He's been done for days, but, when standing around the rickety one-room loft, there's always something else to be done. So before Giancarlo left for the afternoon, he propped up the stairs with a new wooden support. The place was left orderly -- the most orderly its been in thirty years -- but that is only a sign of his nearing departure.
It should have taken only forty minutes to get to Santa Lucia, but since he didn't need to be there until the evening, there was no rush. After a nap, Giancarlo found lunch at a cafe and read the paper. Then, he wandered to the bookstore. A leisurely ride around St. Mark's calmed him, and by then, it was time to find a spot near the train station for another coffee. Excitement diffused into the Venetian afternoon.
The last coffee was the hardest. Giancarlo nursed his cup for almost thirty minutes before standing and dropping coins on his table. A deep inhale and exhale, and he finally decided it was time to wait in the cool evening breezes under the clocks. And why not? Everyone else was there, meeting friends, family, and lovers. Why was he any different?
He went into the late twilight, eyes focused upon the rising moon. With hands in pockets, he exhaled a last time and began the first real scans of the crowd, to see if there was a familiar face, smiling back at him.
I did not come by the Orient Express, but I am thinking, amice, that is how you and I should leave. Think of it, amice. The dinner cars. The luxurious quarters for those who can pay their way -- and I have had so little need to spend my money that now I am wealthy, wealth having accumulated in neglect. We could sip champagne, pass by through the French countryside and come into the very heart of Poitiers. We would disembark there, leaving Paris for another night.
Some night we shall go there, too, you and I...
The last bit of pink and magenta have dissolved into the snaking waters of Venezia, and the lights of the floating city begin to come alive. The train station is crowded even so with those coming, with those going. Fond farewells. Heartfelt welcomings. Coffee and cigarettes in between.
He holds a folded magazine in his hands, something taken from a stand outside, he recognizes the face of the man on the cover, he could not resist it. But it is slipped into the further folds of a leather satchel. Soft grey gloves smoothen over it, clasping the brown suede satchel closed. And he appears in the parting of the crowd, in the moment between one train arriving, and another's depature.
Life teams around him, moving so much slower than he could. He moves in between them, as if he can foretell their motions -- he can, in fact, for he sees them moving before they even realize where they are going. Dressed, Dieu, to the 9's, as they say. A long light-grey overcoat, lying over layers of a suit, this too is grey, and a sudden flash of yellow and cream, in the tie and in the vest. Topped off by the sleek cut of very blonde hair. He looks around, blue eyes giving a scan, and he senses you are nearby. You can see this perhaps?
In the start of a smile, in the turning of his head to find you. Expectant. Alire shifts the weight of his bag upon his shoulder, makes one last check of something in his coat's pocket. Likely checking to make sure the globe is where it was the last time he checked for it, all of five minutes ago...
The streak of something well-apportioned is spotted in the distance. A glance up. Yes, I am beneath the clocks. Instead of moving, Giancarlo lifts a hand and waves. Is that you? I think it is. His smile is unshielded at the recognition, but he refuses to leave his spot beneath the clocks.
Here I am! Come this way!
He should shout out your name, but that seems untoward in this mishmash. Cesare looks left and right at the streaming throngs, and waves his hand frantically again.
You did say you would be under the clocks, and as soon as the way clears for him -- they part for him like the waters of the Red Sea for Moses -- Alire looks to the clocks and then down. Catching the wave of your hand. And immediately grinning.
Now, you are used to the sacramental smiles, slight -- as if to smile too broadly or with too much light would give it all away -- but there is no mistaking him, even with the broad grin, for his face is lit up, handsome, and he picks up steam. That stride can carry him far, as well you know.
And soon, the well-apportioned specter reveals itself as d'Avignon before you. Looking even as you saw him the first night you ever saw him, a bag over his shoulder, destinations at his heels. But now, he is smiling. Without end.
I do not know whether to hug you, kiss you, wrap you up, throw you over my shoulder or simply take your hands and so for a moment, I just stand and smile innanely like a fool. But that moment doesn't last. The next finds him embracing you, more than an old friend, the continental kiss placed on both cheeks. But with a lingering. "Hello, Caesar," first he whispers at your ear. He smells of something lightly citrus, like orange-ginger oil. And his hand remains on your arm as he parts. "This time, Gaul comes to you, yes?"
And Alire has never gleamed brighter, seemed happier, or been more alive.
The awkward greeting passes. You handled it with aplomb. He wanted to do the same...to hug, to kiss lingeringly. Instead, his cheeks are graced, and a hand stays upon his arm. He understands, fingers closing over your hand. He is delirious to see you, that is evident, and the smile must cause pain to the muscles at his face. Goodness, he wants to hug you again, and the slightest motion toward you, only you can perhaps see.
Ah, there must be time for that. Time soon.
What to say, what to say?
A laugh. "You're here," he says, amused by the name you've given him. Okay, that's good. Cesare looks at your bag and hands go around the strap to take it. "Let's go...I have a gondola nearby, hmm?" A glance to his watch. "Well, he is supposed to be nearby..."
And he angles quickly, taking the bag and beneath the gaze of the crowd, placing a set of fingers into your hand.
He surrenders his bag -- allowing you to be gallant, we all need those moments -- and Alire smiles. "You will pilot us?" he wonders by your words if you mean to steer it yourself, is it your private gondola? "That ruins my plans for otherwise occupying you on the way," he says near to you. His hand slides easily into yours, the softness of the glove -- it is not leather. It is a soft cashmere -- moves against your skin. As he opens the doors to head out of the station and to the fondamenta and the canals -- he gets his turn to be gallant now, see how this works? -- his hand slides out of yours, and skims against your back.
Yes, the world just saw me put my arm around you, for all intents and purposes. How.... exhilirating.
"Oh," he catches your mention of the pilot a half moment after you say it, and he grins. "..good... and ah, I had forgotten how beautiful she is, your city," he continues, stepping out with you. It is a clear night, therefore it is a crisp night, but he is dressed for it.
Small talk. That is not what I want. I want to pull you into one of the slender boats and make it rock upon the water."Giancarlo," Alire murmurs, fingers finding yours again, "...there are not enough words for me to tell you how much I have missed you, amice, and how good it is to see you. In the flesh," he breathes afterwards -- for he has 'seen' you the whole time, practically, that you've been parted.
You cleared up the confusion before had the chance. Cesare tries to watch the path ahead of himself while watching you beside him. Hard to do both. "She is beautiful," he says in Italian, "...and I will show you all the best parts, Alire," he smiles. "I have missed you too," he says softly, feet picking up pace as he heads down the stairs at an angle -- much to the chagrin of those arriving.
"Here," he motions, a gondola a bit away on a darkened canal. The lights have come on, causing Venice to glow with an unearthly ripple. Illumination and water. "Seppe!" he calls, a friend of several years, Giuseppe. Get ready! Cesare's hair has grown a little since you last saw each other, and his brown shirt and slacks are the nicest he probably owns. All for you.
"Here," he says, letting you approach the gondola first. Not much for small talk as well, but Giancarlo can't contain his excitement. "Seppe! This is Alire, I told you about. My friend...who has come to see me..." and take me away, his grin says.
He is looking at you, glances given to the way -- but he moves easily in darkness, maybe you've noticed -- but you are studied, held, touched, clasped by those cobalt eyes. As you introduce the gondolier, Giuseppe, Alire looks up, looks away from you, and there's a genial smile for the other. And no nervousness or hesitation as he approaches the vessel.
He's been on these before. This is no lip-biting tourist, unaccustomed to a gondola, for certes...
"Pleased to meet you, Seppe," comes the Italian, of the Venetian variety, a smile, a nod, and finally a hand. Partly for greeting handshake, partly for embarking. And as he does, good lord the figure he makes. The long overcoat moves like the cloak of some lord. Or, in this case, a knight. But it is modern, and with Italian sensibilities. Finely tailored for him. Perfect cuffing. Elegant lines.
The gondola shifts with his weight, but he knows where to place it. Balancing, he holds out a hand for Giancarlo. Unabashed.
Giuseppe doesn't seem flustered at all by the closeness. Perhaps it's from training, or good old-fashioned politeness. Maybe because he knows much about Giancarlo. He steadies the gondola, though he knows it's not needed, and gives the visitor a bright smile. "Pleased," he bobs, "...welcome to Venezia, our home!"
A hand takes advantage of the moment, grabbing yours outright, Alire. Certainly, he needs steadying, yes? Well, not from the deft way he lands in the boat and moves into a seat. After he's brushed against you, beautiful knight. "Sit, bello, sit," Giancarlo says comfortably. "Seppe knows the way. He has steered me," a glance up, "...how long now? Ah, a long time," he smiles brightly, as if introducing you, Alire, to family. It is all he has left, in truth.
"Si, a long time for Carlo..." Giuseppe says, pushing off already, knowing his friend wishes it a short journey to night.
He likes it, being called 'Bello'. You see that, as you could not see it before, and he revels in it, shines in it, becomes it. Alire takes a seat, stretching legs out a bit and he settles back easily. Ah, the pleasures of a gondola. "Cradled in the arms of Venezia," Alire says softly, "I know of only one hold that is better than this." Venezia is now missed as much as you have been, for it becomes you, you...it. To Alire, you are One.
A gloved hand reaches out to hold your own, without forethought, and he turns to look at you, Giancarlo. So much is the need etched in his face, and yet it is tempered -- even as it is heated -- by the evident affection in his eyes. Where you and he sit, your legs are flush, one against the other. And in the darkness his skin is flushed. His hold on your hand tightens, fingers clasping, squeezing.
A long time with Carlo, a man of many names: Cesare, Caesar, Giancarlo, Carlo. Maybe it is the Italianates fondness for nicknames that is the cause. Alire relaxes, looking between you and your pilot. "I read that one time the princes and doges had their own gondoliers," I knew a few of them, actually, "... this is an old tradition the two of you keep..."
Giuseppe also knows the cardinal rule: never speak unless directly addressed. And so, he waits for Giancarlo to give reply.
"Well," Cesare grins, "I think it's just that he knows where I live and where I go..." brightly colored eyes glance up. Nothing so fancy. Just people watching time pass together.
But enough of that. Cesare squeezes your hand as the gondola picks up a quick pace. Fingers brush across yours, expression of intimacy. He exhales and leans into you a bit, despite the gondolier's view from above. "Was your trip good?" he asks, fingers now curling between yours.
There is already an easy intimacy. Some have worked for many years to get to this place where I find myself with you. But you lean, I turn. Your fingers squeeze, I respond. And settling back, I turn my head toward you, softly smiling. But there is nothing sacramental about it now. "Longer than I remembered it being from Provence to Venice," leg brushes against yours, gloved fingers slide. "But good... I will be ready to settle in," you, "... tonight. Maybe you and I will sight-see tomorrow." He doesn't bother with matters of Day and Night. Not now.
I want to kiss you. Do you see this want? After two weeks and staring at you in the globe, and watching you... in the sheets... as I did the other night, how am I to wait? How hard it is, after seven centuries of Nothing, to wait now that I have found someone. It is unconscious the lean toward you. The mouth that finds your own. Uncaring of the gondolier.
Ah, but this is an old tradition, too. The gondolier's vow of secrecy to his master. For the gondolier gives no confession of what he sees. Only God may know, and God will have to look for Himself. So it is said.
The kiss is electric, this first embrace after days...and days...and days. Shocking, the first of it was brief. Hands trembled, fingers clasping in sudden, twitching motion.
He attempted to wait...not for either of you, but more for Giuseppe. A friend may understand, but he doesn't need the details. But rules are made to be broken, and Cesare sighs in the kiss, slipping down upon the pillows to secret himself with you inside the gondola. His free hand comes to rest on your stomach, daring not lower.
"I was hoping to spare Giuseppe," Cesare says in French as he smiles at your mouth, eyes half-lidded. Freedom at last. Freedom to touch. It is much like a drink of water to a bereft soul. Fingers unbutton your topcoat so that his hand may slip inside. Not undressing yet. Just...to disappear and be closer to you.
"I love you," he mouths silently, his breath warm.
As much as I might wish to spare Giuseppe, I must also spare myself. This can only be done at your mouth. Let the shadows hide it -- for what else is Night for, if not for secreting, hiding, concealing? And are his eyes not on the waterways? He will be spared.
Alire sinks back with you, a smile for your mouthed words -- he could see them. "I love you," he mouths, a breath without sound. And then a smile. And he glances toward the pilot, as if in some preparation to apologize.
But he does not apologize. Nor will he.
Alire closes his eyes, tilting his head as your hand unbuttons the topcoat, slips against silk beneath, warmed by his skin -- well... seemingly warmed by his skin. "How far," he wonders in French, grinning as his eyes slowly open, taking you in. And the spectacle you and he are making. At least in his mind. "...until we reach the room I have been seeing all this time in my mind." And the mattress in the loft. And you and he in the sheets.
A hand, still gloved, reaches out, skimming your hair. He smiles for the length. For the subtle changes in you.
"Not too far," he says, as if providing some positive news. Cesare smiles as you notice his hair. He hasn't cut it since you last saw each other. Large waves have started and will need a tieback in a week or so from now. At least, he has shaved. His nose touches your ear, allowing his forehead to settle at your temple. Words meant only for you.
"Did you like the globe?" Cesare asks. He might as well have said, We will be inside each other soon, bello, for all the breathing done to manage a few short words. He shuffles, as if he could get closer, and glances askance, to the head and sides of the gondola, to see where you might be.
"I adore it," he replies, meaning: I can't wait. He closes his eyes again, he has no mind for viewing Venice tonight. "When it sat upon my pillow the other night," and we spoke to one another until our bodies made a separate but sympathetic rhythm, "...I ...realized how truly wonderful a gift it was." He laughs, softly but it comes with a rising redness that even dark of night cannot conceal. His skin heats with it. "It is, as you, marvelous. And...that night... amice....well, tonight will be better still."
Giuseppe probably knows French. But maybe he's not listening. The words are quiet. How loud is the sound of the water on the flank of the gondola suddenly...
He knows that you live in the heart of the city. He has the Grand Canal memorized. He knows how it is carrying you both, heading toward the Rialto...
As you turn your head, his mouth finds the line of your jaw, just beneath it, your neck, to your ear, and a gloved hand reaches up to find yours that earlier slipped between the layers of overcoat.
Let it be soon, O Heavenly Father...
Please let it be soon...
Or I shall make this gondola stutter and rock as it was never meant to do...
Cesare's eyes close, as if your kisses told them to do so. "I hope you will like...my home. It is...not so much..." he apologizes now. Perhaps you have never resided in such simple and sparse surroundings. In his statement is a wish that he had more to give you, and Cesare tries to stifle the sigh.
"I have seen your apartment," Alire smiles, last kiss placed at your chin. "And I like it very well. If business did not make me leave, amice, I would stay in your Venice with you." But that is not to be. Not yet anyway. Maybe in fifty years or so, amice. Maybe we will return. Maybe sooner. Who knows.
Fingers slide against yours again, and the strong hand encased in softest cashmere holds yours, lightly squeezing. He sits up and spares your friend at last. But that is not the only reason he sat up. His eyes take in the scenery, getting their bearings, and he wonders...
How long, amice?
"I would be content in your apartment, lying on your mattress," Alire says, eyes lifting to the stars. He may see a few, even with the lights of the city. "I am a man who needs... very little," and that is... so true. Lord, I could be bound in a nutshell, the saying goes. A thimble. He smiles at that.
You give me all I need, Giancarlo. You give me love. You give me reason to live.
"There," as if he heard you. Cesare sits up with you, exhaling wistfulness away. One corner of an intersection dips into darkness, though ahead is the bright marquee of a theater. The turn is onto a side canal, towards what would be a stage entrance. But no longer. Internal walls have cartoned this sliver into a space of its own, and a door and stoop can be seen above the waterline.
There is a smile for needing little. He is the same. His hand squeezes your again, but Giancarlo's at attention now, his home so close.
Giuseppe navigates slowly now, turning from the marquee lights ahead to the side canal.
The 'streets' of Venice are labyrinthine. So many corridors, so many bridges, backdoors and gates and secret gardens. It is a wonder, this city. It must be moved in, discovered. And like it, you too must be discovered.
But every man is a labyrinth of sorts. Love the thread to help navigate....
Alire, too, is at attention -- well, if he were a wicked-humored man, he might have a double-entendre to make at that thought, but he leaves it be for now. He sees the narrow space narrow further, the Grand Canal left behind for one of the smaller 'rio' that lead off of it. And he sees how the buildings have been changed over time. Palazzi transformed into apartments and flats. Old theatres partitioned off.
He watches Giuseppe navigate and he smiles, twisting to look at you. "I feel like I am coming home, amice," Alire whispers.
Really? "Perhaps you are," he says softly, reaching out to touch his step. Cesare stands and says quick to Giuseppe, 'grazi.' No lira is exchanged.
Cesare steps out, swinging your bag onto his shoulder. He'll need to open his door to make space for you both. A key is drawn out, but instead of it fitting into a lock, it's waved in front of the door and words uttered.
Well, it's not as if there was any sort of fixture for it anyway.
The door opens inward and Cesare steps further into the square doorfacing. "Here," he says, extending his hand to you, "...buon nocte, Seppe!" he calls happily.
Cashmere meets your skin again, a thin layer of softness overlying great strength and solidity. Bracing, he pulls himself up and out with you. "Buon nocte, Seppe," Alire calls out, a turn to look at the gondolier over a broad shoulder. His clothes fold about him, elegant once more. No matter how profane the gondola ride nearly became...
His hand is to your back. The gentle press of his fingers against the small of your back, sliding to your hip. There is reverie that follows, broken when you reach out for him again. Alire smiles, hand joining yours, stepping in, ducking, eyes looking around. And it is like coming home. A home that has been his since you gave him the globe. He recognizes it all.
There is no need to be subtle here, or polite, or thoughtful, or secretive. As he comes into the room, his hands lift to cup your face, and the kiss explodes.
So intense, Alire d'Avignon. A thirsty man, your mouth a fountain. And he, no need to come up for air...
Giuseppe gives a wave, but guesses it won't be seen. He grins and pushes from the stoop, heading forward into darker portions of the inner canal...
"The door..." Cesare half-laughs, but it doesn't keep him from engaging the kiss. Hand reaches out to swing where the door should be, and fingers wiggle as he tries to give it a push. In the stretch, your bag at his arm drops forth, leaving him fairly off-kilter.
But that doesn't matter either.
Cesare's left hand pushes at the shoulder of your coat, expecting some semblance of success in sending the coat to the floor. He is mistaken, however, considering the present tangle you're both in.
"Yes, yes... I do feel a draft..."
You should have packed that clock last night, but it is still sitting propped up, prepared for a box. Of course, had you packed it, it would only have complained.
The kiss does not part as wildly as you might think. It does... pause however, stilling gradually until it truly registers, and then do blue eyes lift from you, golden eyebrows pulling together. His mouth, however, is still at your own, suckling, unable to leave you. Even though his expression is asking: Who is here?
No one is here -- it only takes a moment to survey the apartment.
"Amice," Alire murmurs at your mouth, and the rest is muffled in a kiss. A foot comes out, the door is closed. Summarily. Loudly. Kicked to a shuttering shut. So much for nosy neighbors, comes the Italian at your mouth. Alire rolls out of his coat, leaving suit coat over layers of the suit itself, the tailored trousers and fine Italian shoes. Still much to remove. Then again, there is no need to remove it all...
Alire's bag falls to the floor to join his overcoat. And then the suit's coat joins them. Frenzied motions. It is a wonder the clothing is not flying off, torn from him for all the intensity of the wrangling that follows...
Tsk-tock...
Tick-tock
Tsk-tsk
A clock with a sense of humor and scruples...
There's a matching frown...Cesare thought he'd put that away. A series of hand-gestures at Alire's back sends a cone of silence around the box and items lying nearby. No time at the moment for chastising.
And Jesu, do you wear too many clothes!
Cesare sighs, trying to kiss even as he has to look down between you to find vest buttons. That not going so well, he then turns to something that should be easier...the belt hidden beneath vest's hem. The zipper that should be beneath that. Now Cesare remembers why he dresses so simply.
The intensity, he had forgotten. You are long beyond him in that. How can one person, one man, contain such within? Certainly, he is thrilled and desirous. But you? For you, it is something else. Something he cannot place his finger upon.
"Bello," Cesare finally says, one hand at your waist, the other now at your cheek. Is everything alright? We're alright. We have all the time in the world and all of this night...
I remember the last time it was like this. That I was like this...
The cold interiors of a castle between the hearths. A moment stolen in the deadest part of night. It was rare, so rare that we were under the same roof, we had been parted for months. When my lover and I finally had a moment, we copulated like stags in the field, hands tearing at clothing, at one another. It was the last moment we were together. There was not time for languorous lovemaking. We rutted. We kissed. And we had to part.
We were going to meet afterwards, in another week. There was this abandoned tower in a field northeast of Avignon. From there, we were to go to Switzerland. I was waiting for him there when I was arrested...
Bello...
Bello...
Your hand on his face wakes him, slows him, and Alire blinks, cobalt eyes softening. The kiss still echoes upon his mouth, your mouth. In tingling. In heat. In the taste of you captured there. He places a hand upon your hand, pressing it to his cheek. "I am sorry," he says, there is a little smile. There is a little flush to his face, but maybe that is from the passion, not from embarrassment. He doesn't seem embarrassed. Just suddenly aware. And aware that his back is to the wall, not far from the door. He doesn't even remember stepping in this far.
Eyebrows arch upward slightly and he leans in, a gentle kiss -- gentle in that it is slow, it is far from chaste -- placed there at mouth, then at your chin, then at your forehead another. "I get carried... away, I know," he murmurs, the same slim smile still present. Blue eyes are bright. "See what you do to me..."
...it is not then, Alire...
...we are different now, you and I...
...and we have all the Time in the world...
Cesare grins, shaking his head. You are so funny, bello, his smile says. Taking a step backwards, Cesare looks up to the loft.
"We shall lock up..." his hand in yours, no less heated than before, but now more deliberate, "...we see if there is anything else we wish to do first...then..." he glances upstairs, "...we retire for the next two days..." Cesare chuckles. Is that a plan?
Laughter. First it escapes a little nervously maybe, no, that is not it. It comes out, as if it were breaking the ice, but the ice has all melted. What ice could survive after such a kiss. His hand in yours, his fingers squeeze. "Si," he says and softly, "...oui," again. The smile is fuller now, and he... a little more relaxed. His clothing, shortly, in a shambles, he starts to come out of it. The gloves are first -- his hand leaves yours only so long as to remove the glove -- and then his one free hand pulls at the tie. Alire sighs, moving flush against you. "Two... perhaps three," he chuckles.
It is not Then, this is true. It is not Then...
His gloves fall -- he'll get them later -- his tie is set aside, not folded and smoothened as is his usual habit, and he will get that later, too. Alire looks to you, "I will pour us some wine?" he suggests. "While you lock up..."
"A good idea," Cesare smile, not wishing to leave you as you're undressing. He sways a moment, then laughs, knowing he should go ahead with locking up the place, as it is. Fingers leave you, and he swings around towards the kitchen.
"I have bought a few things," motioning that way, but stopping at the door. "There is bread and some things for it," cheese, butter, cold meats in the refrigerator, "...and things for breakfast too. Coffee...I like tea...milk..." the usual suspects.
At the door, Cesare closes his eyes a moment and ceases his list. There.
Eyes open, and he picks up where he left off.
"We are expecting some rain, so...I had to...add something." To keep water and rats at bay.
The loft is clean and functional...and the large open walls above the ground floor are lined with recently-added shelves and books. How he got them up there is another story. Cesare puts his hands on his waist, then turns to see the broader room. "I think...that was it..."
He would not be surprised, he can well imagine books and shelves flying upward as you will them, setting themselves in place. All for you. You are magical. Even if he didn't know you were a magician, he'd still think that. You have a way of transforming him, afterall.
While you were "locking up", Alire moved into the kitchen, taking the bottle up with corkscrew and like a professional removing it with a pop. He hadn't quite gotten to the rest, but as you explain it, his eyes look this way, that way. You as tour guide through the finger foods and all. It will be more than enough to suit us, I think. Alire smiles, mid-pour as you turn about.
"It is fascinating to me," he murmurs, "..what you can do... I remember when you made that... gathering of candles for me, the blankets on the floor." And then what we did. Sweet Jesu, it moves right through me. Surely you can see it.
Flushed face turns downward as his smile creeps upward, pouring finished. He sets the bottle aside and comes toward you with the glass. "Here, caro," he murmurs. As he hands off the glass to you, he touches his against it, causing a chime to sound throughout the room. "To us. And... there is nothing I want to do..." apart from you.
He couldn't bring himself to say that...
His attention was on the mundane. Now, it is given to you and the glass. "I happen to like candles," Cesare nods, watching you as he says, "...to us," glass lifting. He takes a first taste, then slides his hand in yours again. "In fact," Cesare glances up to the loft, and the lighting in the open room fades to nothing. All that remains is a flicker somewhere upstairs.
A smirk and he turns to lead you to the stairs -- shorn up to make sure it could hold both of you, if necessary. "Be careful," he murmurs while tipping his chin at the offending wood, glass in his curled hand and tucked at his chest.
"I do too," Alire whispers and then the lighting dims, the room darkens and he smiles. Can you still see it. A swallow of wine is held on the tongue, savored, and he comes behind you. Alire holds the glass securely and he mounts the stairs with only a moment of hesitation -- gaining his footing -- then he moves up.
The way is slow, and he minds his head as he climbs up and ducks into the loft. The loft he has seen in the globe. The globe that is now on the floor in his jacket, held securely in crumpled clothing. Alire takes another swallow of wine and sets the wine aside on a tiny little table. His vest is undone, coming off as you come in... the shirt being unbuttoned...
The intensity is returning, at a low burn but building. It will roil against you as he rolls against you. The images are burned on his mind, you on this bed the other night, your hands slipping beneath the sheets. The sheets slipping down to your thighs...
"Welcome to my little loft," Cesare chuckles, self-deprecating as usual. A humor of his...great sorcerer with so little. As you undress, he sets his glass on the floor near the mattress that rests directly on the wood. It once belonged to a futon, perhaps, but now, it is all there is of a bed.
A large candle does flicker near where he has set his wine. Just one. Enough to cast twisting shadows even before any twisting has begun. Cesare sits upon the bed and removes his shoes, scooting back after he tosses one to his side of the bed, and further back into the alcove once the second shoe rests beside the first. He has to glance down to watch his fingers unbutton his own shirt, suddenly unfamiliar with the worn silk and fading buttons.
He doesn't think of possessions. Of what sort of clothes you wear. He knows it is a trifle. Of no importance. "I need nothing but you, a pallet and a roof," he whispers, and up here, and in the darkness, his voice need not be louder. It is solemn soft. "Anything else, caro, is ..." Alire smiles, cuffs falling open as cuff-links are removed. He steps out of his shoes, shirt falling open, vest on the floor.
I will drink the wine, caro, when I have worked up a thirst...
Blue eyes sparkle, they need little light to do so. And in the temperance of the one candle, you will begin to see the criss-cross of the old marks. Those for whom the story has yet to be told. "... simply fortunate," he finally finishes his thought. "I would shield the rain from your head with my hand, I would be your roof. Do not worry that you do not live in a castle, caro, for it is unnecessary for you to have any possession other than yourself."
He falls silent then, watching you undress -- watching you, watching him undress. His shoulders roll and his button-down shirt comes off, falls unfolded to the floor. The physique you remember. Strong, so strong. And in the low light, the sign of scars. Criss-crossed over chest, shoulders, stomach. Some barely noticeable, others hard not to notice. Alire's hands lower to his waist, to the belt you got half unfastened, and the trousers begin to fall slack, to reveal that he is anything but slack underneath.
There is a smile in the glimmering light, still there from when he first saw you. A somber quiet draws over Cesare when he is reminded of your scars...and how thick some of them are. How plentiful. Simultaneously, he wishes them away as much as he knows they are part of something that is quintessentially you.
His slacks are unbuttoned and pulled open. He shall not come out of them, until you desire it. Resting upon his pillows, his hand extends toward you in the dimness, a place prepared for you.
"Are you tired?" he wonders, hand gently moving. Living, your Giancarlo is, the natural adjustments a balanced hand must make requiring an attempt at patient steadiness.
Those that healed well were made with a whip or cat's tails. Those that did not heal as...gently... were wounds made from ...other implements. There is always that moment of solemn quiet as they are unveiled. That moment of nervousness. That moment of mortality. That moment when he waits to see you blanch. Yet you handle it so valiantly. Few others have even seen them. Fewer still did not blink at them. You just wish to make them go away. He wishes he never had one.
Alire kneels upon your bed, coming to you as you reach for him. Likewise, his trousers remain on, but unfastened. There are layers even there, from belt to trousers to folds to the boxers beneath. So many layers, Alire. As if he were worried about being found out somehow.
"No," Alire answers in a breath at your mouth. A kiss there, a taste of wine there. "Are you?"
"No," Giancarlo whispers, closing his eyes. Only now does he rest comfortably in his own bed, the anxiety of the evening falling away. Legs part to hold you, and his arms fold around your shoulders. Drawn to the marks, his fingertips follow a line here and there, but he does not linger upon them.
"There's..." his eyes wander over you, "...so much I want to talk about now," Giancarlo explains. "I wasn't ready...before," he confesses, "...but I think I am now. Now that you're here, bello."
"But...later. After," he says in a hushed voice, finishing the words with a kiss and pull that he might feel your weight upon him.
"We have all this night, we have many nights," he tells you, he tells himself as he settles upon you, easily fitting. Firmly, but gently fitting. We are two pieces who were in want of a matching set. We are that set now, caro. "If you want to talk now," Alire smiles, surveying you as you are beneath him, "...we certainly can, Giancarlo," and yet he kisses you, knowing that doing so could put an end to all discussion.
His mouth is soft and warm against you, pulling, gently knowing. And then the parting of your mouth in his, the taste of wine that swirls around your tongue. "I ... have things I want to tell you too," Alire whispers, feeling you beneath him. He has to look at you there again. What a sight, my caro. Mio caro Giancarlo.
The scars beneath your fingers, you trace them. There are stories there. Things he has not said. But these things, they are on the tip of his tongue. Can you feel that as your fingers move over the slight, soft ridges of the scars?
As his fingers move, Giancarlo seems to flinch faintly. No other could note the change in his blood, the slight tightening of his temples. He wills it away. Not repulsion, to be sure, but more like a momentary flash of pain...
"No," he smiles, "...we...can talk of it later." Hands leave your shoulders, and slip down strong arms. His knees bend outward, and his feet, rather deftly, clasp your waistband, encouraging the slacks lower.
Alire is perceptive, he felt the start. He was about to speak, about to stop, but then you smiled. And it soothes him. Alire takes one of yours, fingers coiling, clasping. And as your feet lift, pulling and pushing the pants from his hips, he twists, breathing your name, his hips coming free of the trousers.
And he is free, from trousers, from boxers, and everything about him tightens, even the scars upon his skin. "We will, caro," I promise you, and I will tell you anything you want to know...
And maybe even things you don't want to know...
Alire rolls upward, pressed against your stomach, mouth capturing yours, his body using that moment to twist out of his clothing. His hands sliding downward, his mouth sliding downward. You feel his fingers between your legs, pulling the folds of the trousers open, sliding between the cloth and your skin, and he groans your name.
And that intensity...
It comes back, though tempered somewhat -- he's not ripping off your clothing or his -- but he is in a tight knot. The only release will be when he is within you, and you are in him.
Posted by Criseyde at May 29, 2003 07:01 PM
