Although visiting Ventrue 'in the know' flock to Claridge's like starlets flock to the Chateau Marmont, Alire d'Avignon has chosen a quiet boutique hotel in the Financial District over the more obvious lavishness of the Sebastian deRancey's home away from home. He will be able to read the book and write his letters in peace.
     And for Alire, such things are higher on the list of priority than restaurants and proximity to elite shoppes.
     There is a soft exhale as he enters his leased space. No Do Not Disturb placard is needed -- implicit instructions remain at the desk. No one is to be allowed to ring, no maid service before seven at night. His instructions shall not be forgotten -- at least until he departs.
     The hotel keycard is set upon the sitting room table of the well-appointed suite. Though it is modest by Claridge's standards, it is still quite upscale. Simply more for the tastes of traveling businessmen ... or in this case, traveling priest and scholar.
     Alire withdraws a globe from the pocket of his overcoat as he steps further in. My first trip without you since Chinon and Venice, when I was coming to meet you. Flaxen forelocks, long enough to reach the high Swiss alps of his cheekbones, fall forward as Alire looks to it. As if he could, in fact, conjure the one he loves simply by... making a wish.
     How silly you have become, old Templar...

     "Alire..." the voice says before his image can be seen. The globe's contents swirl faintly - another funny trinket from any other shoppe - but then clears in its owner's grasp. The metal feet are curved and light, a wonder that they hold the weight of the solid glass orb. The liquid smoke clears, and Cesare is clearly visible, standing above his large table at the ragtag flat he's reclaimed. Not so much a living space, it's become his academic refuge, his office, his place to hide and think about what's happened to him.
     Looking up, Cesare smiles, his brown hair so long these nights. It falls into his face, causing him to reach up and push it backwards over the crown of his head. He comes upright, tossing a pencil down upon a series of scrolls. "Bello, how is your evening, hmm? Things going well?" Hair falls again and hand pushes it back, not really aware of it.

     In centuries previous, his flaxen hair was long past his shoulders and straight with only the slightest amount of wave in it. Like other Templars, he wore a beard. It was not as long as those others of the company far older. He never liked the beard. It was worth the price of shaving to have it off -- even in the cold. Were he to let his hair simply be as it was then, what a wonder he might seem. Bello, indeed.
     But this is a new age, a different time, one with clean, Roman-inspired styles. Clean-shaven, short-haired. A look for business. And business is most definitely afoot.
     Alire smiles back. His eyes are light and keen with what he feels. "My evening is now mine again. After my letters. But... before I do any more of that, I needed to hear your voice." The smile, though slight, is quite deep. He removes his overcoat, he removes the jacket beneath it, and as your hair falls forward, his hands go to loosen his tie.
     "How is yours, tesoro? You are in Venice..." the old apartment, dear to him as you are. He is glad you kept it. Or managed to get it back. "Things are going well," he confirms. "I have a few more nights in London and then, Paris. I will be going to Venice as well... I think so, yes. There is someone I want to see who likes to go there. Someone... that I miss..."

     There's a nod from Cesare, "That is fine, bello, of course." He smiles. "I am in Venice," he looks around the room and the globe seems to follow his gaze for a moment, an omnipotent camera. "Just...doing things." Putzing in the garden as old men do. A workshop. "Do you need for me to convey you, bello? Or your travel plans require..." his hand waves. Route evident to those who look.

     Putzing in the garden, indeed. Alire grins to watch the vantage change with your own wandering gaze. "The routes are known to those who walk them," he removes the tie, setting it aside. "No one walks without some notice. I should not use your conveyance frivolously."
     And now the shirt. Some nights, he can feel each scar. He feels them mostly now when you are not with him. Some nights, he cannot bear the touch of even the finest broadcloth or linen. "I have the route mapped out. I left a copy for you in my bureau." His voice is soft as he unbuttons the shirt. The mess of scars mar the otherwise fine physique. So many, so many were so deep. Jagged marks, thick and ropey, thin and slight and faded, straight, crooked and crescent-shaped...
     "I do need you," Alire admits with a smile and some coloration. Though, it occurs to him that the globe is only one-way. You cannot see him. He begins to roll out of the shirt. "I feel the separation of our worlds when I go where you may not..."

     Cesare's shoulders roll, and his smile is understanding. "I do not feel separated from you. I do not think I ever can," he thinks a moment, looking up to the ceiling. Time and the soul have seen to it. "Though," he looks ahead again, "I do miss you in bed."
     "Is that what you meant?" Cesare asks disingenuously, turning to lean against the table now.

     "Yes... that is what I mean. And more. I always bear you with me, wherever I go. But ... my thoughts are not tangible. I should like to be able to reach out and touch. To hear you in the other room asking about dinner, when will it be ready, what will it be tonight..."
     He takes the globe with him to the bedroom portion of the suite, setting it upon the nightstand. His gun follows. His cell phone. His wallet. Alire sits on the edge of his bed. "But yes... I miss you in bed, our bed. Any bed," he admits softly. He blushes slightly, not as much as if someone other than you were hearing him speak these things.
     So carnal, Alire. I suppose it was bound to happen after so long a rest...

     "Hmm," Cesare murmurs to himself, finger coming to touch his cheek. A problem, it is true, and all problems need a solution. Cesare's finger begins to move across his bottom lip, giving consideration. "Here," he says softly, closing his eyes, "...I have it."
     Resolution.
     What was in the globe, is no more. A swirl appears, the same as when the globe is disconnected. Instead, the world shimmers not so far away, and Cesare is suddenly present, his finger still brushing his bottom lip. An instant passes and the transparent rip of fabric settles, and Cesare relaxes, coming to a casual stance.
     "Better?" he wonders, now fully seen. He had planned for a simple evening at home, and while dressed in simple slacks and untucked shirt, it's the missing shoes that tell the story of his night.
     Eyes widen to see you. "Starting without me?" he wonders, seeing you shirtless.

     You are so powerful. Sometimes, all I may do is stare at you...
     Such an odd couple are we, Now more than Ever. Once, you were merely more ... more charismatic, braver, you were life in hyperbole, and I just a shadow to you. I could not keep up then. I cannot keep up now.
     Only now, you can materialize out of thin air. You can brush aside Time and Space like drapes hanging between rooms. Such an odd couple we are. A powerful mage and the one that should be his arch-enemy, and he mine own.
     Alire wakes from thoughts as suddenly you are Here, and he sits up on the corner of the bed, the shirt being folded even as you appear. The light plays upon him, and shadows fall in crisscross marks where whips once danced both lightly and deeply.
     Despite the marring evidence, Alire smiles warmly. He rises. His hands come out for you, his arms to wrap you into an enveloping hold. He smells of light cologne, something with a hint of spice to it, a touch of sweetness. Sweetness that he carries in his skin, in his self and in his soul.
     "Much better...and..." now the blush is evident, and it is carried and echoed across those many markings, turning some much darker, some more faint. "... yes... I am... ahead, in need... unclothed..."

     Cesare shakes his head gently, bemused and unbelieving. "Ah, and my studies?" he asks softly, stepping into the open arms and his hand coming to rest at his blonder half's waist. But the academic pretense is lost, and he quiets to look at the space between you. His socked feet.
     "It was only a few nights," Cesare says softly. "You must...we must...learn to deal with such, bello. We have a long time of together...and business." The eyes so on the space rise to meet yours. Not chiding, but concern settles in his gaze. "Are you alright?" he wonders again. There is need and there is - Michele would fear - crutches.

     "I spent so much time alone. I should be... better at this, yes." Alire chides himself. "I do not know where my discipline is going." No, that is a lie, I do know. He closes his eyes and in prayer is quiet. Give me strength is mouthed against your forehead.
     "I call you now, instead of calling God." His eyes go to heaven and he sighs at himself, taking leave of your immediate space to head back to the bed. He exhales, bending and rubbing his forehead, his elbows on his thighs.
     "You don't have to stay," Alire says as he sits up. His eyes look at you. Of course, if you decide to stay, those eyes say, I wouldn't mind.

     "I will always stay," Cesare says softly, following to the bed. "I only wanted you to notice, bello Alire. I want things to...be right between us." In ways that are familiar and unfamiliar. "I do not want...things to be complicated between us." Something said for the modern man's simplicity in his relationship, something learned and appreciated. "I want them to be...happy." Calm. Settled. Normal, dare say.
     "Here," Cesare says softly, crouching down before you comfortably. "Do not look upset, bello," he smiles. "I am with you, you know, whenever we are apart. We are forever together, si?"

     There is a hand that comes upon your own. It clasps there and he adds nothing else to that. It is enough. His hand on your hand and you here with him. "You are wise to remind me. It would be so easy for me to crawl inside your skin, to leave my world behind and ... everything...to give everything away."
     Alire looks to you and the trademark slim smile, the small gesture that, like everything with Alire, goes fathoms deep in meaning. "Thank you...and yes... we are together... as we have always been." He takes a breath that is not needed for life, but needed in this moment.
     Prayerful hands steeple before his mouth and then fall outward as he lies back. "Things are complicated enough," he murmurs. "With me... as I am... and have been. And you," his head tilts downward and his eyes find you there near his knees. "So different. Alive, for starters." He laughs a little at that. Ah me, he sighs.

     Cesare almost blushes, if such a thing is possible now. He shakes his head and looks down between parted knees. "I am alive," he says the words, "...and have been for some time," the more recent of him insists. Cesare smirks and looks up at you. "And you are too," he offers, not sure how you will take it. "You are here, as we have known you. A gentle and discerning knight of the highest quality." Nothing else is as important.

     The scars shift when the muscles of the Templar's torso contract to bring him sitting up. Large hands land lightly on your head, a lover's benediction. "I am... most certainly Present," he does not say alive or even living.
     Bending, this gentle and discerning knight kisses the smirk. Now, he did mention something about need earlier. Perhaps it wasn't simply philosophical or emotional. Hands cradle your face, his finger tips steepling yet again upon your skin. You, his touchstone.
     He has learned he can find the Truth in your lips. He kisses you, and is proved golden...
     "What work do you in Venice?" Alire whispers, kissing again. "Your days there, your nights... tell me... how have they been?" This he asks as his mouth wanders the terrain of your jaw.

     "More than present," Cesare says, pushing himself up from his crouching position. He exhales and slides his hand over his head. Change of topic. "It is good," hand patting where he has left your kiss with a quick kiss of his own. Other business, for sure. "I relax," he explains of his time. The best way to explain it, perhaps. "I just enjoy the flat," he tries again, "...the space. I'll make tea." In short, perhaps little. Learning a space, learning silence. "Meditation sometimes," Cesare lets in. It is true, he has become more closed, yet it is not a brick wall. A gentle retainer. He has no need to bother you; his quiet is about himself.
     Fingers massage his brow, and Cesare decides to take a seat next to you, letting another clearing breath escape him. His eyes fall to his feet again where he wiggles his toes. "Nothing so exciting, bello. Just...my flat. I sleep. I read."

     "You are no longer looking for your gold? You know," he smiles a little, his hand covering yours, fingers interlacing. "...you should talk to your Templar about this search. We were very good in gold for a very long time." Or maybe you remember, says the smile.
     "I am glad your days and your nights are restful," Alire continues. He never speaks of the evenings that you and he do not share. It is for your protection, truly. He keeps that world separate from you. "Have you been working on the villa? I am looking forward to seeing it. You know, sometime in the next few years we should have wine again. I will have acres of plants to tend and study."
     Alire lifts your joined hands, he kisses yours closing his eyes. As he lowers them, he looks down at himself, down to his own toes perhaps. Past the evidence of his lifetime of pain. "I thank you for... relaxing with me tonight. Would you like something from room service?"

     Brows arch as he's asked a direct question. "The villa is good - it needs you," he smiles. "There is so much I can do, and the grounds exist on their own," Cesare smirks, tilting his head to see you. "It is your villa again, bello. I think I have done what I can, until it is time for the vines."
     "Ah, room service," Cesare inhales, looking up again and around, twisting in his skin and clothing, "No, bello, I think I am fine." Joined hands are squeezed. "I am fine," he whispers again, the quiet very present. "I guess..." Cesare's brows open, "...I was a bit into my work. I didn't expect to see you tonight," he grins. His mood explained. "But though I did not, I am glad that I have."

     "You do not have to stay," Alire murmurs. "I am ... better for your visit. But we know... we have things to do, you and I. Tomorrow night, I must to more meetings, a confession, and some time in the midst of all of this I have to do my own meditation. God knows," he smiles that self-effacing smile, "I need the focus."
     As you have reminded...
     His hand lets yours go, his hand grasps your thigh with a gentle squeeze, and with a pat, he rises. "I will be able to schedule more time at the villa. We will see after my trip to Rome what my schedule shall be." Alire takes his folded shirt and puts it in the bureau drawer. He removes a t-shirt, something plain, something that goes under other shirts no doubt, and pulls it on. The scars are hidden once more. He plucks at it for a moment, getting used to the feel of cloth again.
     "Is everything alright with you? You do seem preoccupied. Is it just... being interrupted?"

     "I'm fine, bello," Cesare softly says, letting you walk from him. He stands, then abruptly offers, "Maybe...maybe we should call it a night, if you are done?" A glance to the bed. "I could use a rest," he realizes, turning and pulling the bedsheets down.

     Alire's gaze rests on you. He watches you pull the bedsheets down. "No... something is the matter," he remarks softly. "Please, tesoro, tell me what it is."
     So easily he moves from the role of the libidinous spouse, the contrite lover, to the priest. His tone, so even, it is an open gate through which so many have walked. Talk to me, his face speaks, his body echoes.
     But the slight, ever so slight lift of his blond eyebrow also says that he will not be satisfied with 'nothing' or 'fine'.

     "Nothing is the matter," Cesare murmurs, rising to undress himself. "Truly, bello," he looks over, "I am alright. Just a little..." he thinks, "...off." A laughs follows the slide of his falling shirt. "I really...guess I was into...the books." He hadn't realized how much until now. Cesare shrugs and tries to shake it off, moving his hands to the waist of his pants. "Sorry, Alire," Cesare spins around to you, "I'll eventually make it up to you."

     The gaze remains on you a moment more, and then he nods with a slight smile. "I do know how that is. Trust me. I looked at a book in 1450 and did not look up again until you found me in the cafe." Alire smirks at himself. "But... bello... please... if you wish to return to your reading, I am the last man to not understand."
     Alire waves off any notion of recompense. Shaking his head, he murmurs: "No need... we ...all have our nights. I was having one earlier... remember?" You are getting undressed. Where is the libidinous spouse now that he is needed?

     "No, no," Cesare waves off, crawling into the sheets, "...I'll get over the reading." His eyes close as he settles back against the pillows and draws the sheet to his chest. A rest is exactly what's needed. "Come here, d'Avignon," Cesare says softly, his hand now extending to you.

     Ah, there it is. The desire that I set aside in our conversation, it comes again...
     You extend your hand to him, but before he takes it he removes the undershirt again. In their multitude, those badges of Phillip's Dishonor are before you once more. He faces you with them, as he must, even in the face of what might be your own horror. Even if a part of him fears you may one night say: please, do not disrobe, Alire -- I cannot bear to look at them.
     He puts his faith and his hope in the love that is between you. For in that, he shall find his salvation.
     His hand comes to yours at last, and then the rest of him, half-clothed as he is.

     The sheets are lifted and the bed opened to make way. Cesare smiles, sinking further into the bed's comfort. All he has ever had is love for Alire of d'Avignon, the knight from the cantons he found behind the cloistered bastions of the Templar halls. It was all he offered then, and it is what he has now. "We should read a book," he whispers, making sure you have plenty of space, pillow, and sheets. "I could probably fetch one," he thinks, eyes flicking over to you.
     "Or we could just rest," Cesare murmurs. "Well-deserved," he says even softer, eyes closing as his smile broadens.
     "Well-deserved."

     Beneath the sheets, the pants are removed leaving only the pressed boxers behind. Uncustomarily, and with great resolve, Alire simply tosses them out of bed. He looks at you, then at the pants on the floor. Once more at you, he resists the urge to pick them up, fold them and put them away. He smiles. There, I can be chaotic.
     See?
     I'm not even thinking about them anymore...
     Alire relaxes back, his arms coming around you. "Well-deserved, indeed." We never got to do this before now, this... lying in the same bed all night without having to worry. This is decadence. Absolute. In the quiet of a private room, Alire d'Avignon simply....
     ...holds you...

Posted by rowan at April 14, 2006 12:50 AM