Title: Men of Good Fortune
Author: liriaen
Fandom: "Cesare" by Souryo Fuyumi
Characters: Cesare/Michelotto
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 780
A/N: A thank you-ficlet for michalyn who pointed me to this manga - and for wonderful icons! Set right after Vol. 1 Chapter 4: just a lazy morning scene. :)
Men of good fortune
Often cause empires to fall
While men of poor beginnings
Often can't do anything at all
The rich son waits for his father to die
While the poor just sit there and cry
And me... I just don't care at all
"Men of Good Fortune", Lou Reed
„You've seen him home to his lodgings?" Cesare has a way of not-asking, of simply stating and assuming that would drive lesser men round the bends, but Michelotto doesn't mind; he usually meets it by not-answering.
He's joined Cesare on the balcony, squinting into the morning sun. Pushing himself up on the tip of his boots and leaning on the carved banister, he measures the space between breaths, counting to ten, twenty, thirty before he says, „Lower middle class quarter two streets from the Duomo, humble but clean. No servants, I'd wager; maybe a cook." He shrugs. There's no inflection in his voice - he's relaying observations, nothing more. After another pause he cocks his head in a casual aside: „The kid is mortified," he chuckles. „Could he be in love, I wonder?"
„You mean because he's mouthbreathing an awful lot?" Cesare snorts in genuine amusement. "No, I don't think so. In love with the trappings, maybe. I think he's learning that there is no such thing as a free meal. Or education, for that matter. Whatever reason old man Medici had for taking a shine on him, Angelo will be expected to pay them back... and constantly upstaging dumpling Giovanni isn't the best way to go about it."
„Mmh." Michelotto turns his back to the yard's early morning bustle of maids and chickens and slumps back on his elbows. „Admit it, that Angelo's got a good head on his shoulders."
„Provided he keeps it. Or doesn't drown in the Arno," Cesare adds. Then he stifles a yawn and rubs his forehead against the stiff Spanish velvet of Michelotto's farsetto.
The gesture is so familiar, so unguarded that Michelotto almost automatically responds; he's already lifted a hand to Cesare's hair before he remembers where they are. That every busybody who happens to be up at this hour can see them. Nudging Cesare with his chin, he motions inside. "Bed, hm?"
Cesare nods, mutely. It's as if somebody had snuffed his wick. He's burned all night, charming Angelo, glueing Michelotto to the edge of his seat... only to turn droopy now. "Just letting you know," he mumbles under Michelotto's ear, "'m not going to University today. And you aren't either."
"Oh? Shame. I was looking forward to a few hours of canonical law, actually," Michelotto grins, dragging Cesare in and through his suites. "Pray tell, how are going to make this up to me?"
"You, my friend," Cesare feebly pokes him, "are greedy."
Michelotto never ceases to be amazed by the sudden reversals of his friend's humour, going from cool lordling to mere boy and back... thank God these lapses only ever happen in the privacy of their rooms. He throws Cesare on the sprawling four-poster as if he were a sack of grain, then proceeds to bolt the door. "Right," he smiles equanimously at the lump under the canopy. "Let's defer this, shall we?"
Just as he's pulled off Cesare's boots and moves on to hose and white pleated camacia, Cesare stirs again. "Defer?" he blurts, loud enough to rouse the house, his interest quite visibly piqued.
Sighing in mock despair, Michelotto manoeuvers him farther up the bed. He'll never admit it, not on the rack he won't, but he loves Cesare dearly when he's like this – tipsy and tired and disheveled, grasping for sobriety and control but too relaxed to care. It usually means a quick grope and a few sloppy kisses, the hungry slide of sweaty legs, and, if they stay awake long enough to disentangle their limbs, perhaps even a cuddle or two.
"Ah. Look who's back among the living." Michelotto flicks damp locks from Cesare's forehead. Mornings like this, their mouths and hands and still-growing bones just know where to go and what to do; it's a time of day when their play lacks refinement, much like that of young dogs.
Which is why Michelotto treasures these rare, clumsy moments: no masks, no plans... and if there are questions, why, the only answer is yes.