Machiavelli woke up to the feeling of Billy pressed up against him. This was nothing new; he was actually growing used to the American immortal cuddling next to him and he began to enjoy the feeling now. He turned his head unconsciously towards the other immortal, not opening his eyes.
"Hey," he heard softly in his ear and he stiffened. Opening his eyes, he suffered a body jerking shock to find himself nose to nose with the Kid, Billy's brilliant blue eyes gazing steadily back at him. He went to move back, but almost tumbled off the bed. Billy surprised him by gripping his hip, essentially pulling him back to safety but grazing his body for far longer than was necessary. "Sorry," Billy apologized sleepily. "I'm on your side."
Machiavelli wet his lips. "Yeah, you are," he reproached mildly. "You going to move back?"
"No," Billy teased. His eyes shuttered close, but he didn't move back, if anything he just slid his hand lower on Niccolò 's leg and tightened his grip. Machiavelli couldn't help but let out a moan, the stimulation going on below aided by the brush of Billy's lips on his nape. Struggling for control, he flipped the outlaw onto his back and hung over him, mind sluggishly refusing to process the situation. Billy grinned up at him. "Going to finish the job this time, Mac?" he said, letting his legs splay open suggestively.
And then-
Billy gave a particularly loud snort and Machiavelli startled awake for real this time, sitting up to gaze around the semi darkness in confusion. He could hear Billy's soft snoring beside him and he glanced over at the other man. The outlaw had thrown a pillow half over his face, obscuring his eyes, and had left his mouth half open, but was definitely asleep. Machiavelli lay back down, slipping his fingers beneath the elastic of his boxers and gently cupping himself. He tugged experimentally at his balls, knowing he was close to losing it.
Working with light fingers, he quietly pushed himself the rest of the way over the edge, gazing at the outlaw beside him and wondering what was wrong with him that he'd continue to do stuff like this. Totally spent, he fell back asleep again, though his mind was thankfully dreamless this time.
~MB~
Machiavelli lightly sprinted up the front steps, precariously balancing his drink tray in one hand as he fumbled for the set of keys Billy had given him the night before. He was surprised to find the bottom floor lit up by sunshine; it had been dark downstairs when he'd gone out and that didn't seem so long ago to him. He wandered into the living room where he found his companion sprawled on the couch. "Hey," he said cheerfully, setting the drink tray on the coffee table.
"You went out?" Billy asked, squinting sleepily at the Italian immortal. It was a few hours later and Billy must have gotten more sleep than Niccolò , who had gotten up an hour after his 'dream.' Still, the American somehow looked more sluggish than his sleep deprived counterpart. Tugging the blanket around him, he repositioned himself so that he wasn't slouching nearly as much.
Machiavelli dropped his bag on the table and held out a coffee for Billy. He watched the American take a sip. "Yeah, I thought I'd get breakfast for us. Cause we still haven't gone shopping yet." He sat down beside Billy, crossing one leg over the other to keep himself from fidgeting. "I don't have to ask you anymore to go out, do I?"
"No, no. It's just that there are some parts of Philly that aren't as safe as others. I just was a little worried, is all." Billy seemed to perk up a little as he downed the coffee. Relaxing, Machiavelli took a sip from his own cup. Billy's nose twitched. "Did you get pastries?" he asked hopefully. The tactician nodded, so he dug through the bag, shoving a bear claw in his mouth and held out a muffin for the Italian. "You're the best, Mac," he said through the pastry, looking as though he had a large, icing decorated moustache.
Machiavelli delicately pulled pieces of his muffin off. "I know," he said with a small smile. "I also got you a bagel." Billy snatched up the bag he'd previously dropped and dug through several napkins, at last finding his bagel. His whole face lit up. Machiavelli felt a little embarrassed watching the animate immortal. "It's just a bagel," he said dismissively, feeling the collar of his shirt get hot from the obvious display of gratitude.
"Just a bagel," Billy exclaimed, impaling it on his thumb. He rummaged for the case of cream cheese, tossed it in the air and caught it again. "Black Hawk never gets me bagels. You want some?"
"Just a little bit. Less than that," he said back, watching Billy break the bagel in half. "That's good. Thank you."
Billy licked cream cheese off his fingers. "This is a good day. I can tell already. The weather's nice, I'm still wearing pajamas, and you brought me the best food in the world." He smiled. "I'd give you a kiss, but you probably don't want me doing that anymore, do you?"
Niccolò cocked his head. "Ah, one more for the road," he said tapping his cheek. Billy huffed a laugh, but surprised Machiavelli by cradling his face tenderly with his right hand. He kissed the immortal lightly once on his cheek and once on his temple. "I love you Macaroon," Billy said, and Niccolò 's insides gave a pleasurable squirm despite Billy's most recent, ridiculous nickname for him.
Machiavelli wanted to say something back as a strong feeling welled inside of him. But opening his mouth, he lost the words he wanted to say most. He closed his mouth again. Inside of him, he chanted, stop it stop it stop it.
"Hey, Mac, did you know that I was trending on Facebook?" The Kid scrolled through his phone, evidently greatly amused.
"Trending?"
"Oh, yeah, uh, how can I put this so you'll get it? When a lot of people are talking about something on social media, it's considered a trend."
Machiavelli was a little offended that Billy thought he wouldn't understand that. "And why are you trending, as of late?" he asked, peering over the outlaw's shoulder.
"They found another picture of me, I guess," Billy said, holding up his phone so that Machiavelli could see a black and white photo under the headline 'America's Favorite Outlaw'. "It's kind of weird," he continued comfortably. "People never liked me that much when I was alive," he traced quotation marks around the word, "or at least I was nobody's favorite."
"Except for your mother." Billy considered it and nodded. Machiavelli smiled. "And mine. You're my favorite, too."
"Favorite what?" Billy prodded, trying to get a reaction from the tactician. He lightly touched the other man's elbow, leaning in all the while.
But the Italian ignored that question. Taking the phone from the other immortal, he studied the picture carefully. He shook his head. While he knew very little about the American Wild West period, he knew with some certainty that he'd never seen any other gunslingers or outlaws wearing the clothes that Billy had now been caught wearing, twice. "You weren't very fashionable in that sweater," he said critically.
Billy gestured to himself. "When have I ever been fashionable?"
"Too true. But that sweater looks particularly horrid." He expected the other man to protest, but Billy just nodded sagely so Machiavelli immersed himself in his coffee. Coming up for air, he asked the question that had just struck him. "So how did you lose this picture?"
"I didn't lose it," Billy said indignantly. "I couldn't even afford it at the time. It was Charlie's," he said, pointing to the man on the horse on the far right of the picture. "Charlie Bowdre. His wedding and he wanted a picture of all of us together. I liked that sweater a lot," he said suddenly. "It was red. Very ugly. Very comfortable. You wouldn't let it in the house, would you?"
"Let's just say, I'm glad that your fashion sense has improved, even the meager amount that I'd wager it has," Machiavelli said somewhat diplomatically, his general sense of disapproval seeming to endlessly amuse the American immortal.
Billy pulled at the shirt he was wearing a bit self-consciously. Machiavelli had picked it out for him; it was still more stylish than he would have ever selected himself. "I guess everyone has to grow up eventually," he admitted freely. "You're not going to change my whole wardrobe, are you?"
Machiavelli shook his head. "You wouldn't be you if you weren't a little grungy half the time."
"I hope that's a compliment." Leaning back, Billy took a big bite from his bagel. The two ate in companionable silence, the Kid somehow finishing long before Machiavelli had. He ran upstairs, promising to get ready so that they could go out and explore. Machiavelli absently touched the part of his cheek Billy had brushed with his lips. Shaking his head slightly, he gathered the trash the outlaw had left behind and began tidying the room. He folded the blanket Billy had been wrapped in and flung it over the back of the couch. Idly, he wondered how his relationship with the outlaw was going to change as he grew older.
~MB~
"The thing to remember about Billie is that she's complicated," Billy warned Machiavelli as they drove across town. He navigated his big boat of a car through the streets easily, but his mind seemed to be racing ahead of them. "Kind of like Zelda. I hope she'll like you though. I've always been kind of surprised that she likes me."
"Everybody likes you, Billy," Machiavelli said. "They can't help it."
Billy cracked a smile at that. "You mean, more people would hate me if they had a choice?"
Niccolò punched him on the shoulder. "You know what I meant." He looked out the window as the buildings rolled by them. This isn't a great part of town," he observed mildly.
"Neither was the spot where we're living when I first bought it, but I guess when you buy real estate you take a chance," the Kid laughed. "I've tried to convince Nora to buy a better place before but she says she likes it over here. Reminds her of where she came from."
"Nora?"
"Oh, well her real name is Eleanora. I call her Nora cause otherwise we'd both be Billy. And you know how confusing that was with the Pup." The outlaw scowled, apparently still offended. "But we actually have a lot in common. Did you know we're both of Irish descent?" He laughed. "I didn't expect that the first time I talked to her." Machiavelli smiled too.
Sighing, Billy parked the car on a side road. "I really hate parking my baby in neighborhoods like this," he muttered in a low voice. "We should try to get her to come back with us."
Machiavelli nodded, but he was distracted by some kids playing on the playground next to where they'd parked. He smiled as a blond boy ran up to a small Vietnamese boy and gave the littler one a big hug. "They're so cute," he said happily. "I miss my children."
Billy patted him gingerly on the back. "They are really cute," he agreed. "I really like kids," he told the Italian immortal as they crossed the road. He caught Machiavelli by the sleeve and pulled him towards a building the other immortal had been about to pass. "Up here. Yeah, I really wish I could have kids. That's why I loved you so much this summer."
"You don't love me now that I'm not so little?" Machiavelli asked drily out of the corner of his mouth. He took a shuddering breath as they climbed to a fourth floor landing. Their brownstone had apparently not been enough practice for this long haul up the rickety, decidedly code-failing steps.
Billy stopped in front of apartment 47. He pressed an ear against the door. "I wonder if she's here," he mumbled.
Machiavelli slapped his arm. "You didn't check before we came over here?"
"She's always here. Unless she's not." Machiavelli thought that was the most unhelpful thing he'd heard the American say, and that was saying something. Billy knocked again. "Nora! It's your good friend Billy."
Almost as though she'd been waiting for him to say something, the door swung inward. Stepping back a little, Machiavelli gazed into the face of a woman he'd thought was dead for nearly a hundred years. He obliquely wondered how many other immortals were out there, with no record of them at all.
Next to him, Billy smiled. "Hello," he said almost shyly. "Remember me?"
"How could I forget another Billy?" she said mildly, not smiling, but also not frowning. She pushed the door open more and gestured them in.
As the Italian immortal followed the two Billies into the apartment, he took in small details about the woman in front of him. She was slightly shorter than Billy, with light brown skin, and dark eyes. Her eyebrows had been waxed off and repainted with some sort of makeup. And-
"You still wear a flower in your hair," Billy said, smiling brilliantly. The jazz musician nodded, but her eyes were on Machiavelli. The Kid followed her gaze. "Oh, I brought a very good friend of mine. Meet Niccolò." Machiavelli went to put out his hand to shake, but Billy subtly took it before he could complete the movement.
"Mr. Machiavelli," she pronounced with careful accentuation. He nodded, a little surprised that she knew him so immediately. "Billy was reading one of your books the last time I saw him."
"When was that?" Machiavelli asked, curiosity moving past his initial hesitations.
She waved a hand dismissively. "What, fifty years ago now?" Billy nodded, her assessment apparently accurate. She looked at him, a queer half-smile on her face. "You didn't bring me a flower this time. You did last time."
Unbidden, Billy sat down on the couch they'd been standing next to. He flashed a grin at her. "I would love to buy you a flower, but I wanted to be sure you were still at the same place before I got it. I'm very glad you still are around."
Lady Day made an odd wheezing laugh. "I'm glad I'm still around too. Most days anyways. You want something to drink?" she called out as she moved towards the kitchen.
Billy waited until she was out of sight before drawing Machiavelli close to him. Urgently, and under his breath, he whispered. "She's not big on physical contact, especially from men." Machiavelli nodded, understanding instantly. They broke apart as she came back.
She gave them a funny look. "And where have you been lately, kid Antrim?"
"We just moved to Philadelphia."
"You two living as a pair of homosexuals?" the jazz singer asked bluntly, lighting a cigarette and promptly stubbing it out again in an ashtray. Billy choked on his Pepsi, sputtering small bursts of it onto himself. He shook his head quickly, still coughing. Machiavelli thumped him on the back, also shaking his head. She tossed her pack of cigarettes into the wastebasket. "I'm off smoking," she said, catching the Italian's look. "I just quit. Anyways, who am I to judge? I like the company of women just as much as men." And she gave a hearty laugh.
"Ah, but our circumstances are a little different," Billy tried to cut in.
She ignored him, looking at Machiavelli. "Shouldn't you be older?"
"Well," Machiavelli began and then stopped. He didn't really know how to explain their unique situation. With Zelda Fitzgerald, they hadn't even tried. But Lady Day was different. He knew her sharp mind was already assessing the situation. "It's kind of a long story."
"And we, what? Don't have time? I wasn't planning on dying anytime soon," she drawled, sitting daintily in a chair from the '70s. She regarded him with soulful eyes, waiting, apparently for him to tell her the story. He glanced again at Billy, crooked a finger to him and pointed to the couch beside him, Machiavelli being the last to stand among them. The Italian sank onto the couch beside him.
"Mac saved my life at the beginning of the summer," Billy told her, carelessly tossing an arm over the back of the couch. "You must have heard about the trouble on Alcatraz." She nodded. Billy dragged a hand through his hair, the old nervous tic well known to Machiavelli by now. "I made a mistake. Well, a lot of mistakes actually. But anyways, one of them got me in some trouble."
"Yes, a gigantic hole in your chest," Machiavelli mumbled on Billy's other side.
"I was stabbed by this enormous, ugly crab," Billy explained enthusiastically. "By its- what's the word- chelipeds. Black Hawk kept reminding me what they were called. And-"
"Black Hawk was there?" she broke in. Billy nodded. She huffed, but signaled with her hands that he should keep going.
Billy looked momentarily confused. "Where was I?"
"You were just explaining to her how you were being incredibly reckless," Machiavelli reminded him testily. He crossed his legs. Billy laughed. "Right." While Billy was talking- and he went into graphic detail about the Karkinos and his wound, making the Italian quite queasy- he looked around the room. Like the woman who lived in it, the apartment was disguised on the outside to look like something different. Outside, the building had looked like a hovel. The neighborhood was definitely rough. But in here, it was different. While the apartment was decidedly dated in some ways (the furniture), it was clean and well kept. And she had flowers everywhere. He smiled.
"And then Mac poured almost all of his aura in me to close my stomach wound." Machiavelli blinked. He hadn't been paying attention, but apparently Billy had described their adventure to the other Billie when he was looking around. "He could have died," Billy concluded, sounding a little more serious than he usually did. "I don't thank him enough," he said quietly. Niccolò waved a hand, trying to brush it off. He turned a delicate shade of pink, embarrassed. "Nah, come on, I'm serious. Anyways, we've been spending some time with Nicholas Flamel- you must have heard of him- and he knows a fair bit about these things. Flamel says that the process de-aged him. It's been weird. But fun."
"So you're just aging back again." The Italian immortal nodded. "So, it's like getting a second chance at being a kid." There was almost something sad about how she said it, like she would have liked that chance herself.
"Yeah, essentially," Machiavelli agreed, embarrassed to have all the attention on him. "Billy took care of me when my body was really little, but now I've basically got all my faculties back again. We live together because…" he trailed off.
"You must really love him," she observed, looking at him.
Machiavelli turned a darker shade of pink. "I'm very fond of Billy," he stammered. "I couldn't let him die. We didn't even know if any of our other friends were going to be alive."
Thankfully for the Italian, the conversation moved on to various other topics. He wondered idly why Billy had stopped seeing some of his friends or if it was typical for immortals to go decades without seeing each other. He couldn't imagine not seeing Billy for years.
~MB~
"Is this the orchid I got you?" Billy asked, looking at the flower on her bedside table. She nodded. Having spent the afternoon listening to the two Billies swap stories, they were now in the jazz singer's bedroom, watching as she dug for something in her closet. While they were waiting, the outlaw hopped from foot to foot, trying to wake up his limb which had apparently fallen asleep while they were sitting in the living room. "I don't really know one flower from another," he confessed to Machiavelli. "Billie asked me to get her a gardenia. I got her this. Apparently they're not the same thing."
"I still like it," she said from where she was crouched.
Billy leaned against the door frame. He massaged his foot roughly. "Didn't you start wearing flowers in your hair because you burned your hair?"
Billie looked back at him. "Yeah, I lost all of this part, right before a show," she said, demonstrating the spot. "I had to cover it somehow." She straightened up. "Here, I found it." She held something out in her hand and Billy took it. A smile broke across his features.
"This is an old picture. Look, Mac." It was a photo of Billy, presumably in a bar. He was sitting on a stool between two people Machiavelli now knew- Billie and Black Hawk. Both the male immortals had shit eating grins on their faces. He smiled himself. "It's a good one," he agreed.
Billy pushed off of the doorframe. "Well, we've been here for hours. We should probably head out now. Unless you want to come out to dinner with us?" He looked hopefully at the petite immortal. She shook her head, herding them out. "Okay." He tried to hand her back the picture.
"Keep it. I want you to have it." Stopping at the door, she hesitantly reached out her arms. Billy let her hug him, but didn't embrace her back. She smiled at him. "Mind if we come visit again?" She shook her head. Looking at Machiavelli, she stopped, then held out her hand. He shook it, truly touched. They both slipped into the hall where old fashioned gas lights had lit up while they were in the apartment.
"Well, aren't you happy that your car wasn't stolen or scraped or scrapped or anything of that sort?" Machiavelli asked, after they stumbled down the four flights of stairs. They could see the Thunderbird gleaming from down the road.
"Yes," Billy said simply. He fell forward onto the hood of his car, embracing the Thunderbird wholeheartedly. "I missed you," Machiavelli was sure he heard Billy whisper and he looked around surreptitiously, sure that they were going to be killed in this neighborhood, just for acting like idiots. He tapped his foot nervously and was much happier when the outlaw rolled off the hood, landed cat-like back on the ground, and unlocked the car. He scrambled into the car, pulling the door shut behind him. "Nervous, Mac?" Billy asked, craning backward to look for traffic. He slipped out onto the road.
"We're immortal, not-"
"Invulnerable, yeah, I remember that Mac," Billy answered dutifully. He coasted onto a side road. "I would never let anyone hurt you," he promised gallantly. "Never, ever, ever. I keep my friends safe." He paused as the light turned red. "Did you like her?" he asked, still looking ahead.
Machiavelli nodded, then realized Billy might not be able to see him. "Yeah. Yeah, I did. I just found her a little…" he searched for the right word.
"Caustic? Sarcastic? Abrasive?" the Kid suggested cheerfully. "Yeah, she's sweet, but she can be sour too sometimes. I think she liked you though, which is good, cause she doesn't like a lot of men." He made a slight hissing sound. "Did you know she was raped when she was 11 years old? I think that's the most awful thing ever."
Machiavelli shuddered. Things like that always reminded him of his daughters; it upset him terribly. He cast around for a change of topic. "How did you meet her? At a club?" Looking around, he was glad that he was beginning to recognize the roads around them. They must not have been very far away now.
Billy scratched at his chin. "Well, that's where I first met her, yeah. But actually Black Hawk introduced us." He turned slightly pink and mumbled under his breath. "They were having sex." The pink color creeped up his neck and flushed out his ears.
"At the club?" Now Machiavelli was confused. Then it dawned on him. "Ah."
"Yeah, they're actually the reason why I don't use club bathrooms anymore. I'd rather piss in the back alleyway than potentially see again what I saw that night." Billy parked in their driveway, left the car running, opened the garage door, and then pulled in the rest of the way. He did this very matter-of-factly, giving Machiavelli the impression that he'd been doing it for too many years to count. They both got out and Billy led the way up to the main level.
"That bad?"
"He could have at least shut the stall door," Billy mumbled. "I've seen things that can never be unseen." He flopped on the couch dramatically. Machiavelli yawned as he collapsed into Billy's lumpy armchair, little bits of fuzz flying up into the air. Their day in the jazz singer's apartment had worn him out entirely. "You want me to make dinner?" the outlaw slurred out, an arm draped across his face.
"No," Machiavelli sighed. He reached out and gave Billy's foot a squeeze. "I can make supper. I will too, in a minute." He was quiet. Part of his mind was recapping what they'd talked about with the female immortal, but some small, inner part of him kept going back to them walking down that sidewalk, before they'd even gone in the building. Closing his eyes, he remembered the way Billy had looked back at the boys on the playground. "Do you think you're ever going to have children, Billy?"
The Kid folded his hands across his belly uncomfortably. "That doesn't really seem possible, does it, Mac?" He smiled thinly up at Machiavelli, who'd gotten up and stood over at him. Rolling his shoulder blades, Billy sat up. "I've got good friends," the American immortal said. "It's not quite the same, but it's sort of like having family. Right?"
"Right," Machiavelli agreed. He reached out both hands to Billy. "Come into the kitchen with me. I'm going to be there a while. Keep me company," he implored the other man. Clasping hands with the outlaw, he pulled him to his feet.
Billy shook his head at the Italian. "You got so tall," he said mournfully.
"You're just sad cause we started talking about kids and it reminded you that I'm officially an adult again," Niccolò pointed out.
Billy smiled. "That's true," he agreed ruefully. "I loved having you as a little kid, not that I don't like you now," he added hastily. "But I liked carrying you to bed and hugging you and reading you books…"
"Billy, you seem a little sad right now. Would you like a hug?"
"I don't know why I'm getting sad, I wasn't sad just a little while ago," Billy said thoughtfully. "Maybe, I do want kids someday but that really is impossible, isn't-" Machiavelli cut him off. He threw his arms around the outlaw's shoulders, trying to show Billy how much he loved him by squeezing him. The American immortal sighed, resting his chin on Machiavelli's shoulder. "I'm not that sad, Mac. Don't worry."
"I know." But he gave him an extra squeeze before going back to his lasagna noodles. "I'm tired enough, Billy, that you just might end up having to drag me up the stairs tonight anyways." Billy grinned. "I can do that," he agreed.
