There are mentions of past Florence-based Leonardo/Michelangelo rivalry; for those who are not familiar with what happened between them in Florence I will happily answer any questions through PM…of course my take on it is more slashy, but there is a solid historical context of their hatred. I have played around with the dates here, although Michelangelo and Leonardo did both live in Rome later on in the decade, I have moved it forward a few years to coincide with the painting of the Sistine Chapel.
This is just a segment of what was planned, but I thought somebody might enjoy reading this. Please review. Rated M for mature scenes. Also, please check out my other AC fic "Like a Boy" from Black Flag. Happy reading!
It always struck Gian how close the air was in St Peters, part of him remarked it was the constant application of intonaco upon the walls, spread with tempera. Another self, one a little more subconscious, knew that he was so uneasy in such places as he wasn't meant to be there. His sins were too broad, profound and rooted deep in his being that even walking upon this ground, which seemed to be constantly covered in a layer of marble dust, sent a shiver down his spine.
"Do we have to do this?" The younger man whispered, his lips brushing the edge of Leonardo's ear. "You know I don't like this place." His voice echoed around the vast space, making him conscious of his own fear. It seemed that the painted walls were gazing down on him, eyes of saints in their hundreds reading his soul. No, he did not like this place one bit.
A smirk was given in reply, but the smile didn't quite reach the man's eyes. "There's no need to feel anxious Salai, this is simply a courtesy visit. I take it you want to eat tonight..." Their footsteps, in time, made music on the floor.
"Meat at least please...I'm sick to death of salad." The boy's eyes darted from corner to corner, suspicious that they were not alone. He had not felt so fearful since his time in Cesare Borgia's company, a period which he wished to forget about entirely.
"Then we must open our workshop to as many commissions as we can. You know this." He reached to touch the young man's shoulder in comfort, his fingertips brushed the curls which lay there and Gian ushered a long, deep sigh.
"I know." His own fingers reached up to touch Leonardo's hand, now rough and laced with lines of age. The years had been kind to his looks but not his hands. The use of lime plaster had left its viscous mark. The older man briefly wondered if Gian would have such scars. He had been gentle with the boy, once he realised his talents were not in the arts, but the years of running the workshop and travelling from place to place would undoubtedly leave some sign upon his beautiful skin. The thought made the artist sad.
The two men turned a corner, their hands still connected, and were confronted by a wild man. His dark hair was stood on end, his loose brown clothes ripped in the elbow and worn in most places, blotches of paint, blue and gold decorated his worried face and settled in his beard. The younger, more savage artist paused just in time to stop a collision which would have undoubtedly sent Leonardo and Gian sprawling onto the dirty floor. The three men looked at each other for a moment, measuring, debating in their minds what action to take. Gian thought this period seemed to last for at least a minute but in reality was much less. Not a breath was passed between them when, in a clumsy turn, Michelangelo spun to walk away back the way he came.
Leonardo seemed to consider his options, being a man of science and philosophy he wasn't one to act on the spur of the moment, unlike the unbalanced man they had just encountered. Then, with a mutter of "Wait here" to Gian, he turned to run after the younger artist.
"Wait." Leonardo panted, having sprinted down three narrow corridors after Michelangelo. "I just want to talk to you."
The younger man had come to a pause as he reached a series of entrances, shielded by heavy wooden doors of the darkest materials. He turned to face Leonardo and their eyes locked. Mahogany against sea green.
"What do you want from me?" The younger man almost whimpered, his knees seemed to give way for a moment and Leonardo was worried he would collapse in a state of shock, but he seemed to gain himself and stood tall once again. "I don't want to talk to you."
The older man sighed. "I must talk...now I have seen you. You must let me." He took a step closer, slowly, like a man stalking his prey as to not scare the poor creature away. Although he had never been hunting, Leonardo was used to such actions from years of analysing, sketching and admiring wild birds. Memories of youth in Vinci and Florence came flooding back momentarily, a poor young boy splashing in streams after fish, walking atop steep hills, watching the way the common bird seemed to glide through the pale blue air, disappearing behind clouds so thick they concealed them completely from sight. The pained look the young artist gave as their eyes met again snapped him back into the present, in the dusty hallways of the Vatican, face to face with his rival of a decade. "Please." He whispered. He had to stop himself from reaching out his hand. That would have almost certainly not gone down well with the agitated man.
"Why must you come here now?" The man almost cried. "Just as I am about to finish...you must leave me be." He turned to go and, on a rare occasion of acting on impulse, Leonardo ran and grabbed his shoulders in a sort of embrace. Holding the man against his will.
"Let me speak." Leonardo muttered, spinning the younger man to meet his gaze, their faces mere inches from touching. "I did not come here for you, but now I have seen you I must speak. I am sorry if I offended you all those years ago, it was not my intent you understand, I would never deliberately hurt you. I just want to explain."
"Explain?" The man seemed to turn from pathetic to furious in a matter of seconds. "Explain what? How you have come here with your slut to show me what I can never have? To flaunt your relationship to make me suffer? I do not want to see. I am busy with work...the most important of my thirty-five years. The Pope will have my head if I do not complete this in time. I will be Goliath instead of David. Saint John instead of Christ. You must let me be."
This exclamation brought a sickness to Leonardo's gut. He suddenly felt weak and very very old. Michelangelo's gaze drifted from Leonardo's eyes to over his right shoulder. A frown suddenly engulfed his entire face.
"I will leave you whores to it." He snapped. The older man spun to see what was behind him. Gian was walking towards them in his carefree manner, his hair swinging around his shoulders.
"I thought I told you to wait." Leonardo sighed turning back to find the corridor was now without Michelangelo's presence.
Gian moved to the older man's side. "Did he just call me a whore?" He looked in the direction of the doors at the end of the hall where Michelangelo had strode off.
"No my dear...he called us both whores." The artist smiled gently, the humour of the remark finally catching up with him.
"Oh. That makes me feel better." The sarcasm rolled off Gian's tongue in such a way it made Leonardo burst with laughter. "Will you chase him?" He concluded.
"No." A sigh. "I find it almost impossible to find a man who doesn't want to be found. We will meet again I am sure of it, he is working in the chapel. His exploits are famous even in Florence." He turned to face Gian and reached to brush an unruly curl from his olive face. "Come. Let us find our patron."
The late afternoon sun drifted through the narrow windows in long red-gold rays highlighting the dust particles which floated through the air, dancing and swirling. Leonardo thought Michelangelo looked beautiful in this light, he could only see his back from the doorway of the hall, but the light made his hair, usually the darkest of colours and still as unruly as the previous times they had met in St Peters, shine with the most wonderful hues. He was wearing what Leonardo had come to think of as his painting overalls which consisted of ill fitting rags in the most dull colours, but even in this attire he seemed to glow.
Leonardo's footsteps echoed around the large hall as he walked towards the other man. He was greeted with the usual suspicious look which the younger artist seemed to pull off so well. Once he recognised his visitor the look softened immediately and was replaced by a half smile.
"You are a man of your word at least." Michelangelo said softly. "I thought you wasn't going to come." He looked around the room to make sure they were alone. "I wouldn't blame you after the way I have treated you these last few days."
"You have nothing to be sorry for you were quite right to be hostile." He moved beside the younger man, to look at the beams of light drifting from the windows below the ceiling. He glanced briefly at his companion, the gold hues glittered in his long eyelashes, he had never noted them before now. "I am a fool for what I did. I hope you will one day forgive me completely." He slowly edged closer until they stood shoulder to shoulder.
There was a moment of silence, Leonardo could almost feel the conflict in the other man's head, he noticed how he shifted his weight from foot to foot, mentally working out what to say. Leonardo held his breath, waiting for whatever conclusion might emerge. Finally the younger man muttered "I have thought about you a lot you know. Over the years."
Leonardo let go of his breath. He had not expected that reply. Now he found himself shifting awkwardly, he suddenly did not know what to do with his hands. Behind his back? Or in front? Surely not by his sides, hanging loose and clumsy? If he had felt his age before, his body suddenly seemed to travel back in time for he felt like a young man again, unimaginably uncomfortable in his own skin. He settled by placing his hands in front and cleared his throat. "Me too."
"I tried to get a whore a few weeks ago. I felt, I don't know, lonely perhaps?" He gave a small laugh. "I couldn't even fuck him. I thought that it was this place, the heavy burden on my shoulders, or the guilt." He turned to face the older man. "But now I know it wasn't. Do you understand?"
Leonardo frowned, then nodded slowly. He suddenly felt, himself, very guilty. He had not realised before what he had done to this man in the prime of his career. He had not realised how his actions would affect him. And he had been keeping track of his prospers, he knew of his ventures in the chapel for instance, and assumed that he was doing well, financially at least. After years of constant worry about his own spendings and income he had always assumed that if one was financially stable and prosperous they couldn't be much happier. Now, confronted by the man who was once his junior but had recently surpassed him in success he felt selfish in his judgement. This man was, by reason, very wealthy and also very unhappy. Unable to fuck a prostitute he said?
"I feel such desire sometimes, I want to rip out my own lustful eyes." The younger man continued, staring at the cold floor. "But I can never feel how I once felt. No matter how hard I work or how many men come into my company. There is no one else for me."
"You are punishing yourself by working like this?" Leonardo frowned, beginning to understand. "All of this...the commissions...the labour...all because you feel guilty? Or want to feel more alive?" The man's brown eyes had not left the floor. "You can't behave like this. You will work yourself to death. I know it. Salai would tell me..."
Now his eyes did snap up. "Ah, Salai." He did not elaborate.
"He has been in my care these past twenty years, I do not expect you to understand him and I. He is my most trusted companion and pupil."
"Then you cannot blame me for being jealous of him. I was envious ten years ago and I will always be so. He has had you as I never have." Their eyes met once again. Leonardo walked a step closer, their bodies now mere inches from touching.
"That is not true. You have had me completely." He reached up to touch a curl on Michelangelo's forehead and felt him tremble beneath his fingertips. "Are we alone?" A whisper.
"Yes. They don't come in here. The old men prefer to pray together in more decorative rooms." The words came out of the younger man's mouth in short gasps. His hands were hanging by his sides, the most unsure of places. Leonardo noted the strength in those arms, the prominent veins and muscle which were visible just below his loose attire, years of having a chisel in his hands had defined him. The older man suddenly felt very hot, flushed, as if all the blood in him had rushed south. He ached. This close he could smell the plaster on the artist's clothes, a powdery scent mixed with something altogether more primal.
"Then I think..." Leonardo's fingers moved down to touch his neck, he could feel the pulse through his skin, his breath, caught, in his throat. "You must let me fuck you."
Michelangelo seemed to stop breathing altogether. The moment stretched out and with it Leonardo's fear of rejection grew. Then, slowly, he moved his hand upwards, along the neck, jawline, until he reached his rivals lips, brushing his fingertips over them he once again felt a tremor. He pushed his fingers further, slowly into the warmth of his mouth, Michelangelo took them in without question, sucking slowly, coating the long fingers with saliva. The image of the younger man's cheekbones con-caving, eyes dark, looking from under thick eyelashes, was almost portrait worthy and he was growing harder by the second, the motion of the other man's tongue against his fingers seemed to coax the blood to his cock, now stiff and strained against the rose material of his upper hose. He closed the gap between them and felt Michelangelo's own desire against him, his hips straining forward for contact.
With his other hand, his given hand, he reached down to loosen the younger man's overalls, struggling with the belt which seemed to be knotted, before letting them drop to the floor. Michelangelo's hands, both free, moved to undo the upper half of his clothing, stripping himself naked. Before Leonardo had time to admire his rival, he felt his own clothes being loosened, his jerkin was removed and his coated fingers dropped from between his rivals lips, allowing the younger man full access to undress him. He felt the air hit his skin, inch by inch, and he moved forward to claim the younger man's lips, pushing their bodies together, the scent of paint and sweat mixing with his own oils. The kiss was violent and needy, Michelangelo used the opportunity to touch as much of Leonardo's skin as was possible, grabbing and moving his hands from his arse to his chest to his neck. A gasp escaped the younger man as Leonardo's fingers moved to his cock, he parted his lips and tongues met, clashing together with the taste of wine. The need became more apparent with the volume of moans, Michelangelo running his teeth along his lower lip, nibbling at the chapped skin, stopping just short of drawing blood. The older man's hand was now moving with an increasing rhythm against the other's cock, the saliva and precum making the motion steady. As the pace was quickened his hips began to buckle in return, straining for deeper contact. The echoes rang around the room, gasps and moans and begging from the younger man to be fucked.
"You have no idea..." Michelangelo started, his lips against Leonardo's jaw, struggling to get the words out in between short intakes for air. "I have been in mourning for years...longing for this." Leonardo moved back to look at him, his hand hovering on the shaft, ignoring the sound the other man made at the loss of motion. "I would think of you at night..." He continued, sounding more pained than ever "My body would ache with pain, and I'd imagine you were there to comfort me, to love me."
Leonardo reached to touch the side of his face, his other hand still paused on the shaft, and he moved to kiss his lips, gentle and chaste. "I have always loved you." He whispered as he withdrew, his hand moving from cheek to jaw. "You have been on my mind every day since we parted. I was terrified sick we would never meet again so I could show you how I feel."
Michelangelo moved his own hand down to his cock to place upon the other. The made Leonardo feel hot and we was suddenly struck by the tenderness of the moment. There was once again a pause of anticipation which was broke when the younger man finally whispered "Then show me."
AN: I eventually plan on turning this into a story which spans from the early 16th century until Leonardo's death in 1519 with a Michelangelo/Raphael and Michelangelo/Salai subplot. Please review and tell me what you think.
