" he suddenly wonders with a teasing grin and a rising blush. Us? What is it with kitchens and him.

     "Something," Giancarlo agrees, the rising temperature affecting him as well. He shakes his head as he folds the coat over a chair. "It is our room," he says softly, removing his own coat. "It will always be that way," he grins, turning around to the wider room and you in it. "That is not so bad, no? You like to cook," two hands moving left, "...and I like to eat," hands moving right. Giancarlo laughs and he strides over to lean upon the island again.
     "My knight is in his element," Giancarlo teases, switching into Italian where food is involved. "I hope you can find what you may need," to make dinner. "Here," he startles, moving to the six-eyed stove. He turns on the vent of the hood, and bends to turn the dial, setting it to light for the first time.

     "I remember," Alire says as he crosses over to the pantries. He removes the bread that is there, and also some fruit. There are nuts too, something savory he thinks. "I could make the best campaign food from the rations. Catch a little rabbit and I could make a sauce that would make soldiers weep."
     There is a congregation of wine bottles. He selects a hearty red, his favorite -- an Italian -- and he hands it to you to open as he begins to search for a knife. "I like to watch you eat," he grins. "And so I like to cook. I like to eat, too. I am amazed I still can. Many cannot. Sometimes, with some things I am not so good," he says in Italian, switching to it easily. In many cases, he prefers it. "I would be upset if I could only eat crumbs of the orange mullet."
     Looking up at you as he wipes the blade, Alire grins. "I would feel like an old man then. As it is, I do not feel a day over three-hundred." A joke! He begins to cut the cheese in portions. There are two kinds of white cheese: a slightly soft havarti and a harder italian cheese. The slicing happens so quickly. Alire bends his head to watch his handiwork.
     "We will whet our appetite with this. Then... I will make pasta," he murmurs.

     Giancarlo delights immediately. "I would stand for hours for your cooking," he confesses. "I can...get a rabbit," Giancarlo offers, brows arching humorously. "It would only take me a little bit," thumb pointing over to the doorway. "Just say the word..."
     Giancarlo laughs, and goes back to the bottle given to him. A soft word is said, and the cork vanishes. Giancarlo hunts a set of glasses. "So...there are things you can and cannot do. Is it the same for others? If...you cannot talk about this, I will understand, bello."

     He is turning, getting down a platter. He had fine dinnerware that he left behind, items from the 17th and 18th Centuries. Fine china. He takes one of these down -- it is no longer chipped! -- and he puts the cheese on it and the cut pear and orange. Next, He slices the bread.
     "In perspective, there is very little I cannot do," he notes. "I cannot go out much in the daylight," he smiles, "...so anything during the day...but there are others who cannot stand even a moment in the light. I am fortunate. Though, even so there are some things I miss. What it must be like to see you by daylight. The colors in your hair. The smell of your skin as you stand in the sunlight."
     There is bread now to go with the fruit and the cheese. Ah and now wine. "We all have limitations," he nods. "This is not specific to me. I do not know the reasons for the differences. Perhaps some of it has to do with our own backgrounds, which are all individual. I do not know that there is an authority on the subject." He smiles at the notion "Some cannot bear to go into a church. Church is a part of my life. There are as many differences, I think, as there are people."
     He sees you hunting for glasses. "There should be some... they may be gold and taint the wine," he winks, "try the old buffet. Well, it used to be the old buffet. Now it is the brand new buffet," he grins.
     Alire finishes with the bread, setting it on the platter that rests on the island. "I like to cook for you. You are my favorite audience, I do not need a restaurant. Here, have some of this." He takes a piece of the rustic bread and the cheese, moving the platter closer to you.
     "Hmm... rabbit tomorrow... after we have a chance to stock up. I will make us a good puff pastry. It will be a delight. We will eat it with a nice spiced wine." And make love, he thinks. He blushes again.
     Alire, what is the matter with you?

     Giancarlo listens and smirks particularly about himself and daylight. "I can arrange a viewing," he offers, following instructions to find the wine glasses. Once he retrieves the glasses, he moves to the island again, pouring generously. "And I'll," he squints to level the wine, bending his knees slightly to lower himself to have a good view, "...take care of the rabbit in the morning."
     The countertop thuds when he sets the now half-empty bottle down. Giancarlo's smile brightens, and he swings around to join you, offering one glass.
     "To you, mi bello amore," Giancarlo's empty hand bringing a quick bit of cheese to his mouth, which is hastily consumed, "...my very reason for being here." Brows arch and lower, as if hinting at the humor in his statement, "Salute," he whispers, closing the space between you as he drinks from his glass.

     He lifts the other glass, tipping it just slightly. It does not take much to bring a chime, you and he stand close together. "A mi tesoro," Alire murmurs, "... raison d'être..." My reason for existing. This is both figurative and quite literal.
     Existing, yes. And now... it is living. Now, it is living.
     Alire smiles into the swallowing of wine, his cobalt eyes upon you with every motion. "Salute," he says at the end of the swallow and he sets the glass aside. It is you he takes up next. "I ... should stop thinking of these limitations," his hands are at your waist, an embrace at each side. "With you... I am understanding that... limitations do not truly exist." Alire looks at you from this close place. From beneath his skin, from the back of his eyes he asks you.
     "Would you... arrange a viewing now... we can have lunch instead of dinner," Alire smiles, and then he kisses you upon your forehead. A Templar's Benediction...

     Your sweetness brings a smile. "Anything for you, bello Alire," Giancarlo declares, exhaling as he steps away from the hold. It shall be an illusion, designed for one. Giancarlo sets his glass upon the counter, and closes his eyes.
     Giancarlo's expression calms, while his hands gently rotate at his side, exposing his palms. Upon his lips there is a tremble, though words are unvoiced until a single breath insists:
     "Illustrere."
     Firm, the word is, evenly said. And upon its completion, the kitchen begins to change colors, passing through the spectrum in rapid succession towards daylight.
     The light appears simultaneously in surrounding rooms, causing hallways to gleam in the brightness of sunshine. A hint of blue accompanies it, as if the sky tints the light. There is no source, no window, no angle. The unnaturalness of it is not hidden - yet it manifests in the spaces nearby, as if someone turned on a switch.
     Giancarlo's eyes open, and a warm smile grows at his mouth. In his eyes, hazel light gains prominence, sending flecks of green to the background. Slightly dilated pupils watch you, unaware of their singular change.
     "I am paler," the magician whispers truthfully. A chestnut color lightens his hair that appears brown on most nights. A slight, unshaven shadow covers his face. "Maybe I need summer," he teases, the differences you must see now dawning upon him. His lips twist nervously, and his long lashes sweep down to cover lowered eyes. He is a little older now, and the tiniest of lines at the corner of his magical eyes reveal it.
     How many years has it been?

     He looks unnatural in the sunlight. He knows this. He looks like a statue that is living, well... animated, with his pale skin and his golden hair that no person really has, never that gold. And his eyes, sky blue with cobalt rims, they seem reflective, like the eyes of an animal. They are so light of hue that light simply reflects back.
     Alire blanches a little, an instinctive defensiveness that is by now quite ancient -- older than some nations, most nations in fact -- but he stills such reactions fractions of instants later. He sees you, first and foremost, a gleaming thing in such illumination, illusion thought it is.
     The smile cannot be contained, not even by his mouth. The warmth of it leaps from him. Look at you. Look at him, Christus. My bello. My lover. My magician. "No, you do not need summer," Alire murmurs, his hand reaches up to touch your face as he continues to grin. "But I think... it is a sad thing that this handsome man must be dulled in the darkness he must live in, to share his time with me. And... I am bad at compliments." He flushes beneath the illumination. In the light you can see that it is not natural either. Supernatural, of course. Magical. In his own way.
     Alire shakes his head slightly, lifting your face even as you lower it it and your gaze. "Your hair," he remarks softly. "It is lighter in the sunlight. You can see more clearly the gold in it." His smile tenders at you. "The Doge's Gold... and here you were...looking all over Venice for it...and I had it all along."

     Giancarlo's head lifts, his expression blush.
     "We will...always live in the darkness, won't we, Alire?"
     Though a compliment is given, the statement rings true.

     Sadness ... regret. They move over his expression in a wash. "Yes...I am afraid so, Giancarlo." And with a vampire's... subconscious understanding that the sun, that daylight is unnatural -- as unnatural as he is -- he begins to recede.
     "Thank you for showing me," he whispers. But now that we have both seen ourselves in the clear light, what shall evening have to offer us. Foolish mistake, Alire. Foolish, and you know better, prince.
     Alire turns to take up his wine glass. "I am sorry, Giancarlo. I know... it is not fair to you. And... I feel guilty that you have given up so much. Everything," he softly counters himself. "You ... have moved to another country, you... sleep with a man who is dead, you endanger yourself in the process and... as your reward for all of this, you get to hide out in the darkness, never able to take summer vacations, to...do much public at all."
     Alire laughs a sob. "Who wouldn't want this kind of life, tesoro?" Who wouldn't? Who would? Alire sighs, looking into his glass of wine. "I... am sorry, Gian... I truly am, but... I am afraid the evening, and darkness... are all that I can ever offer you."

     "Don't," Giancarlo starts, grabbing your wrist. No wine, no withdrawing. He steps forward, refusing to allow a space between you. "Don't mistake my realization, bello, for despair. I," he leans in, "I choose this. All of it. Fair...has never been anything for us," he reminds, having believed and said it before, "...I never worry about that. Do not feel anything but to love us and to know that we deserve to be together, Alire, however that means for us.
     "I will take you - me - however it comes, bello. However it will be. I stand before you now...again...and know that we are right. We are victorious in this," Giancarlo finally breathes, his nose at your cheek. He glances down to where he holds your wrist, his grip loosening only to bring your hand to his mouth.
     "I want this life, with you. And the ones I have missed, bello. I am happy," Giancarlo says softly, "...so happy," he confesses, his lips moved to your jawline. His breath is warm, so immediate.

     "How could you not despair," the vampire whispers, "...when I have. I am afraid, Gian... that you will wake up one night and it will be too much. Even with our love, even with all that we have lived and suffered through..." Alire exhales, he closes his eyes as you kiss him.
     He is silent for several moments. Silent, the Stone of Chinon. He feels your breath, your nearness, he listens to the beating of your own heart. These things calm him. They are a comfort to him.
     His hand clasps your own, feeling the echo of your mouth there. "It is ... a hard thing, this choice of yours. I do not feel worthy of it. You are giving up too much. Just to be with me. Just as you have always done. You are the one who ends up suffering, Gian. Then. Now. It was you who suffered the most."
     You were on the stake, you were on fire, you received harsher torment, you lingered out there in limbo waiting, waiting, waiting. And now you find me again, and what have I to offer you? Darkness. Death.
     "I... are you sure, bello, that you are happy? That... you can be happy with such a life?"

     "It was...mercifully short, bello. And I recall less and less, though, I admit," Giancarlo explains, from multiple vantages, '...it was so much to remember." In this life. "But," eyes look to yours, still bright and wide from the magic earlier, "...Alire d'Avignon is worth every moment. I knew it then...to know it now."
     "You, amore, have suffered for centuries. Not my barely-remembered time. You still are," the last syllable at your ear. "If it takes centuries for me to replace what you have felt and known, then...I am more than willing to do it. Even if I must suffer," Giancarlo grins, "...your dry jokes, your bad memory, and your bed."
     "I know, I know," Giancarlo releases, his hands going to the air in pained submission, "...I will continue to suffer, but I am committed to it."

     I listened to it then. I could pick out your cries from all the others. I knew the crack of your voice. I listened as you yelled enough for both of us. And our tormentors tore my flesh in wonder -- what was in this large knight that he did not cry out like the others. But hearing you... I could not bear to open my mouth.
     "I do not want you to suffer," Alire softly notes. "Even when you get a headache, it troubles me. I ... do not like the thought of you in pain. And ... that I would be the cause of any of it..." He does not finish that thought, Alire d'Avignon. Despite himself, he blushes, he even laughs at your joke, even though he does not want to.
     "Am I so bad a lover that you suffer me there too?" He reaches up, wiping his eyes free of the burn. He looks to you, attempting to cheer. It comes slowly. He is slow to change. But then, when one is dead it is tough to evolve.
     Alire's face is ruddied, flushed where stirred blood has risen to the surface. Swiss-born, he is splotchy when blushing. It is not so lovely a thing as an Italian blushing, to be sure. Especially under the glare of pretending sunlight. "I think... I have had enough sunlight for a while," Alire whispers. "Do you mind?"

     Giancarlo's brows arch, the thinner edges dropping low. No, he did not mean to elicit this response. "I am not suffering. And you...are a wonderful," he nuzzles, "...marvel. I didn't complain then, and I am not one to complain now," he grins, hands at knightly waist.
     "Resecere," Giancarlo whispers as he kisses crimson cheek. The blood does not bother him, even though he knows from where it comes. He leaves two soft kisses as the sunlight leaves the kitchen in its light incandescent. In the darker light, Giancarlo's eyes return to normal. Laughter follows, and Giancarlo's gaze falls to the two glasses on the counter.
     "I'm not so hungry," Giancarlo admits. "Would you join me in a walk?" he offers, arm extending to you.

     There is relief with the recession of light. The glare is off of him and he can take comfort in the dim hue provided by electric light. How used to it he has become, this man-made illumination. "I would love to walk. Do you want to go down to the beach?"
     Taking in a sharp inhale, Alire seems to wipe away the effects of this unexpected tangent. Unexpected for this night, but these things...they exist within you both. And for him, so little ever said, it is bound to bubble to the surface. From time to time.
     Alire takes a swallow of wine and sets the glass aside. Maybe you and he will finish the bottle after your walk, maybe in blankets by the stone fireplace in the bedroom. Fire... always makes the scars come out of hiding. Maybe the bed would be a better idea.
     Alire comes beside you, and he reaches for your hand. "It may be chilly. Do you want a jacket...?"

     "No, just you," Giancarlo smiles, "...my Frenchman who watched me in our globe." He grins in the teasing and leads towards the archway that opens to the outdoor courtyard. "The beach then," he agrees, turning his face upwards to see the moon above.

     "I still have it, the globe," Alire murmurs. Arm in arm looped, Alire puts his hands in his trouser pockets. He looks to you and begins to smile. "But then... you know me... I don't throw anything away." He blushes, the smile deepening. "I have my armor... everything. I have closets upstairs that are so full of boxes..."
     He laughs suddenly, quietly, as he divulges a great secret. Alire is so organized -- everything in its place -- and yet he has secret closets full of packrat nests, chaotic, unorganized, full. "But the globe... it is in my special drawer. With my boxers..."
     Alire follows your gaze to the moon. It has watched us all these years. It has watched us love, it has watched us war, it has seen us suffer, it has seen us wandering in solitude until we, under it, were reunited. We have always been nighttime creatures, you and I. Under the cover of night and our secrets, for centuries.

     "Oh, with your boxers," Giancarlo seems proud. He walks another few steps before adding, "Maybe...we should...look at the closets." A shrug follows with the press of his lips together. Giancarlo walks away from the villa, locked arm in arm.
     "Whatever you wish, Alire," Giancarlo says softly, "...now...whatever it is you wish..."

Posted by rowan at February 19, 2006 08:21 PM