Title: Races
Fandom: Souryo Fuyumi's "Cesare" / Borgia history
Characters: Cesare, Michelotto
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1220
Summary: "Get used to the idea of losing from time to time, will you?"
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Races
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"This is patently ridiculous!" Cesare yells.
Michelotto pulls him back by the collar as if he were an unruly, yapping puppy, and Cesare flails against the chokehold.
"Shhh, cut it out, will you?" Michelotto hisses, then shoves Cesare behind his back. "Esteemed lords, signori, don't listen to him; he has the choler. He meant no offense to the most august members of the Signo-"
"Like fuck I did!" roars Cesare, trying to clamber and spit over Michelotto's black-clad shoulder. "The race was rigged!"
Sending a quick prayer heavenward Michelotto rolls his eyes. "Your apologies, honoured gentlemen." With a terse nod to the gouty rags assembled here - basically everyone of rank in Siena - he drags a fuming Cesare from the Council Chambers.
He's sorely tempted to give Cesare a resounding smack as soon as they reach the courtyard, but if there's one thing he's certain of, then it's the stupid gaggle of aldermen and merchants gaping from the windows. The fat old fucks, hoping to snatch a juicy bit of gossip to relay to their paymasters in Milano, Firenze, and Ferrara.
"Why did you stop me," Cesare whispers furiously.
Assuming a face of serene saintliness, Michelotto offers, "Because you're an idiot?"
"What?"
Two grooms have brought their horses, and Michelotto stays deferentially close to Cesare's stirrups. "Because you're an idiot," he says. "My lord. After you."
Four men of Cesare's retinue close around them as soon as the heavy gates swing open, and while they're riding out at a trot, Cesare glares daggers at his friend. "I won, fair and square."
Michelotto sighs a put-upon sigh. "The statutes say differently."
"Why? My rider came in first!"
When he's pursing his lips like this, Cesare looks every bit like his father, Michelotto thinks. "Yes, your rider, mio caro." He lifts a gloved hand to fend off Cesare's inane objections; he's heard it all before. "Fine, the rules don't explicitly state it has to be horse and rider together. But if it were acceptable for the rider to come in without a mount, the Palio would be a foot race. Get used to the idea of losing from time to time, will you?"
Cesare squints against the sun, idly noting the city's banners hanging slack in the midday heat. Then he lifts a hand to his brow. "Miquel. Do you see what I see?" He's grown as white as the best milled paper, and as soon as Michelotto follows his gaze, he hawks and spits. "Su puta madre." About to spur his horse, Cesare turns in the saddle, emotions flitting over his face.
Somebody has hoisted the papal banners over the Borgia house without seeing fit to send them a message.
So it's back to Rome then.
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"Oh god, I..." The voice grows muffled as the dark head buries itself against the crook of Michelotto's arm. "I'm not..." Coming up for air, Cesare blearily looks into the distance. They can already make out the liquid mirror that is Lago Trasimeno. "He hasn't asked for me," he mumbles brokenly. "He doesn't even want me there."
"Shush. What nonsense, caro." Michelotto smoothes his fingers through Cesare's unruly hair. His friend still smells like a young boy - of sweat and onions and the sandalwood the maids put between the stacked shirts - except when he doesn't; when they curl up together and smell of clumsy fumbling and secret places. "Come now. He's overwhelmed with the news, surely, and simply has forgotten."
"What, forgotten his eldest?" Cesare sounds pitifully young and petulant, the way he says it.
No need to point out that Juan has taken that special place in a father's heart; they know it all too well.
"Just... forgotten," Michelotto says lamely, twirling one of Cesare's curls around a finger. "You heard the messenger. It was a long conclave. They're old men, and they say there's another bout of the Plague in Rome. Everybody's just..." His voice trails away. Truly he has no idea how to explain Rodrigo's lapse, and Cesare's melancholic fit is likely close to the mark.
Rubbing his brow against Michelotto's travel-worn giornea, Cesare closes his eyes and makes a small needy noise, much like a kitten's mewl.
It chokes Michelotto, and he drags his friend from his slouch. "Oh, come now."
"Everything's going to change, Miquel." Cesare sounds so miserable.
"Of course it will. It'll be all right. You'll see." He pats Cesare's heaving shoulder and allows him to crawl up to him. As July has given way to August, the heat rises from the fields. There's the smell of dry earth and overripe fruit, and the bit of shade they're sharing is shrinking fast.
Maybe there is no sense in rushing to Rome like this. They're not expected; Cesare is right. Rodrigo wants his sons tightly reined lest the barons rally against the Borgia crawling from the cracks, descending on Rome like horseflies now that Rodrigo is pope.
He can see the son's reasoning, too. Cesare is currently dozing in his arms, drooling a little, and Michelotto can't help the smile. Look at him, the bishop of Pamplona, the gifted doctor of law - creating a stir in Pisa and acting stupid in Siena when all he wants is a hug from his father.
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As it is, they don't even make it into Rome.
"Michelotto, you talk to this man, he isn't making any sense." Cesare impatiently waves his hand, then moves it to the pommel of his sword. "Perhaps I don't get his peasant gibberish."
The captain's face reddens and visibly swells underneath his helmet. The thing must be scorching, Michelotto thinks, nudging his horse closer to the guards manning Porta del Popolo. Bending forward, he murmurs, "There has to be a misunderstanding, capitano. Surely His Holiness won't forbid his nephew to congratulate Him on the most auspicious occasion of His election?"
"Our order stands firm." The man hesitates before adding a grudging, "Sir. The episcopal palace in Spoleto has been readied for Don Cesare."
"Spoleto?" Cesare blurts. "This is preposterous. What about Juan Gandia, where do you lodge him? In Ostia, in Subiaco? The bottom of the Tiber?"
The guardsmen start to shuffle uneasily at Cesare's outbreak but quickly re-arrange themselves into formation. "Don Juan has been installed at the Vatican, to attend His Holiness's coronation," the captain says. His voice isn't wholly devoid of feeling, but orders are orders.
Cesare calms down, even if his nostrils are flaring slightly - one would have to know him well to fathom the true measure of his anger. "Ma... bene. Spoleto then." Shrugging, he wheels his tired horse around.
When Michelotto catches up with him later, almost a mile down the road, he can still see the smudges on Cesare's cheeks. "Look, Cesare. That doesn't mean he-"
"It means exactly that," Cesare interrupts. His gaze trails off into the mountains, and Michelotto shuts up to let him steam away in dignity. After a while Cesare turns to him with a roguish grin. "So, if we write to Siena now... they'll have to give me the Palio, yes?"
"Hmmm." Michelotto pretends to ponder this, then concludes, "No. No, they won't."
"Right." Idly flicking the switch, Cesare purses his lips again. At long last, a smile spreads beatifically across his features. "Fuck them. You know what? Fuck them all."
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