Down below, beneath the floor, there is a small basement converted into a small room. Dimly lit, sparsely furnished, it's low ceiling can barely accomodate him. But in the midst of this all, there is a fine rug, a nice wardrobe, an immense closet of clothing and an old bed to fit one old knight. Such relics, relics and remnants of centuries are tucked away here. Chests full of clothing worn a century ago now, sentimental things. There is a box of jewelry. A Templar's ring. The cross once belonging to another.
And every creak of this old house can be heard quite clearly. The stirring of a guest, the coming and going of the housekeeper or her daughter Madeline...
A triple mirror captures his image like a triptych, showing his hands buttoning his shirt three-fold. Half way fastened it is thought... too conservative... and it is removed, set aside upon the bed. Where the seven previous also lay. And a couple of sweaters. Nothing to his liking. Nothing good enough. Nothing right. You dress like an old man, Alire d'Avignon...
The image is captured in the mirrors, times three, the dim light and shadows playing against the contours of his back, the tapering of his sides. The echoes and memories of Those Days. He wears them. He can never forget them. Alire wanders into the closet -- the grandest feature in the room -- and with the black wool trousers that he wears, he adds a grey shirt, not a button down, but a pull over. Something of cashmere, but fitted to him. A glance to the mirror. This is better...
But now that he does not fuss over his clothing, the intensity of it all comes back to him. Large hands rub together, press a moment to his face. The shower has rinsed away the scent of you there. But your blood, your blood... he thought it would make him sick, as so often happens when he must step out of his usual bishopric hunting grounds... but it did not. No, it did not.
Come, Alire...
Shhh.... be silent...
He is waiting...
...It was left for you...
On the indentation left by his body...
Unfolded. The evidence of his hand in scripted Italian...
Giancarlo...
How hard it was to leave you this morning! My daily obligations seem without meaning suddenly. I shall move through this trivial, tedious day, sustained by the knowledge that at the end of it I shall be seeing you again. You did not know how hard I wrestled against such obligations. Next time, I shall win.
I cannot put last night into words. As is often the case, those who make their business at communication are sometimes the least able to communicate feelings themselves. I feel ...simply without words...
I will be looking for you. I hope you have a wonderful day. You must tell me everything you did ... it will put me with you -- as I wish I had been...
Love, Alire
The note had brought him some comfort. Despite the fact that he knew that his new lover had early starts, waking to find the bed indeed empty still brought some amount of disappointment. Ah, such is work and life, he thought to himself, and sometime after mid-morning, Giancarlo moved out of the large bed to the shower. It was warm, that shower, and he blamed it for the small ache at his temple. Too hot, perhaps, and as part of his dressing ritual, he scurried to find headache medicine to ease the pain.
The note was kissed and folded, then placed into his pocket. A bit of you to take around. And so he did, seeing about bicycle rentals, a picnic basket, and plenty of fresh food to stuff inside.
But what sorts of things do you like, dearest Alire? He settled upon dark and light bread in miniature loaves, several sets of summer sausage with soft cheese, and then fruit and pastry for dessert.
The shopkeeps around the lane were delighted with the smiling Italian visitor, clearly planning for an afternoon outing. He was nothing but pleasant and happy, unable to keep a smile from his face. It was infectuous. When he stood, waiting his turn, he smiled and looked around, happy to occupy his time patiently. And when his turn came - ah! - what a smile. He was shopping for himself and a lover. That much was evident.
Getting the bicycles back was the hard part. It required two trips. But no matter. There was plenty of time. And so now two bicycles lean near the front door of the townhouse, near a pair of soft shoes.
He only became nervous as the afternoon went on. Upon return, he saw that someone else had been inside. Perhaps that delightful woman who takes care of my Alire. Mine. Now that's a word. The basket was set near the sofa he had reclined upon last night. Last night! Oh, Christus, how wonderful was last night? Should I ever know such pleasure and happiness again? A man like me can only hope.
The old book on medical practices and alchemy was picked up again. In socks, he took up a spot on the sofa. It was almost time.
Poitiers still keeps her charm. A large city now, still her small streets are crammed with markets and fresh fruit and vegetables, fresh bread -- oh the breads of Poitiers -- the cheese. The pasterie. Still, all of the Old World charm. Not antiseptic, like American shops, but living, breathing. They give the city her vitality, and in turn she fills them with it.
And we may not be Paris, but we know the look of a man in love all the same. The city welcomed you in, as easily -- seemingly -- as Alire himself.
Chiming...
The bells of St. Michael, San Michele...
The clock in the hallway plays it in smaller bells, cascading sounds followed by the chiming of four o'clock. He said he would be here by now. Where is he? The silent steps -- do you catch me in The Lie? -- I hate to lie to you, my Giancarlo. It upsets me. But what would the Truth do to you? It is not time. Not yet. I do not know when.
Probably, my lover, when you ask. Will I be able to deny you? Nothing. No, I already know this. I know it as surely as I know I am late. It is four o'clock, he is expecting me...
...A door sounds down the hall. The front door? The side door near the kitchen? Hard to tell from the den, but his voice is already lifting. "I am late, I am sorry," Alire calls, and there is a lift to his voice. That is the grin that is already forming.
Expectant. You see it as soon as he crosses the threshold of the den. His blonde hair all the brighter for the grey and black he is wearing. A sweater, instead of a shirt and jacket today. Light, fitted cashmere. Perfect for late spring, late afternoons. And evenings.
A book in your hand. Do you know how near to my heart you are? The blue eyes, icy in color but warm in timbre, soften as they look to you, you with a book. You that he loves. That he loves already. Your hands, those hands that held me expert. That unfolded my clothing. That stroked me back to a Resurrection. That heal me. That give me absolution from loneliness, as a priest from sin. "It is... so good to see you. Best part of my day. Now, I begin living," Alire murmurs. And it's not just poetic loving. It is in fact no exaggeration.
The wait is always worth it. Giancarlo stands at first sound of you, making his way to the bottom of the stairs. The book is set aside on a table, leaving his hands free. "It's better than good to see you," he says in reply, his Italian fluid. "Well," he looks down, "...what I am trying to say is...I missed you." His hand comes out as soon as he can reach yours. Skin against skin again. "Better than wonderful, Alire.."
That name. It sighs off his tongue. Giancarlo finally exhales, trying to dispel the tension. My feelings have not changed -- have yours? I hope not...
Other hand comes out for you to take, he already pulling you to him even at the stairs. A kiss imminent. An embrace. Our arms around each other.
"You...look great," he adds, grinning from ear to ear. And it's all real.
When he sees you now, he sees you against the bedding, beneath him, around him. The touch of your hand brings memories of the slide of bodies. Of mouths that kissed. Of faces wet with tears, and it is in his eyes again. That intensity. Visceral. Gutteral. He smiles. It is all he can do to keep his eyes from leaking. And he is blushing, or maybe it's more of a flush. Like last night when his creamy complexion turned ruddy in the last hour you moved against one another. Te adoro, te adoro, Giancarlo. That was the rhythm.
It is the light behind his look...
"Merci," Alire murmurs. "And you... I like this," it is new, he can tell, and he smiles. You bought clothes to wear for me? He does not wait. No, he does not wait. Your hand clasps, draws him in, and the kiss follows. Warm and sweet, his breath carrying your name. His eyes squeezing from what it means to him. His arms going around you. "My arms have ached for you all day," he whispers, mouth leaving yours only to speak, remaining near to kiss again. A hand lifts, a soft touch to your face. Te adoro. Te adoro, Giancarlo. "I missed your smile. I missed touching you. Having started," he grins, a slight slant, "...I can't stop...." And the look is helpless. He knows he's helpless.
God, do I choke him? Shall I strangle this love for wanting it so much?
Alire flushes a little, drawing himself up as if to compose himself from that emotional, passionate outburst.
Shh...
Each kiss and touch is returned. The lover seems to melt in your embrace, as if a world of tensions have been released from his body. His tongue is eager to wrap around yours, his mouth fast to find yours. Arms snake around your shoulders and pull. Hands open and tug at your hair and back.
"Me too," he whispers, lips already flush from kissing. Giancarlo's breath is warm, but quickly he covers your lips again, closing his eyes in the claim.
The cashmere is a thin, soft covering of the body you have come to know. Softness in a thin layer overlaying such strength. Strength that now surrounds you. That such a form could acquiesce so -- folding against you, arms sliding down your back. Fingers curling, tightly, at the small of your back, and you are pulled flush and tight as the kiss deepens. Excitement palpable -- well, more than.
You claim him. He claims you. There is soft Italian issuing when mouths break for quick breaths. Te adoro. Te adoro, Giancarlo. Your hands in his hair -- the kiss turns fierce...
...he remembers when fingers pressed against his scalp in a wild kiss disturbed only by falling hay...
Alire suckles your tongue, his mouth expert at that -- a hidden talent, not many of course have experienced. It is only for you, Giancarlo. An echo of what his mouth did upon you last night. Surrounding. Sliding...
There is a waver, a falter in the kiss. A moment, perhaps, of dizziness, and with an exhale, Alire rests his forehead against your own. "I could not even dream this well," he murmurs, he smiles. His hands sliding downward, cupping you. Clasping, his eyes closing. His smile dissolving into a wide, warm kiss.
I cannot be quiet...
I will be shouting out my love again, in the clasping of our bodies, in our groans. Do you think me too fast, too quick, too hasty? Is it ever too soon for love?
A groan escapes Giancarlo with a sigh. Jesu. He chuckles at the lack of such dreaming, his cheek pressed against yours in a hug. "I didn't either," he confesses. "But, now that I know," he inhales and tightens his grip, "I will not let this dream go."
But what of the picnic? Facing you, on the floor, Alire, is a shiny new picnic basket.
The man continues to hold you, swaying faintly. A whole day. And I missed you. He whispers it over and over, seeming to have no plans to let you go.
People who would say they know you both would be rubbing their eyes tonight. Eyeing their drinks with something of suspicion. To see you so ... effusive in emotion. To see Alire with a constant, and broad smile. Perhaps they would not recognize you. Who are those strangers, they would say, who have stolen the clothes of our friends...
The kisses still come, but slower... softer...pulling in brief. Tasting. Savoring. He closes his eyes, swaying with you a moment, and then, he bends you. A dancing move. He can dance. He can dance quite well. All of those balls. All of those gatherings. Alire winks and then looks to his feet.
A basket...
He straightens you both and murmurs at your mouth, "What is this," he wonders at your mouth, O my Venetian. Such a mouth you have. I could live off of nothing but it forever. Blue eyes sparkle, vibrant. "A picnic?" He grins. His hold does not release you, but it does soften. "It is a nice evening for a picnic in a park. But we will need something more private. I cannot keep my hands and mouth off of you," a soft confession placed against your neck.
"Si, I was..." Giancarlo laughs, swaying still as if to avoid the kiss at his throat, "...just thinking the same." He laughs brightly, hands open at your back. "Oh, Alire..." he whispers, "...maybe we should stay in...and picnic in your bed? If..." he grins, "...you will have me there again..."
The young man steps out of your grasp, but only as a tease -- more will surely follow. He spins and picks up the basket, running his hand through his hair. Ah. A wiggle of his brow. Hands clasp the basket's handle and he twists side to side, like a schoolboy. Such a picture of devilish innocence.
"I was thinking a blanket and evening in the park, but...maybe a blanket in your room would be...alright?"
"It is a wonder you and I ever made it out of it. I do not know if I will find the strength to do so again," he murmurs, and before he can kiss you, you are out of his grasp, basket in hand and looking like a Raphael cherub. But you have a sword of fire, I know. Oh how I know it...
Alire smiles, how broadly he cannot know. It lights up his expression. It makes him beautiful. "My bed is where I wish you. My heart is where you belong," and he can't believe he said it, and he can't believe it took him so long. Even a night. "Oui... a picnic. We will feed one another there," he whispers, eyes trailing over you. "Suckle fruit from fingertips, nourish bodies... even as we make love to nourish souls," who knew he was such an aesthetic? Who knew he was a sensualist?
You did...
Alire's expression softens, and he feels moisture at the corners of his eyes. Do his eyes redden? God, please do not notice it. "Lead me to that park," he smiles, "...and I will follow you." I will follow you anywhere...
Giancarlo smiles and nods. Somehow, he does know. "If you will...make sure everything is locked, I will...be waiting upstairs then."
And I thought the magic I knew was in my fingers, in my hands. In my mind. How I have learned what real magic is...
Giancarlo moves slowly around you, a hand away. His shoulder brushes with your own, his collar fluttering as he moves. And when he is beside you, basket in hand, he leans over and places a kiss at your ear. Another below it at the skin. He should think to take a third, but that would be too much. He has made his point.
And with dropped gaze, your lover moves to the stairs, slowly upwards, to your room and your bed.
I have this dream...
Maybe it is more of a wish, a fantasy. I hold it against my blood, as if I were a magician and could make it so simply by willing it so. I see us beneath the sheets of my bed, side by side and clasped, the sheets fluttering, pulling as we make love. Fingers reaching up as mouths tangle. Taking fruit or pastry. You suckle the food from my fingers. I suck the juice of fruit from yours. We feed ourselves with one another, taking turns, all the while our bodies are in motion. Intense.
When I thrust myself within you, when I know you... in the deepest way that humans can know one another -- even though I am no longer human -- I am not just knowing your body. I am touching your soul. I hope to touch your soul. Souls communicate when the body undulates. That is the true communion.
Perhaps I am a heretic afterall, O Lord...
But you will simply have to forgive me...
The front door is locked. The backdoor checked, locked. The basement he locked on his way in. The house is well tended. Lamps are turned out -- a house now at rest. The neighbors may wonder, indeed, why lights are out in the early evening. Alire smiles. Imagine me... being a cause of wonder for anyone...
Surely, they will wonder. The activity of the last two days. The bicycles for two outdoors. The visiting Italian who comes and goes in different clothes. They will say, it is nice for him to have visiting friends from Italy. Everyone needs a guest occasionally. A guest brightens a home and spirits.
The book was left on the side table. He has not gotten so far, honestly. Maybe he spends more time daydreaming about you.
The banister is quiet now. No footsteps. As you closed the house down for the afternoon -- night -- any rustling from stairs above ceased. He has gone quiet, your Giancarlo, waiting for you.
His steps sound upon the stairs, the stairs creak beneath the weight of the old Templar. There is no disguising them -- not tonight. He wants you to hear him. He smiles at it. Fingers trailing the banister rail as it ascends. Thinking of how they will soon feel the warmth of your skin. And he is beaming. He is.... happy.
It has been so long...
And there will be talk. Perhaps there already is. It is likely, in fact. Such a new prince -- though having acted the part already for the better part of a century -- he is a new prince in name, if not in action. Anything he does makes the front page of vampire society news. And that Alire... of all creatures... has a guest. Doesn't return his calls. Ringer turned off his phone, it going straight into vibrate mode or voice mail. Two nights without walking the streets of his city. Two nights now without checking in to see if everyone is alright, making calls and discussing the future plans. It is unusual.
He is acting as if he... has a life...
Phones will ring in Paris if this keeps on...
His shadow passes over his threshold, his hand lightly upon the door, gently pushing it ajar as he enters. Eyes lifting. Seeking you. Immediately...
I have never wanted out of my clothing so badly as I want out of it now. I can feel each and every fiber. It is an obstruction between us. I tug at my sweater, not removing it, but an idle gesture, as if straightening it...
Within, familiar objects cast flickering shadows. Light falls upon the floor, shimmering at odd angles. The catch of the armoire, the rigidity of a candleabra. There's a new source of luminescence in the room, coloring the world in golds and darks.
It is paschal light. Two tall and broad white candles upon pedestals. Their wicks so large, that no other light source is required.
Your bed has been dismantled, Templar. Between these two candles, upon the rug they share, is your young man, nude. The basket's contents have been lain out upon a makeshift blanket, ready for you to share. Wine has been poured, and one of the comforters from your bed lies near his feet. Pillows have been strewn about, just in case.
His body twists to see you, since you're treated to his backside. He grins and sits up, waiting to see your reaction.
His hand comes out, missing the door, grasping at nothing but air. His eyes deepen, his smile lingering, but distancing in the vision that is you. And he stares, openly. The spell broken only as his hand finally meets the lintel. And in this sacred space you have made...
...you sit upon the blankets, you make for us an altar...
Alire steps into the light. He stands at the edge of your creation, his eyes fixed upon you. He murmurs his love. Te adoro. Te adoro, Giancarlo. And his fingers capture now the hem of his sweater. Lifting it up and off of him. Unafraid of the reflection of candlelight upon his body, what you will see. You have made him comfortable. You put him at ease, even as you put him on edge. He doesn't worry at the questions in your gaze. For if you ask me, I shall answer...
Feet work upon shoes until feet are free. Socks afterwards. And still his gaze has not moved from you. "You are beautiful. You are amazing, my Giancarlo," my, mine, such a word. "A better feast... I have never seen..."
Feet are bare and looking to you, his hands move to the waistband of wool trousers. "What a lovely thing you have done," he whispers, glancing to the blankets, pillows, the basket, the food, the candles. His fingers fumble a moment over the fastenings, but then he rights them. And the pants, undone fall to his ankles. He steps out of them, naked. Glorious.
Even with the scars...
"You want..." his accented French falls, "...to close the door?" He grins at your response, liking it. You seem to have missed that. With you ahead of him, he sits up, one knee bent and upon the carpet, the other upright in front of him. His chin comes to settle upon it to watch you.
"You are so strong, Alire," he whispers, watching you move. He would believe you if you told him you were a knight. A templar. A vampire. Strong has particular meaning for your new love, meaning more than the obvious. His hand curls around his own calf.
"I hope you like it," he whispers, head tilting to the side. Shall you ask him where the candle came from? Perhaps San Michele itself. "I didn't know...if you thought it might be too much."
One night, I will tell you. One night, I will have to tell you. God, that I wish I could wake with you. To sleep with you all night. The simplicity of holding you, the beautiful simplicity of that...
As you smile, speak French from your lovely Italian mouth, he reddens -- and how that blush travels, you may see the whole of its journey... from face to neck, to a spreading at his gut, the twitch of him between his thighs, already half-risen. The sight of you alone stirs him. He needs no other encouragement. Twisting, Alire reaches out, fingertips glancing against the door. The door closing. Loudly.
Who is here to hear it? Only you and I...
When he looks to you next, his feet are in motion, stepping past his discarded clothing, stepping between the large wicks, large cathedral candles. "I love it...no, not too much," the smile is gentle, his hand brushes your face and then he is kneeling before you. His hand meets your face again, lifting it even as he bends, kissing you. "Amazing," he murmurs, "...that you found all of this. Did you go to Notre Dame for the candles?" he smiles. "I did not know they had such things in Poitiers..."
Closing his eyes, he kisses again. Savoring, slow, fingers curling at the line of your jaw. "Te adoro," he whispers at your mouth, his mouth playing upon your own, lips, teeth, the spiral of a tongue. I adore you...
I love you...
The kiss begins to deepen, catching fire. It does not take much. His hand still on your face, he kneeling before you. Thickening. Aching. "I love it," he parts the kiss, mouth traveling along your jaw.
"I have made new friends in Poitiers," Cesare smirks on the candles, giving a kiss, then another. And another. He chuckles as he thinks of Catullus. "Give me a thousand kisses, and then a thousand more," he whispers in French. "So many that no one will remember how many kisses we have had together." His turned up face delights in your mouth slipping downward, and hands reach to clasp and massage your thighs.
A sigh. "Je t'aime," he whispers in kind. Lips press together once it's said, and he pulls back to see how you wish to proceed.
He grins at this, grins at your mouth and eases onto his hands and knees. Easing you back upon the coverlets, the pillows, this pallet. And then you say it. You say it as he has said it, only you are more brave. Eyes narrow and the face wears its emotion, all upon the surface. "Je t'aime," he whispers, and then he lowers to you, body warm and flush against your own, letting you feel his weight, his excitement. His arms surrounding you. An arch, and he presses against you. His body seeking...
And then his mouth...
The kiss is covering, claiming. "Je t'aime," he breathes there, again. Alire repeats it into each kiss. Je -- his mouth opens against yours. T'aime -- lips tug and then press. So intense. The words come from him, they reverberate against the air, electricity, tension. Tension you can feel against your stomach, heavily. "Je t'aime, Giancarlo. Mio Giancarlo," he whispers, "...who whispers Catullus to me. Makes love to me in a thousand gestures, not just in his amazing touch. But also with his eyes. His smile. His surprises for me. How he waits for me. How he reads. I love him..."
Alire closes his eyes, body sinking into you, rolling with you a moment. Then lifting, weight balanced upon the heels of his hands, he hovers over you. Eyes leaving yours to take glimpses of you elsewhere. One hand lifts from the surface of the pallet, sliding between you.
Fingers tickle between your thighs. "I think I would like to know," he whispers, smile slanting, "...how much better the wine tastes from off your skin..."
"Ah!" he yelps, twisting his legs, trying to avoid your wandering fingers. A secret revealed. He's ticklish. "Alire!" Giancarlo swipes, having been found out. But he settles again, deciding to trust you. "If you keep that up, I may need to send you to sleep in another room..."
Not likely.
He relaxes again, reaching up and above his head in an arch to a plate. Small grapes -- it is almost summer. But these are not for wine. "Are you not hungry?" he wonders. "You've had such a long day," he laments, falling onto his back again and offering one dark bead of fruit to you.
You are right. Look at me. Ignoring what you brought me -- already... taking a gift for granted. For want of Lust. Alire's look softens, his hand leaving you, and he sinks, settling half on, half beside you. Stretching, mouth parting at your finger tips. Grape plucked. Eyes closed. "I am hungry," he says after the sweet rush of juice. Tart and sweet both. The grape is rolled, pierced with a canine, hidden from you, and he lowers again. Legs tangle.
A hand reaches upward, plucking fruit for you now. "And you," he whispers, dark grape offered to your mouth. "Hmmm... and it was a long day. Too long in missing you." I wish you could come with me... and yet... I am glad you cannot. I wish you understood. I wish you knew.
One day...one night you will be my confidante. You will know my secrets. I will give them all to you. You will have the map through the labyrinth. The key to me...
Alire closes his eyes, his mouth at your ear. "I love you, Giancarlo. So thankful," eyes squeeze and his arms squeeze. "...so grateful that you are here. How fortunate I am. I do not know... what brought me such fortune. I will not question it. I will only thank God for it..."
His lips closed around your fingers with malice of forethought. And a bit of his tongue touched your fingertip, circling. Giancarlo grinned, pulling himself closer to face you. "I don't think God...would say much about this," he smirks. "Well, who knows. Maybe God does understand," he suggests, swallowing the grape.
Swinging his arm above his head, he looks up to pluck another couple from the stems. They're offered to you, one by one. "They say," his French comes Italianate, "...that in the church..." the one you both share, "...they used to marry some men." Grape for himself and he looks at your eyes. "I have read this. And that there were ceremonies that some priests would use for them."
"God infinitely understands," Alire murmurs, "It is men who are short-sighted." I don't want to think about this. The short-sightedness of men. Closing his eyes, he leans in. Mouth parted, he takes the grape. One by one as you feed him. Falling into the rhythm of it. The taste of it. The taste of your finger. He suckles it. Just the tip, teasing, a flick of his tongue there. The tip against the belly of your finger.
"I have heard the legend of that," he whispers. "It is true? How lucky those men, to be doubly graced by God in love, and men in tolerance." Alire settles again, settles that he might lay with you, lie against you, watch you, be fed by you. "I do not need the tolerance of men," he says evenly. "I care only for the love of the one who loves me." A kiss at your neck, it trails to your collarbone.
"God... will understand..."
Closing his eyes, Alire rolls you into his arms, strength sliding beneath you. Around you. Against you. "Whisper more Catullus to me. Propertius...hmmm... or speak to me of science. What you have been reading..
Grinning brightly, Giancarlo replies, "Ah, the same book." Medicine and alchemy. His thigh weighs heavy on yours, and he adjusts so that his handful of grapes can be plucked and fed to you still. "You want to hear of science now?" he wonders, grinning at your surprising answers. "I do not think of much," he whispers, peering at your lips as he points a grape to it, "...when we are like this."
"Well, that is not true," he laughs, brown eyes bright. "I think of...a few things relevant." Giancarlo's leg moves as if to make the point.
There is a bit of quiet as he offers another grape. "So, you do not worry...about..." you know. What people say. What some say God thinks. What some say we are. His hand makes a circle, and the grape is then offered to you a second time.
There is a look of such crystalline resolve in his blue eyes. Clear and bright, they follow the revolution of the grape, until his mouth steals it. Thereafter, his eyes are on yours. "Non," he says, soft but with conviction. "I do not worry about what anyone says of me. What anyone thinks of me. That is on them. I am true to myself." I have paid the consequences. I have earned my conviction, it has been steeled in blood and fire. Literally. What more can be done? What more can be said to me?
His eyes soften then, and he smiles. The tender look that turns to tender fire. It never takes him long. You have noticed this. "I would rather talk of science than of religion," he grins suddenly. "If I have to talk. Or poetry. Or about how your skin feels, or... how much I want. Already, how I love. How I feel sometimes foolish," eyes crinkle in the corners. "But how... I do not care if I am foolish. Suddenly," Alire whispers, his mouth finding yours. Tasting light and clear, of grapes. Sweetness. "It is how I feel. You... make me feel happy. Like this... this must have taken you all day..." He grins suddenly.
It took you all of about, what, ten minutes?
"Well," Giancarlo grins, twisting his lips. Ah, he cannot lie to you. He wants to tell you of his gift, his usually wonderful ability. You, of all people, would understand it. He winces and looks away, wriggling his nose. No poker face here.
How about a kiss? Giancarlo touches his lips to yours, breathing there a moment before pulling a little. Then again. All the while, he looks at your eyes.
Do we want to talk about this? Oh, maybe not. Maybe?
He sighs after the last kiss, biting his own bottom lip. To you, he offers a grape. More silence and wincing.
Wow. How do I explain this?
Eventually I will have to tell you such things as should not be believed. Perhaps they will make you leave me. Perhaps even you, brilliant Giancarlo, strong Giancarlo, persistent Giancarlo. Blue eyes look from you to your fingers, another grape. It is good I can eat, else you should be wearing these by now. And then, farewell romance, ne c'est pas?
"Qui," he whispers, arms coiling around you again, drawing you into him, the strength of his arms, his chest. His whisper landing against your mouth. "I n'importe pas," Alire closes his eyes, the French becoming physical endearments. The pulling of his mouth. "L' alimento buono," his Italian issues past the tangle of a kiss. Again, the intensity returns. The passion. He burns, your Alire. "Pensare a quanto migliore sara dopo che facciamo l' amore." And he blushes, even as he says it. Going ruddy, then scarlet. And laughing.
"Indeed?" he grins, liking the idea. "I see how you think now," Giancarlo teases, giving you one more kiss and finishing the last of the grapes. Arms coil around your neck again, relaxing easily. "I love that you blush," he whispers, hands in your hair. Ah good. You will not ask about his skittishness. Yet, he wants to tell you of it regardless.
Legs show sudden strength, and Giancarlo pushes upwards, encouraging a roll. He smiles as he is beside you and then seeing you from above in a quick instant. His legs drape astride you.
I think...I should do this now. I think.
Hands run through his hair and he stretches, arms folding above his head. "I...have...something to show you, Alire..."
"Not that," he blushes, looking down between you.
"Good," he murmurs, as he rolls upon his back, you above him now. Oh... this I like. Golden eyebrows arch upward and he looks across the vista of this new position, his thighs easing beneath you. His large hands finding their way to your hips. They rest there in soft possession, pads of his fingers lightly pressing. "I was going to say," and the ruddiness at his face remains, "...that I have seen it before, but will never tire of seeing it," don't rush to put it away on my account. And he laughs, guilt spreading across his face along with a grin. "And it is good you like a man who blushes. I can get away with nothing," he sighs. I am too fair...
Among other things...
"What then... if not you... my lovely Giancarlo. What do you wish to show me..." And he does not think about how he must look beneath you, beneath the firelight. Body showing its need. And its past. He is comfortable with you. And at peace with you on him. His eyes hold your face with curiosity. Interest. You speak and you will have his attention.
Even if it does waver, from time to time, to your stomach and thighs...
He shall never say he disliked being adored. In fact, he's learned to like it very much. "I want to tell you...a few things." Nothing so serious. It is a joy to be able to tell this. "I say it now," he reverts to Italian, "...for I want you...to understand. I think you will understand. And it will make things...easier."
His full weight is distributed across your lap. It does seem to inspire him, and Giancarlo grins as he looks down to where you are joined. Nervously, his hands stroke downwards from your stomach, coming to rest at the flat around your length.
"I..." he grins, as if embarrassed, "...have not been...direct...on how I found you," his hand lifting to massage his brow an instant. He exhales with that, as if trying to clear some tension. "Or how I...made these in your room, love." The candles and stands. Lips twist and he pulls them tight. "I...have...certain abilities." And hands that framed you, now gently massage, wandering over the picture's subject.
His eyes are drawn there too, as much as he can see... drawn, more, to your own stomach, your own length. Such a sight. It ripples through him, and the length beneath your hand moves seemingly of its own accord. A twitch, the shudder at the ripple's end. His hands leave you -- just for a moment, my Giancarlo -- to carefully grab nearby pillows, propping up his head. He smiles. Now this is much better.
How handsome you are. And how talented. Yes, your certain abilities. One of which must be your agile hands...
Blue eyes glisten in the following blink. Again. And Alire's smile, though slight, reverberates with warmth, with want, with love. And with curiosity. "You... are the fastest candlestick maker that I know," he teases. But then, seriously... a look given to you. His expression opens, even as his hands move back to your hips. Eyebrows lift, opening outward in an arch. "I was wondering. I mean," a chuckle, "... no one looks for Alire d'Avignon." Laughter falls, but not the smile, and in a hush, and with a face of love, he asks, "...Tell me how you do these wondrous things...I will count myself more lucky in the end."
Perhaps it is just a need to do something with idle hands while he speaks his story. Or perhaps a manifestation of something else. "Non ricordo quando ha cominciato. Ero giovane quando la mia base mi ha preso un giocattolo favorito e lo ha regolato su una mensola. Quando ha ritornato, il giocattolo era con me una volta di piu'." Brown eyes look to you. "She did not say anything, mia mama," he smiles, "...she was smart. And what would she say? And to whom? They were...religious. What would happen with her only son?" Whatever it was, it was a source of problems.
"Elena," he calls her, comfortable with her name, "...my mother...she was a gentle soul. She tried," he frowns, recalling her struggle, "...to tell me why I must not tell anyone my gift. That it should not be public. I think," his fingers massage softly now, from crown to root, "...when I was youngest, that was when it was the worst. She rushed...to make sure that I was not lacking anything," Giancarlo laughs, looking at you, "...for if something was missing, I had a habit of...finding it...myself. The women in our village, they said she spoiled me. My father said it too. They did not understand what she had to bear."
"A son..." he flushes, "...who could do magic."
He sighs there, shoulders tense, eyes searching your ice-blue ones. He licks his lips and swallows, continuing on. "Eventually, she told papa....when I was...maybe eight. Our dog," Cesare looks down in a blush, "...was not allowed in the house. I let it in one day, because I thought it was unfair. I wanted him in the house. He broke a vase," Cesare explains, "...and my parents arrived in the door. They immediately saw the accident and me rushing the dog out of the back. Father," he smiles, "...rushed after me. But I thought he had not seen or registered the vase. When he came back in with me...the vase was...fixed." Giancarlo chuckles, one hand leaving you to come to his lips. His eyes glisten with the memory, and he looks past your pillowed head to some point in space. "Mama and I insisted that the vase was never broken. But he was tired then, I think, of the things he saw-but-never-saw," he chortles. "And..." brows lower after the humor, "...she told him. Ah, he was so angry. And then...he looked at me differently. For a while. Until he understood."
His hands hold you again, he looking squarely at the maleness in his hand. Another story there, it seems. "There...are many other stories," the light in the room flickering now in patterns. "They kept...my ability a secret. Surely," Giancarlo inhales, returning to your sweet face, a smile now on his, "...I cannot say what would have happened to me, Alire. Not in...eighteen-hundred and fifty..." The truth of his experience.
But maybe he should stop. Brown eyes are slow to meet your gaze, but when they do, Giancarlo tries to muster a smile.
Oh, Giancarlo. You could tell me you were the devil himself right now and I would not care. Your hands...
Your hands are salvation. Do you even know it? Do you realize it? I shall have to find a way to tell you. I shall have to find my voice. I shall have to say it, even if my soul holds a finger to my lips to tell me...
Shhh... Alire...
But just as your touch might seem a distraction, they... and the magic they work on him... become a point of focus for you both, a common point. A living moment, for there is a pulse there. Even if it is not human. Perhaps it is the echo of your own, being mimicked. He thickens in your grasp, but he is still.
And there is a wash over him, moving from the realization in his eyes...
To the softening of his look... his face...
To the spreading of the smile in Understanding...
To the rush of flushed skin, reacting to your touch and to the truth between you. You and I... we are not like other men. And our uniqueness... binds us close...
If you had to pin a thought or a reaction upon this expression, this rippling through him, Relief might well fit it. "1850," he whispers, his hands clasp you and then he grins. Broadly. Amazed. Amazing. "A magician... my magician," he answers in a hush, and Alire sits up, his strength of torso pulling him up. "No wonder I am so comfortable with you," he murmurs at your mouth. Things make sense, and for Alire that is an important thing. His mouth brushes yours, and ice-blue eyes fix upon your own. "Only someone with fingers as deft as a magician, with a touch as subtle as alchemy, could have moved me," he says seriously. "You have lived a long time," he smiles at this and his eyes crinkle in it. We have both lived a long time. "You have seen many things, places, you have traveled," he wonders. "Seen things... known things... that the average Italian could only dream of seeing... of knowing..."
Giancarlo blinks, narrows his eyes, then blinks again. It was not the response he was expecting.
When you sit up and meet him, closing the space between you, his legs wrap around you, keeping him from teetering backwards.
Response? A twist of his lips and a startled, "Well, yes...I guess so," he chuckles softly. Aren't you dismayed? Scared? Think I'm overstating things? Maybe not lying, this is true.
He holds you, not sure where to take the conversation now. Proof? Stories? Okay, this is it and well, it's not an issue and will never come up again?
"Well, it may have been a little later," he whispers, "...late fifties? Sixties?" Hard to recall.
He really is confused now at your almost giddy response. "You...know...magic is...real?"
"Yes..."
I knew that before I was permanently perserved in this state. And how did I reconcile it then, in my own century? As a gift of God, Alire. Remember? They could not remove the scars -- non, these will never fade -- but had those fingers not been with me then, as in my sickness I lay, I think I was dying, wretched, released from prison to the light of day, unprepared for the brightness and for the pain. I should be crippled...
I should be dead...
"I know that magic exists in this world. So much... so much does, Giancarlo," he murmurs, his relief calming, his soft demeanor returning. "I know this world... is made up of much more than what we see. I know this, because I have seen it play out. I have... met women who could heal beyond the teaching of the day," he speaks as if he were anything but Modern. Modern medicine is itself a kind of seeming magic. But his words, his language, his hushed tone. He is giving away his own secrets in return. "I..."
I am older than you are...I have seen such things... known such things... as most would only dream to see. And most.... would never want to witness. I have lived so long. So long alone. My exuberance is... in that now I do not think I shall have to live alone again. "You found me," he whispers, looking from your eyes to your mouth, and back and forth. "Do you... know then... who I am... more than what I have told you?"
Cesare's hand absently runs through his hair once, fingers coming to massage behind his own ear. His head tilts and he shakes his head negatively. "You are...a man of meetings here," he smiles weakly. A nod and small grin, "I have seen that. I figured out...you were here in Poitiers," he admits. "That is all." He would not thoroughly invade your privacy. Just enough to know how to find you again.
"I...need to lie a moment, bello," Giancarlo murmurs. "Beside you." Whatever the pain is, it seems to intensify. Giancarlo closes his eyes, moving to rest next to you.
I will tell you all of it. I will tell you everything. After six hundred years... I must speak. Even I must speak. I can't be quiet anymore...
There is no look of comfort, nor was there any look previously of distress that you might know something. There is a simple nod, a simple smile, there is no suspicion. When you close your eyes with seeming discomfort, however, there is worry. "What is the matter," he whispers as he slowly lies back, bringing you with him. That strength of his, moving you easily. "I was not worried what you would see," he comforts. "Nor am I worried now of that. I don't question how you came to me," you came to me. That is all that matters. He is quiet for a time, a hand coming to your face, a brushing back of your hair. A soft kiss, a gentle kiss and he reclines beside you.
Attentive, Alire pulls the comforter you had used to construct this pallet, such that it folds over you and him. Warming.
Now he can show it. Both hands come to his face, hiding it. Some pain. Giancarlo removes his hands, as if to blink the pain away. But the flush across his face tells it.
"I should take something," he whispers, "...it's a headache," he explains.
Hand comes to touch your face. "You are so trusting, bello," he murmurs, smiling a little. "So loving, so beautiful. I..." he smiles, "...could barely stand to see you naked last night," he confesses, free hand at his brow now. "I wanted to faint." A laugh there, quickly stifled by the pain at his head.
"Well, I wanted you so much -- then I wanted to faint," Giancarlo corrects in his self-deprecating manner.
Your hands at your forehead. You do this a lot, my love. I have seen you. Do you do it out of habit, or out of pain? Now, I worry. I do not have time to blush at your comment, or grin at it, or make a self-depreciating joke of my own. Alire closes his eyes and leans in, his mouth lightly brushing your forehead and your hand. "I will be right back...you stay here, hmm? Do not move..."
The large form begins to gently unwind from yours. Gentle, tender -- as all things with him are. As if he knows exactly what his body may do, and he holds himself in check, takes great care. He seems to take great care in all that he does. That is apparent now...
Alire rises, naked, glorious that form. And still showing the signs of your alchemy upon it. Inspired flesh, that warrior's form. Criss-crossed as it is by things done, seen, known a long time ago. Not breaking the circle of what you have created, Alire leaves the altar pallet the same way he came in, between the pillars, and moving to the bath of the master suite.
I do not suffer mortal's pain. What if I have nothing for him? The chemist will be closed by now. I must have something. I may have an herb or something that would work, if not. I could make you an elixir...
Alire disappears into the bath, you may hear him rummaging. "I do not keep much here," he says in apology. "Ah... but maybe I have a little something. And I will make you tea," he adds. Yes, I will do that. That will help. Chamomile...
"I have... this, it is not much, Madeline must have left it..." It's a Midol. "I do not know if it will help, but...here," he murmurs, kneeling on the pallet again, putting the pills in your hand, curling them there. "I will make you some tea," he smiles.
Giancarlo sits up, taking the pills into the palm of his hand. "Grazie, bello," he whispers, one hand putting the pills into his mouth, the other opening, as if holding a cup. No pretense now.
As if built molecule by molecule, a cup forms, bottom to top in the curl of his fingers. It is not large, and already it fills with water. Cesare sighs, closing his eyes to take the pills and quickly following it up with a great swallow of water. He looks up and grins at you, almost relieved. Hopefully, something will happen soon.
Instead of the cup vanishing, Giancarlo sets it aside, off the rug and onto the firmer floor. He lies back in the pile of pillows you stacked earlier, exhaling again.
Slender the smile that slants a grin. "Make you some tea," he murmurs, "...you can conjure your own..." Bending, he places a kiss upon your head. "But I like doing it the old fashioned way," he whispers there. "Is there anything else I can get you while I'm at it?" Blue eyes are bright as they look at you, his large hand reaching out, thumb stroking against your cheek, your mouth. "Is it... something with your magic, or... just a headache?" he wonders.
And do you wonder...
What his story is in all of this...
Alire crosses over to a bureau -- yet another antique, though this one not so old -- and removes a robe. Not that anyone will come by and see him, but... well... he is modest. And while he has no problem being naked around you -- he does, in fact, enjoy it immensely -- he doesn't just... walk around that way.
He glances to you as he slips it on, smiling. "If you want to lie in the bed... we can do the picnic later," do not worry for a lost chance at a picnic. We will have many more chances, my Giancarlo.
Cesare grins at the notion of making his own tea. It is true, but he should rather you help out this time. He seems perplexed at it all, the feeling of the headache unfamiliar. "I don't know what it is," he says when you ask. "It's been so...for a couple of nights now."
He sighs when you move away to get the robe, and indeed, he does push himself up to rise and cross to the bed proper. It sighs when he places a knee upon the bedding and slips in between the sheets. Behind him comes the large comforter, obediently coming to lie once more in its rightful place.
"If you want to stay, bello," Giancarlo murmurs, hands cover his eyes now, "I can do it myself." It is no problem. He's not sure whether he'd rather you stay or make the tea.
"No no no... now... it will not take long," his hand comes out, fingers brushing your hair. He smiles, you miss it. "I will do it. I want to do something for you, for a change." You, who have already done so much for me. Alire straightens, the blue robe settling against him and he ties it secure. "Lie here... I will put the kettle on."
It will not take me long. I smile at this, knowing this. Soon I will be back with tea. Sooner than you can even imagine, magician...
The robe wavers, glowing royal as he passes the pillar candles of your own creating. How he moves, no prince but one who attended the Chosen of God -- weak men though they were. Templar, moving through the temple ou have created in his bedroom. Such quiet strength. Unassuming. But there it is, shown to you even as he leaves. Steady. Stable. Alire.
You could have lost track of time. You could have counted to ten, but made it to twenty. He is not gone long. Only long enough for water to boil. A couple of minutes. He returns with the scent of steeping tea. Herbal....
Posted by Criseyde at May 29, 2003 07:01 PM
