Remnants...
     The bones of the mullet, turned golden-red with saffron and orange that once baked into its flesh, are surrounded by the remains of the orange uneaten. The plates still hold the echo of smiles reflected. There is something of the last chime of glasses in the air. The last sound of laughter...
     The dining room -- quite modest, seldom used it appeared -- is empty now...
     There are two new glasses upon the small table at the sofa's edge, a new bottle of after dinner drink. A bottle of liqueur, a finish of plum. The label appears to be hand-drawn, hand-written with a flowing Romanesque hand. Chateau du Chinon, Boisson des Rois.
     When it is poured, there are pieces of plum in it, fermented, potent, and the liquid is violet-dark. Only a quarter of the glass is filled, and then it is handed to you, even as Alire settles upon the sofa now beside you. "You will like this..." he whispers, as if it is a conspiracy between you both.
     Orange, saffron and plum are everywhere. These, magician, the elements that lay between you. And as he settles, Alire takes up a significant portion of this small sofa. You, both... tall men. It can barely accommodate you both at once...

     "Oh?" Cesare grins, taking the glass from you, unafraid to brush your fingers with his own. He grins as you settle not so far away, turning in his seat to watch you. "If I didn't say it before," he grins, filled with wine now, "...that was the best dinner I have had in forever, Alire." Smiles come easily and constantly, flecked with open stares. "I can't believe it," Cesare gushes, then hides behind his upturned glass. "Ah, salut," again. And again. He tips his glass to you, free hand upon his stomach.
     "Maybe I should think of what to make for you," he murmurs, having another swallow of wine and you. "But look -- I will clean the kitchen since you did so much today, hmm? That will be payment," Cesare chuckles. "And then I will think of what I can do in exchange..."

     There is not the hesitation of earlier this evening, when intimacy was tempted...tested...attempted...tried. Such intimacy came in the kitchen with its revelations, and over dinner with its conversations and laughter. There is no attempt to miss your fingers, no need to give you space. There are easy smiles now, perhaps made somewhat easier by the lubrication of alcohol -- though he is not affected, as you. And the warmth, the buzz that exists between you. And his eyes do not leave you. "Grazie," he says, he smiles, he flushes a half-moment. "I am glad you liked it," a murmur, a lift of his glass. "Salut," he says again, and again. A swallow of the plum liqueur and then, with a lean, he sets his glass aside. Perhaps I should have warned you how potent Angevin liqueur can be. One glass. Just the one. If you were to drink to the bottom of the bottle you would see Jesus, I am told.
     He does not deny your offer to clean, not because he wants to put you to work, or would not do it himself, but because it is impossible to turn down the wish of a treasured guest. "You have already done so much," simply by sitting on my sofa, looking at me that way, ".. but if it would please you, very well, I will let you clean. Tomorrow," and while I am sleeping, you will have time to do it. Hands are free now. One elbow is propped up on the back of the sofa, nearest you. His other reaches forward, unthinking, unconsciously and therefore naturally, to your leg. Fingers curl forward and back just slightly. It has been so long, Alire...

     He grinned and drank. And smiled. And then you touched him. Cesare did not start at the touch, but his smile waned for an instant into something more somber. But then the light returned, and his hand folded over yours. "Tomorrow," he offered. "I'll take care of it." Not tonight. Tonight, I want to spend these hours with you.
     "I am still trying to get used to your schedule." No, wait. That sounds as if I am staying. "I mean, I do not know when you must work, or..." hand waves on top of your own. Whatever it is that happens. He laughs nervously, "I feel like I am intruding upon your life," he grins and shrugs, hoping you'll tell him what you want.
     Maybe it should come up now. "I can...go to a museum," he explains, "...during the day. Be the tourist that I am," Cesare smirks, leaning in towards you. "There are plenty of things to see in the region. Maybe I should do my sightseeing," he nods. "And then, maybe we can have a dinner, if you have time? I can rent a bike..."

     Yes, this is the reality of it. You must occupy yourself while I have my running conversation with Death. We play chess, He and I, just like the movie The Seventh Seal. We have been at an impasse for quite some time, however.
     "That would be good, you should get out during the day. I will be tied up until... four or so in the afternoon. I have to keep my appointments. My evenings though... those are yours. And you are not intruding," he finishes softly, seriously. And then the smile goes slender, no less warm even though it is slight. "My schedule is strange," admittedly. "...but you are not imposing upon it. I have my work, but," he gets lost for a moment, his hand and your hand starting to slowly tangle. I think the liqueur is going to my head. "Poitiers has many things to see," Alire continues in a murmur, his head tilting. "The old square and castle are interesting." Not as interesting as you and as this, but maybe it will do during the sunlight hours. I am not so interesting when the sun is out. I mostly just lay around.
     I wish I could say all of this to you. I wish there was not This Unsaid Thing that will always be between us, Giancarlo. But I will take this, take you for what it is and for who you are. I cannot expect more than what there should be.
     The smile grows as you lean in toward him, and ice-blue eyes lift and lower between your lips and your eyes. "You are going to cook for me, or would you like to go out?" his voice has lowered to a whisper. And you can see he is not thinking of dinner...

     A smile rises with the twining fingers. "I'll cook, hmm? Tomorrow," he reassures. "And si, I will not be in your way. I will...see things, so that I can say that I saw then when I..." go home. This is not your home. Yours is elseplace. And you have just dropped into someone's life, unannounced and uninvited. "When I go," he smiles softer, knowing that all good things must come to an end. If that is how you wish it.
     "So, I will rent a bicycle, I will see a few things, and then I will go to a market and get things for dinner. Then," he cheers up a little, "...when you are finished with your appointments, Giancarlo will make you a small meal, like my mother would make." If that is alright with you.

     I do not want to think about that, "...but that is not tonight," I say when you speak of leaving, and I grin. Nodding, I lift my hand-your hand, I do not even think about it, I pull it to my mouth. I close my eyes. I kiss you there and then the hand is lowered again. "I will look forward to that tomorrow," I say, I smile, I speak the truth. "Something your mother would make, you flatter me, Giancarlo," perhaps you think he is kidding, but he is serious. "I am glad I pulled out the stops tonight and cooked my best meal in that case. I did not know I would be taking on an Italian mother when I made this."
     Fingers, strong fingers curl. You can feel the echo of calluses again... just echoes. Time has softened them. And his hand is warm -- he has been cooking, he has been holding your own hand -- strong. And after speaking of the cooking contest, he is quiet. He stares at you.
     And then his eyes begin to wander. Sitting close as he is...
     "I wish I could take off and be with you during the day," he whispers. "But I will make it up to you... at night..." Can you imagine how?

     Ah, Alire. You push the issue. Or is that my imagination?
     The young man across from you stares for another moment, before picking up your hand and returning the kiss. His eyes close and his mouth parts against your skin. There. He's wanted to do that all night.
     "You have things to do," Cesare smirks, "...and I should act like a visitor. Not as..." he grins knowing the can he's opening here, "...someone who stays here. But maybe, in another day," not tomorrow, "...we could go to a place that you like? A museum or something to see?" No mentions of when he has to go, or should go out of politeness.
     Fingers roll against your skin. "Your hands are soft, but..." a pad here, "...you have spent time with horses? Your family are horsemen?"

     Does he push the issue? He does not know. He has not had issues to push in a long time. What does it even feel like? What would it feel like to feel you against my skin? Would my skin even recognize the feeling? I do not even remember the last time. I remember only the last time I felt the desire to feel it -- at any cost...
     That is the feeling, when your mouth parts at my skin, a kiss placed to the joined hands. I close my eyes again. "Yes, it has been ... a few years... but... in my youth," centuries ago, "...I was an equestrian...of a fashion. It was a ...family tradition." Sort of. A finger moves, lifting from the others, from your touch, to brush against your mouth. Mouth that he now stares at. Mouth that he lusts after. It is lust. Sudden. Deep. "When you do not use them thus, the hands soften. As does anything that is not used after a time," he blushes at that. A sudden rise of red at his cheeks, but he doesn't care. His hand moves down, pulling yours with it, and he leans in, mouth brushing at your mouth. A whisper of a kiss, more a stroke, a teasing feel...

     Cesare tastes as you have made him. Plum wine and scents of your own devising. A whisper of a kiss stands insufficient, and your guest meets your lean while closing his mouth around yours.
     I have come this far. I have not been hesitant on other occasions. But this is one that I want for a long while.
     One kiss ends, another begins. Shoulders rustle as he moves, the collar of his shirt tugging open, caught between him and sofa. He should like to finish the wine and even have more, but maybe that will come later.
     An ending. A beginning. Another ending. And the blossom of more kisses.

     You know a little something of alchemy. You are aware of elements, combinations. Saffron numbed the mouth when you ate the fish, such a sensation, and it is there again as the kiss is born. As it grows. But within it, behind it, is a spark of something citrus, backed by something far deeper -- like the taste of night and day. Orange and plum. Individually, each is sweet, pungent. Together, they concoct a heady, southern sensuality. Heated mouths, numbed, starting to tangle. A start. An end. A start anew. And it builds between you.
     It is halted a moment, just a moment, as his teeth press at your lower lip, his mouth trailing to your chin, before wandering back to your mouth. Suckling, the kiss. And there is a breath of your name there.
     Fingers meet dark hair, his other hand lifting to skim your face. As if he thought the kiss might make you disappear, like a phantom fable. Alire's eyes close, his face showing the intensity of this in soft lines at the corners of his eyes. Are your eyes open? Do you see how this has him? Do you see the ache? There is fervor to it. It has been so long since he has felt this, it does not take long for it deepen, widen. Quicken.
     And then Alire remembers... you need to breathe...
     His has already quickened. As he parts the kiss a moment, mouth again moving to your chin, he begins to roll out of his jacket.

     Cesare's first breath is indeed a gasp. So quickly does time pass. Teeth curl over his lip where you pulled, and he looks up as you remove the jacket. For the first time, he allows his eyes to leave you, long enough to turn for a quick swallow of his wine. It shall be the last for a while, this he knows. The sweet drink is abandoned on the table.
     When he returns to attend to you, he comes with visible anticipation. Fingers reach out to pull at jacket cuffs, as if to help. Anything to help you.
     A blush has overcome him in the last minutes, a rush of color at the point where his collarbones would cross upwards to his throat. Your visitor pulls at his own shirt, as if feeling the rising heat and needing to relieve it. A button is undone, then a second -- perhaps that will bring some relief.
     But soon, he stills. Fingers tug at yours, as if to say, 'come here,' and he begins to lean back against the arm of the parlor's sofa.

     The sofa is not overly large -- somehow it manages. It remains to be seen how long that shall last. Perhaps the floor would be better. Or a bed. But that would mean pausing. That would mean thinking. Planning. And that is not what is happening. The jacket is shrugged off, your fingers' tugging, the last straw. A large arm shakes, the jacket falls to the floor. A thud -- the phone is in the inside pocket. It goes too.
     He comes in honeyed colors and in ivory, both heavy and light as he comes with you. You settle into the corner of the sofa, nestled against its arm, and now half hovering over you, one hand slides against the surface of the sofa and against your side. His other, tugged by you, brushes against your face, your skin. A tilt of his head and blonde hair drapes forwrd, his eyes trailing down your neck.
     He presses against you. You can feel his weight. Beneath the cloth, you can feel his build. He, like you, is in shape. Formed by an active life, it seems. Strong. And every muscle on edge.

     Should it be so instinctive for him to offer his throat? Perhaps it is only natural -- it is the source of heat, a place for kissing, for feeling close to someone. Following the thud of your jacket comes not one padded fall, but another. Shoes scattered upon your jacket, for one of Cesare's feet comes flat upon the sofa's cushions, between you and its back.
     It seems like ages ago, Prague does. Two other people, crossing paths unwittingly. This time, it is with malice of forethought that we come together. Cesare smiles as you look at him, his head tilting back, leaving exposed the line from ear to his chest where the buttons were released. His hands gradually envelop you, from forearms, to shoulders, to back. Once enfolded, there is no place for either of you to go.

     Prague. I was sitting in a church. I was paying my respects. I was getting dinner. And I was pondering my place in the world. Solitary as I have been. I had just seen Edward Meurelle, a friend -- I consider him a friend, even though sometimes decades intervene. But when one has seeming millennia, what is ten years between old friends? It was cold, raining -- when is Prague not? -- and there I was, letters to William in hand, at my side. And then you came in. Looking for a friend.
     You have found him, Giancarlo...
     And I have found him, Giancarlo...
     His mouth trails against your throat, feeling the pulse. Teasing, then his mouth suckles at the skin there. Pulling, holding, releasing. Skin is reddened, plucked at with his teeth -- but there is no blood that is spilled. Just you, tasted.
     And he settled in your hold as you surround him, pressing against you, his body clasping. You feel him. His excitement is obvious. How you feel beneath me. How long it has been since anyone has been here, and how natural it is. How right it is. I whisper this to you in Italian, do you hear me? My voice sounds far away, Giancarlo...
     Like I'm calling you from a distance. Like I have been shouting out for you...
     His hips curl into you, you are trapped, he is held. His mouth wanders over your throat, pulling, suckling, claiming territory as it goes. You may be marked tomorrow...

     Your Italian is beautiful. Cesare grins with it, turning his face into yours. He seeks not a kiss, but to simply be near you like this, and to know that you are real. No longer a dream of the last few weeks. "I saw you in my dreams," his native tongue purrs. "It seems like I was passing time since we met." He pauses, kissing your ear and letting his hands pull at your shirt and vest.
     "Are you alright?" Cesare wonders, hand at the nape of your neck. Your intensity is palpable. And you have said it has been a long time. His fingers curve over your ear, and for an instant, he worries. Maybe this is too fast for you?

     "Did you..." he asks, he smiles. The smile starts at his mouth, but truly lives in his eyes. Ice-blue, keen. And there is a softening... no, that is not right... there is a tempering that follows the touch upon his ear. A touch that brings him to the Current, snapping him out of the culmination of his life, his wanting, and you beneath him. "Sono... piu buono. Guardare dove sono," he murmurs. His eyes and his voice drift. His voice falling to a hush. His eyes falling to your hands on his shirt.
     But the intensity he cannot help. It has been so long, too long, a lifetime it seems since he was on his own. He doesn't remember the face of his last lover. Was it someone grabbed a century ago? Pushed to desperation, he would reach out into darkness, finding a body. But also ... No One.
     You are not a No One. You... he wants. A finger reaches up, brushing against your mouth, still blushed and warmed. He does not have anything clever to say, only the truth of want in his eyes. "I am alright," he finally whispers, and he finally smiles. And then, a breath...
     "Migliorare quando la camicia e andata..."

     He'd laugh, but it may topple the delicately placed pair of you. Cesare grins and looks up at the ceiling, as if seeing through floors to the sky. You caught him in that one, Alire. Unexpectedly.
     "Your wish is my command," he murmurs. Eyes gaze upon you though his fingers pull the hem of the shirt from its tuck. "What were you going to ask?" he wonders gently, not pressing.

     "You dreamed of me," his eyes watch your hands. His body moves unconsciously, slightly. Slacks showing the strain. I should have asked you to go lower. Alire quite nearly trembles as your fingers brush against him in the untucking. "...what did you dream..." Tell me, his eyes say as they glance to yours, leaving your hands only for a moment. Did you dream this? Did you dream that you would stay?
     Alire closes his eyes, head tipping back. And he breathes, "Ora sto sognando...quello e che cosa siete..." His Italian is flawless, whispered. Even almost winced it comes with such emotion. He bends his head, looking back down at you. "Devo sognarlo per uno come voi per venire..."

     What is it like to love me... I don't remember. Isn't that sad? That I don't remember the only part of life that makes any difference at all. I don't remember...
     ...What would you say, Old Lover, about that? If you could hear me... what would you say of your Alire? After so long...
     "It is not comfortable, is it," he heard your complaint and he smiles at it. And as we are talking again, and as you have slowed me, we may as well be comfortable. There is a glance from you to the hall as you speak -- just a momentary glance. Turning back, when you speak of love. What would it be like to love me. "Not silly, no," Alire echoes after a moment. Ice-blue eyes look at you a long while. "I do not know the answers to that," he speaks it so plainly. "Perhaps... perhaps you will stay long enough to answer all of those things. And when you have the answers," what will you do. Alire smiles a little. "You will know, I think, what it is like to love me. Stay... to figure them out," and when you know them, tell me.
     Alire narrows his eyes then, a touch to your face and he tenders the press on you he has been making, parting but slowly. Am I ... "...saying too much?" And then he smiles. "Am I... I do not know what else to do..." but to hand over everything to the hands that ask to hold, perhaps, only a little at a time. He stills himself and his eyes soften. "Come upstairs with me," he whispers. "Come to my room. Stay with me."

     Not that he ever planned to resist you, that much is evident. But perhaps he had come to ask you what you ask of him. Cesare's smile winnows away to a peaceful nod and push from the sofa. No, he had not expected you to accept a stranger so easily. He didn't think there would be words of staying, of possibly love. In truth, he did not know what to expect. And now, at your request, Cesare has become quiet.
     The sofa pains loudly as he pushes himself up to sitting. A dance it is, to untangle from such a small space. But when you move, so does he, swinging so that his bare feet rest upon the floor and then push him to standing.
     His hand curls around one of yours again, and he waits for your lead upstairs to a place he does not know.

     None of the quick tours of the house have included the third floor. Your room is on the second floor. You have heard him creak above you at night. He stays up late. He is gone by the time you wake...
     As you rise, as you and he are standing, as your hands tangle, working out intimacy that the rest of your bodies will work to imitate later, he is at your mouth again. A pulling kiss that tugs. Alire closes his eyes, there is a breath there. A sigh exhaled. Going up two floors will be excrutiating. I wish that I could lift you and have us be there, a blink of an eye is all it would take.
     But then you would be scared. And so much for answering the questions...
     Pulling back, he takes you by the still joined hand and leaves the den, liqueur of Chinon left behind. The plum trees grow over where a dungeon once stood. The last resting place of Templars turned into an orchard. They are dark violet, those plums, deepened by what the land knows. And what no one speaks.
     He is not surprised that he has taken to you so quickly. He has been waiting for someone quiet enough to understand, brave enough to make the attempt, solitary enough to know the ways. Someone who would know without him having to say. To come, without him having to ask. For Alire asks for himself... nothing. And had he not chanced upon you in a church, an old Templar fortification, perhaps you too would not have noticed him. He set down his shield that night. Tonight, he lays himself bare.
     The third floor hall is softly lit. If you were to take note of the architecture you might notice a slight cross-like feel. At the end of the hallway there is a set of double doors. One-third of the way down, there are two other single doorways, left and right.
     It is to the double set of doors he leads you, his fingers clasping, his eyes on you -- as they have been most of the way. The oaken doors are Meditterannean. Older than the rest of the house. Far older.

     A man who asks himself nothing. A man who delves into ancient secrets. There is very little you should ever need to tell him, Alire. Either he cares not, or he will find out. Such is the way of the scholastic. Moreso the way of the magician. And maybe one day, he should tell you of that. Or, like your own past for him, it does not matter.
     Eyes lift and look around to the third floor. Everything here reminds him of you. Colors, tapestries, details, and shapes. The house has acquiesced and taken on your charms. Giancarlo walks with socked feet, his steps silent in the nave of the third floor. And when you reach the doors and stop, he looks past you to memorize this path, to know how to return.
     Both of his hands close around yours, bringing all four together. His face disappears for an instant as he watches your fingers and his. Is there anything else to say? Should I say something, or do you wish to tell me something else? When his face mirrors yours again, Giancarlo smiles, as if having his answer. I am supposed to be here. And for some reason, we are supposed to be together. Tomorrow, I will begin to seek out why.
     "It's not a dream," Cesare grins, letting the shirt fall open. You'll have to free your arms for the rest. "That much I know," he mock-complains about his present position. His smile returns, punctuated by the dimple in his cheek, the bit of shadow on his skin. The small lines at the corners of his brown eyes.
     "After...we were in Prague, I wondered much about you. What you did," fingers caress within the folds of the shirt, "...how you spent your time. How did you come to be so quiet," he chuckles. "How did you learn to sing. I...should have asked you directly then. I wondered," his eyes look to your chest, "...what it would be like to see you, to do what you did. What it would be like to love you." Cesare smirks, "Not to make love to you, but..." he winces, realizing he's not doing this well, "...well, I wondered that too..." confession there with a wicked grin, "...but what it meant to love you. And be loved by you. Silly, no?" Cesare sighs, "My mother had always said that I talked too much. Actually, my father did too..."

     Fingers are lifted as you smile, and as you smile, so does he against your fingers. A bow of his head, a kiss placed. He does not remember the last time he smiled so much. Perhaps it was in the 14th Century. There was one place he could go to smile. It was a place hidden in the snow, a place no one else would go and few ever ventured. Maybe it was then, that long ago. He doesn't know, and memories are strange...
     The door is opened as one of his hands is free again, and you are welcomed into a large room that is actually two -- a bedroom separated from the other suite by an open arch. But you can see the bed there, dark wood, lots of coverings, secreted as if in an alcove. The room is not ostentatious. The furnishings are subtle, subtle touches. A chest at the foot of the bed. In the outer room, or sitting room, there is another sofa, a rug upon wooden floors, a couple of chairs -- these are strangely modern. The walls in the sitting room are a rich golden. The walls in the bedroom are painted a rust red. The decorations are minimal -- perhaps you do not even notice them -- but you will notice the books. They are all old.
     Do old books sing to old magicians?
     His large hand is to your waist, drawing you in. His other hand still on the door, as if bracing. The kiss that follows is sweet, lingering. Wanting. Not wondering why. Not questioning. Alire closes his eyes, then closes the door behind you. Now, both of his hands are free. And both of them find you.

     Your visitor was about to speak of the glories of your room -- but your hands and the kiss end all hopes of that. Giancarlo returns the favor, arms resting at your shoulders. Smiles are in place of language; the words are there at his lips, but he has chosen wisdom and tries to remain as subdued as you.
     With you both now so easily accessible, Giancarlo moves backwards, towards the bed. He can now push at the shirt you were wearing, twinning its fall with the opened vest. Heavy that pair, and they sound where your feet have passed. Now, he may look as he wishes, desirous as much as curious. How your hair is cut. How your elegant neck pours into broad shoulders. How fine and rough hands lead to strong arms -- more formed than he had imagined.
     "Your room," he breathes between kisses, heat at his lips, "...it's lovely." But he has said that about everything within your house. Yet it means more. Thank you for accepting me without question. For believing my finding you was honest. For letting me inside...

     It is still hard to believe. He shares that with you, grinning as you speak his name and speak his own thoughts. I cannot believe I am here. And it is real...and more wonderful than I dreamed.
     Exploration brings his fingers down your arms. A horseman? A communications expert? No, Alire, you are more than that. I just know it. No one is formed like, save through hard labor. Not even a gymnasium brings this sort of definition. It is not the body of a pampered athlete, but the body of a...
     ...and Cesare's hand comes to his head, pressing at his brow. He grunts softly, letting his lips leave yours for a quick instant. An ache. He shakes it off, falling back into the kiss quickly.
     A breath is snatched before he closes his mouth with yours, a gasp of quick air. It is a springboard back into the previous moment, a leap ahead. A soft groan escapes him as he continues to walk backwards, but when he finally reaches the bed, the jolt of stopping causes him to widen his eyes. There already.

     No one is formed like this who was not forged in blood, formed of the raw elements of this world. In her mud. In her wars. His body speaks of lean winters, followed by heady summers. Work and toil. Weight carried around as skin, each movement in it carving and shaping him. The scars that cover him here... there...
     You pause for air, he lets you. Appellations coming in stolen breaths. Beautiful Giancarlo, he calls you now. There is an ache in his voice, a need that is becoming expressed against your neck as his head bends. His mouth capturing, nipping, marking, claiming. Suckled and tasted. His hands pull at your shirt. You feel him against you, risen. It has been so long. You will have to temper him or it will be over too soon...
     So may the assumption be...
     His mouth wanders back to your chin, your mouth, as his hands push open and aside your shirt, rolling it over your shoulders until it falls against your arms, his hands quickening there to pull it off altogether. And for the first time he may feel the warmth of your skin directly, chest to chest. There is a holding of his breath quite suddenly and the kiss breaks as he takes a moment to look at you. More than a moment. His fingers, free of the shirt now fallen to the bed, move up your stomach. He goes from warrior's fervor to scholar's discovery yet again.

     A finger touches one of the scars borne upon your skin. There is a question at Cesare's mouth, but only his eyes speak of it. Another finger lightly brushes a second mark. Answer if you like, Alire, but no need. He grins and kisses your lips again, as if to say 'it's alright.' We can speak of it later. They do not upset him, for they are healed, but eyes dart left and right as suddenly the flurry of marks upon you becomes visible to him. Something happened, a long time ago. But if there are any real scars from it, any ache, it is not in these at the skin.
     But enough of that, his fingers say. Instead, they choose to drizzle to waist, deciding instead to finish what they have started.
     A sense of committment drives Cesare's hands onward. A clasp and a zipper prove no obstacle. Here, in this sacristy of sorts, the last of the first revelations begins. Cesare's fingers slow as he looks down between you, his forehead almost at your own. The rest of a soldier's -- ah, that's it -- becomes evident. The tapering waist. Stomach giving way to groin. And thighs even stronger than the arms above. It is much like peeling back petals to find the heart of a flower, and in his fingers, Cesare delicately holds open the folds, pushing them down and away.

     I have never spoken of it. I did not speak when it was done to me. I did not speak when it was over. I had nothing to say. I do not know what to say of them now. If you ask... of course you will ask... what can I say? There is no modern accident, no modern fire, nothing that will explain them but the Truth that I have never uttered. They said I was the one who could not be broken. It is no use to cut out his tongue, God... has done it already. Mute. He must be mute to have withstood all we gave him... and to have said... nothing.
     What could I have said, My Father? Do you love? Yes... I love. Do you confess? No... I do not confess. Lay me upon the stone again. Whip me again. I have nothing to say. Cut me again. I have nothing to say.
     Maybe I would have thought a moment, for an instant about The Stone of Chinon. Maybe I would have remembered the grafitti that I carved into the walls. I have nothing to say, it is there in stone to this day. Maybe I would have squeezed my eyes shut in remembrance of that morning and I would have heard in my ears the echoes of my brothers crying out.
     But I do not...
     I hear the zipper, I hear you unfolding me, and that is all there is. Your heart. Your breathing. The sound of your hands on my skin. Of cloth shifting. Of the zipper ticking downward, like the sound of Time Itself dissembling. I breathe your name, "Giancarlo,"... I like to say it. I will be saying it all night, you realize. I hope you do not mind hearing it whispered, hearing it groaned. I groan, I know that is me. I am not mute, you see...
     The soldier's form. You see it, you expect it, you are not disappointed in it. The tapering waist from turning with sword and shield, yes... that is how it was made so. The thighs made large by being balance and ballast, keeping him mounted, keeping him going as he charged through mud, through ...whatever. Yes, that is how they were made so. As you push down the folds, as this soldier watches you discover him, feeding off of that, Alire's forehead brushes your own. His only word is 'Yes' -- it comes with sharp pleasure. For his length at hand, moving to your hand as the folds are pushed away. Full, strong. A gentile of his age, to be sure, a Christian soldier of France is what you hold.
     And it has been so long...
     You feel his hands move to the gathering of your own trousers. A slight tremble there -- that is Need speaking -- as he moves to free you in return.

     Gods, you are so strong, Alire. So much stronger...
     ...than I am...
     Cesare's jaw tightens as you speak to him, his eyes closing and opening again in languid drowsiness.
     When he realizes your arms are within his own, Cesare's hands seek to help, to hurry this along.
     This matters not. This body, this form. What he sees of me. What is important, is that you are seen, Alire, and you know that you are appreciated. These? They are inconsequential. I am but a student, not a soldier. I may have form, but is that of decades of walking, sometimes running, in places I should not have been. I see that now. Trying to find strength, to find something that was missing. God, what was it? What has kept me fighting, destroying, in corners of the world that nothing to me?
     With a brush, faster than your own, Cesare's hands dispense with the clasp of trousers bought only this morning. He sighs as his forehead presses against yours, but his hands fall away. The remainder is for you to discover, Alire, to know. I shall leave that joy to you, as I have just known.

     I do not know that it was strength. Maybe it was. I do not know why I was able to endure what He was not able to endure. He was braver than I was. I saw him fight... on several occasions... he would always be first. He would always go to the part of the line I would never attempt. And he would cross it. I would always hold the line. Maybe, in the end, that was the difference. I do not know. There is so much I do not know. Maybe you will answer the questions after all, Giancarlo the Scholar. Maybe you will be able to tell me why it is I who is here these seven-hundred years...
     Maybe I am here for this...
     That makes me smile, and your trousers falling. That makes me sigh, I press my forehead to yours in return. How are bodies are set to merge, want to sink into one another. I want to be in your skin.
     Such skin...
     Only I would speak to you, O Father, at the moment of copulative sin. But the delivery of this young man to me, I am going to think of it as a reward tonight. As a blessing. It is a blessing. Look at him, Christ. Dark, his is a Venetian treasure. I want to know every part of him, with every part of me. "Siete cosi bei," he whispers, you are beautiful. His hands move against your stomach, your hips, they lower, even as his eyes lower, his head bending to see you there below. My Italian. And he grins, your soldier does.
     "Ottenere sulla mia base, fra i miei fogli, bei Giancarlo," he breathes, his hands stroking against you, there... the tenderness, the softness of his hands, and also the strength, and Alire moves forward until his body is flush to yours, until you are moved backwards against the bed, and he against you.

     Ah, but he is a soldier. He speaks so. Only in these last moments have I realized it. The beginning of what I shall learn for him and of him.
     He moves with obedient grace, your new lover does. His arm reaches back, pulling at the comforters that pile upon your bed to find the sheets. Other hand holds your shoulder as an anchor, yet after a few tugs, the linen beneath becomes exposed.
     The young man crawls backwards across the width of the bed, between the gathered muss of pushed comforters and the piles of pillows. His hands splay across the sheets, and his feet, once socked, are now bare. He takes his eyes away from you to turn himself along bed's length, his feet and legs soon disappearing beneath the sumptuous covers.
     To you? His hand comes up, asking you to join him. It is your bed, but he is the new element. Elbow that held him above the pillows gives way, and he sinks down upon his side.

     Shoes and socks and trousers off. Clothes lay crumpled at the edge of the bed. Yours. His. The first evidence of the Unbelievable. He will want to stare at them later, when you are sleeping. Look, there is where I first held him. Look, there... when his trousers fell to the floor and I for the first time saw the whole of him. What I wanted in Prague. Look. He is in my bed...
     Unbelievable...
     The word is murmured at your mouth, becomes a kiss as his mouth closes over yours, as he sinks with you in fine linen, covered by down, surrounded by silk. The kiss is as it has never been. Claiming. Wide. Unbroken. You feel the press of him, his bulk, his weight, and then he lifts it, letting the bed share it as his hands find your hands and clasp there. He sinks into you. Mouth, musculature, soul.
     But this soldier of yours is tender. You have slept with one of his kind before, though you may not have recognized the Crusader as having been such. But there is no... scorched earth. No tumbling furniture. No boundaries tossed into chaos. Though the kiss is strong, intwining, full, there is a tenderness about it, a sweetness about it.
     And his fingers clasp strongly to yours, then release, as Alire's mouth slides downward to your neck. His body follows after, sliding along you, as his mouth travels lower. To the hollow of your throat. To your chest. Alire closes his eyes, tightly, his face given to your body. You do not have to see it to know the intensity there. The need. How much this means to him. "You are here," he has to whisper it, as if he doesn't believe it. You are here, it is a mantra.
     A line of warmth follows in echo of his mouth, from throat to chest, where mouth claims each nipple. His thick arms, their strength undeniable, slide against the bedding, encircling, surrounding you. Drawing you to his mouth as, parted, it continues to slide downward. There is not a portion of you that is not absolutely adored.
     Absolutely...

     "We are here," he whispers in turn. Cesare's hands grasp your arms and back, never quite sure where they wish to remain. Both. All -- that's it. His legs part achingly slow, wanting to secure you between them. To know what it will feel like. With his face turned towards the ceiling. Cesare closes his eyes, content to feel you upon him. Maybe the worry for rushing was his own fear. Arms pull and wish you at his mouth once more, leaving the rest of you to fall naturally against him.
     God, I am in a rush. Too much.
     His legs tighten behind soldierly thighs, so that he can press upwards into you. What were gently grasping fingers now become a push upwards at your shoulder blades. What was silence is a mumbling of your name beneath the new lover's breath.
     And once more, he groans and pushes upward, collapsing behind it in seeming defeat.
     This has been so slow. But now, he wishes you to hurry. Cesare opens his eyes at the ceiling, the worry of before realized as worry for himself. A failing this, to want too much, to talk too fast, to throw yourself out there into the world. Silent tears creep from the corner of his eyes. In all this, he would not want you to see that he has started to ache and to cry. Inexplicably.
     Hurry...for you never know when it all will be your last...

     You pull, and there is such strength that comes with even the slightest tug of your fingers. The bed slides with the motion, making its first complaint. Softly, the springs well insulated -- this a new bed with all of its modern technology and modern comfort. He spoils himself with this, a man who once slept on stone and straw and was thankful...
     Beneath you, his arms move, unwinding... as you pull, reaching up to find your hands, to clasp them again. To anchor himself there. Fingers meet the bedding, curl, grasp, pull. And his mouth covers yours with an ache, a groan, a deep sound that is muffled. Oh... secrecy...
     Shh...
     If I sob at your mouth, let your mouth cover it. Swallow my sounds, they will not hear us. Not hearing us, they will not be able to find us. To stop us. To part us. Alire covers you, the kiss burning, twisting, feeding on itself. Swallowing the sound when his body moves against you. Deadening the cry as he feels himself slide within. Clasped there, his entire body stiffens. He sinks into you, strongly. His mouth having to lift -- remembering you need to breathe. He needs to breathe, he gasps your name at your mouth. A hiss that should have been a shout. And his body moves. A roll. Again. Again. Forward, hips curling and uncurling. He holds himself deep, circling. And then ... again. Again.
     Scars tighten. If your hands yet rest on shoulders and back you will feel them as muscles, tight, preternatural, shift in concert, his entire body put in the motion. At his shoulders, his back. Even his arms. Low against the skin, they can only be felt in their softness, like new skin.
     He swells within you, pressing, his body answering with the start of rhythm. Again. Again. Again. And then the roll of him as far within as he may go, holding there. Such ache....
     Such aching...
     It is not ended upon filling you. It is not ended when his body slides and rolls against your own, his thighs wide, widening you beneath him. It is only driven by it. Alire closes his eyes, his mouth returning to yours. His groans given to your tongue. His sighs given to your mouth. Again. Again. Again.
     Where eyes squeeze shut, there is moisture. Where mouths meet there is a sigh, voice catching at his throat.

     Shh. You have to be quiet. You have to be.
     Tears do not listen to such pleading. They trickle down Cesare's face, soaking your skin and kisses no less than his own cheeks. And when he's entered, he stifles a groan that should have lifted the room with a bite of his bottom lip.
     Oh, why do we have to be quiet? But we have to be. I don't know how to be that way. Yet, I am.
     He will let you swallow his sobbing, to put your mouth upon his -- anything -- anything to make this blistering ache...sorrow...blessed relief...go away. The lover seems confused suddenly beneath you; not in the motions you make together, but discomfited by something else. Emotion. Emotions unfamiliar, emotions unknown, feelings unexplained.
     Hands and arms coil feverishly around your shoulders, high now at your neck. Cesare tries to relax, to stave it all off, with a tensing of his jaw as he kisses you.
     I have been with men before, Alire d'Avignon. Men older than you. Men younger. I have done things unspeakable with them, long beyond the tenderness we share.
     Oh, but they have never made me feel like this. Never. Not in a hundred years. Something inside me wants out, Alire, and it wants more than life itself to be with you. and I can't control it. I don't know what it is. It...scares me. I wanted this, I guess, to know...you...someome like you...I don't know.
     He cannot go much longer like this. Cesare's face falls away from yours, desperately needing to breathe, to calm. To hear himself and damned this overwhelming urge to be quiet. To know that he cries and grunts in the same instant, to hear you taking him over and over, to hear your audible attempts at silence.

     That is the Damnable Paradox, the thing that is always our undoing. For the more one tries to be silent, the more one is likely to sound out. The quieter you wish to be, the louder the bed will suddenly creak. Or you will step on a twig. Or bridles will rattle in a stall unexpected. Or hands that covered mouths will slip with the heat of sweat and someone will cry free. I want to cry free...
     Shh... says my soul... be quiet, Alire. Shhh, it says to my body, hush, do not pound so. Do not make so much noise. That is why, that is how it happens.
     But horses will neigh. Bridles will rattle. Beds will creak. And men will forget...
     Fingers curl in the bedding, knock pillows from the bed to the floor, leverage on either side of you, pull his body up, some of his weight coming off of you. This drives him deeper. Truer. Alire bends, kissing you, kissing the moisture he finds. But he does not stop. He does not comment. He says nothing. You hear only his breaths, punctuating his motions. Again. Again. Again. The pull of his voice in his throat. He tries so hard. He tries so hard to keep silent, but then his mouth parts. Your name is groaned, hissed, almost sung, Giancarlo. And then, once spoken, it is repeated, aching from his throat, his chest, his mouth. It reverberates within you, where he fills you, when your name travels to the very pit of him.
     Shh...
     I can't be quiet...
     I can't be...
     He knows the Truth of it. His eyes narrow. He knows he is crying. He knows his tears are like no other you have seen. The saint cries tears of blood. Alire's voice, normally soft and deep, with such gentleness, pulls with the emotion, hoarse. His throat closing...
     I want to love. I want to love again...

     Oh, God, that can't be. What is it?
     Hands reach up, pressing at your cheeks. Blood. It stains the young man's hands even as he turns his palms to see the truth of it. Eyes widen in surprise and confusion, but he cannot be too enthralled now. One of the hands comes to his own cheek, pressing there. Tears against tears. A communion. Cesare closes his eyes and continues to cry, even as he lifts and falls with you, offering more and more of himself with the widening and thrust of his open thighs.
     It's like angels. It must be. We cry with joy that builds over ages of ache and longing. Angels, when they love, share the same space, at the same time. They commingle their essence, regardless of their forms.
     So it is with this.
     Beneath you, the young man tenses from his toes at your back, along the muscles that capture you, through his arched body and to the fingertips that will leave marks upon your skin. He shudders and shakes, knowing that uniqueness given to mortals. At least being magical has not changed that.
     His hands open and close, and hips that seemed able to lift no higher nor offer any more, quicken beyond expectation. Cesare pants with each spasm, shoulders lifting from the pillows then falling back against them. His skin flushes brightly, spreading from his chest to his arms, face, and even his thighs.
     When he swallows and falls back, hands no longer anchor, but instead pull you to him. He still wrangles with the energy that rifles through him, but that...will go on for a while...

     Forgive me...
     Forgive me...
     Hands grasp at anything for anchoring. At sheets. At air as he, full within you, to the hilt of him, comes up on his knees, rolling you to keep him in you. At your legs, that he finally meets, and clasps. But then you pull him, you pull him down to you. He sinks in you. Tears and blood, sweat and more spreading over joined and heated skin. That pulling at his throat, it is a sob. It is a groan. It is pleasure. It is the only release he knows. He has no magic, god if he only knew that it was available, but it is nothing he has. There is only one way to completion...
     But as he sinks into you, as the soldier's bulk presses against your own, his body writhing, adoring you, there is no following bite. Not yet. Not yet, he thinks. I want to feel you for a while. Like this. Squirming in what we make together, knowing it, viscerally. These are the sensations that, together, will complete him.
     And then, last of all, your blood...
     He is thick, extended to the full. Not slowing in your spasming. Alire covers your mouth with his own. There are your tears, his tears, comingling. His... do you worry about it? The taste of blood? Salt, edged with sugar. How will he explain it? How will he explain any of it now. Alire squeezes his eyes shut. What am I going to do now, what now, Alire?
     He slows, but though his motions are slowed, they are complete. Each thrust, filling you fully, you feel the orbs crashing there against you. His muscles churn beneath your fingertips. Alire turns, wiping his face upon wine-colored coverlets, returning to you, his mouth returning to you. "Desidero amare. Desidero amare ancora. Lo mostrerete? Mostrarlo," each syllable comes upon the edge of a panted breath, pulled from his gut and from his soul, clinging to his throat as he speaks and as his body sounds against your own.
     I want to love. I want to love again. Will you show me... show me...
     And you feel him tighten, muscles turning to stone but for where the softness of scars still linger. Whip marks? And he quickens. And now he groans your name, unafraid. He doesn't care who hears him. I don't want to be quiet. Yes, sometimes it is right to shout. Like now. Your name is shouted, the bed is in chaotic disarray and you know he is close, close, so close...

     ...I have always loved you, Alire. Never forget...
     "... volont...prometto..." he whispers hotly into your ear. I will. I promise.
     Cesare's legs continue to move, each motion a new engagement with you. Different each time. One leg curls beneath your rear, his own calf lending support. The other? A foot at the back of your thigh. He struggles beneath you to grasp and writhe, though your body pins him into the bedding. But there is little use in trying to match you. He cannot. Your strength continues to surprise him, and his eyes close again as he rests against the pillows. Once relaxed, Cesare's lips kiss stained cheeks, arms memorize the marks that crisscross your body, and his gyrating thighs form the focus of his energy.

     The promise. Oh, my friend, it is everything. I promise...
     In the end, it is all that binds us. Our promises to one another. Our love. Our faith. For our bodies may be bought, sold, stolen, broken. We have only that gift, our soul... and our promises to one another. It is the ultimate gift. That is why the breaking of them is such profound betrayal. Lucifer never fell so far as the breaking of one promise between lovers.
     Alire lowers to you again, pressing, pinning you, his mouth pulling from yours, finding your neck. His body twists beneath your legs, your feet. The pleasure, he whispers at your neck, in encouragement, in affirmation, and in love.
     His mouth parts heatedly at your neck, suckling strongly, clasping. And then, like lightning...
     Timed with quickening thrusts...
     Canines nick your flesh, hard length surges within you. Rhythm is lost the moment blood is found. Orgasm... in pleasure most could not conceive. That of the Lifeforce Itself. And Alire is wracked by it.
     O father ...who art in heaven...
     (O, did you send him to me, My Father? You must have sent this one to me...)
     Hallowed by thy Name...
     (God, yes... Giancarlo... for you I take that Name in vain...)
     Thy kingdom come...
     (Yes, that too...now...here...)
     Thy Will be done, on earth as it is in heaven...
     (Heaven is beneath me. Heaven is the Venetian beneath me, around me. Heaven is his blood. God, what is this.... so sweet... powerful. I never imagined...)
     I never imagined it could be like this. I shake. I tremble. I groan against his neck. I do not care that I am not quiet. Or of the thousand things I will now have to tell him. I want to love. I want to love him. I love him. God, it has been so long.
     So long...
     Alire softens, his motion stilling, he brushes against you. Now, lightly, he presses against you. Tender, so tender. His arms surround you again and his kisses suckle gently at your neck.

Posted by Criseyde at May 29, 2003 07:01 PM