The next afternoon found them comfortably pigeonholed in their home. Machiavelli didn't quite know where Billy was, just that he was somewhere upstairs. As for the Italian, he had curled onto the living room couch. Billy's suggestion that they clean some of the other rooms in the brownstone had gone unheeded; something Niccolò felt mildly guilty about. He looked up at the ceiling, hoping that the Kid wasn't up there doing all kinds of work while he was down here, doing essentially nothing.
Machiavelli stopped what he was doing every few moments to glance thoughtfully out the window. He'd made the executive decision last night to take a step back from his feelings towards the American, reflecting that this could all be still the result of raging teenage hormones. Loving his outlaw was far too painful when he accepted the realization that things between them would never work out. Their dinner last night had been everything he'd wanted- with one thing important thing missing.
Their intimate relationship had grown so steadily, and slowly, around the two immortals, that Machiavelli hadn't really noticed how they were bonded together. Their afternoon together with Lady Day had opened his eyes to how their relationship must appear to outsiders. With that perspective in mind, he had noticed that the things they did, they weren't normal for two male friends. And yet, Billy would never think of him as anything more than a really good friend. It stung.
Not able to figure out how to fit that last piece in, he pushed away from the situation. Right now, he was reading, engrossed actually in a dusty book he'd found in the room across from their bedroom. He jumped a little when the Kid turned on the living room light, so enraptured by the book that he hadn't been paying attention to the apartment's other occupant. "Have you ever read this?" the Italian immortal asked when Billy wandered into the room.
Billy grabbed the book in the Italian's hands and tilted it so that he could see the cover. "Clockwork Orange. Yeah, I read it when it first came out. Disturbing isn't it? The movies around here too, somewhere…" He gestured wildly at the gargantuan entertainment center that took up one of the walls of the living room and had taken forever to dust.
"They made a movie of this?" Niccolò asked, barely looking up from the book. He was both disgusted and engrossed in the book, the gratuitous violence erupting off the pages in such a way that he felt a little sick at how much excitement he felt coursing through him as he read.
"Mm hmm," Billy mumbled, flopping onto the other end of the couch Machiavelli was curled up on. He closed his eyes, nuzzling the soft, faded corduroy upholstery. "Same guy who did the Shining. Ever since the movie came out, it's been banned on and off again." He chuckled weakly.
Machiavelli slid a bookmark into place and set the book beside him on the table. "If you ever want to get a large group of people to read a book, you should ban it," he remarked ironically. He smiled. "I got the personal pleasure of having my book banned by the Pope in 1559. It was deemed unchristian."
"You're unchristian," Billy said comfortably, reaching out a socked foot to rub his knee. "Good thing, too. Religion will never get between us." He yawned and scrubbed at his face.
Niccolò caught Billy's foot in his hand. Tugging on his leg, he got Billy to stretch both legs out onto Mac's lap. "Why are you so tired today?" he asked curiously, beginning to massage the American's feet. He pressed his thumbs into the pads of the other man's feet, feeling callouses beneath the knit material. He expected the outlaw to be ticklish, but his actions seemed to have a soothing effect on the man instead.
"I've just been having trouble sleeping lately," Billy mumbled. Opening his eyes, he shrank back a little finding Machiavelli's sharp gray eyes fixed on him. "I've just had some things on my mind lately. I don't know, sometimes at night, I think… Nothing, really. Nothing serious," he said, obviously trying to diffuse the tactician's interest, but only sharpening it by his oblique refusal to explain exactly what he was thinking about. "You give good foot rubs, Mac. You should have told me this ages ago."
"Don't change the topic," Machiavelli told him. "What were you thinking about?"
But Billy wouldn't tell him. "It's really nothing serious," he insisted. He pasted a goofy grin on his face and straining, tapped Machiavelli's chin with his toe. "Don't stop," he begged. "It's going to take a lot more effort than that to get to the real kinks. Walking up and down those stairs yesterday and then these stairs here, it was too much for your poor Billy. I'm getting old."
Machiavelli made a noise of disbelief. "Billy, I'm almost 400 years older than you."
Billy blinked. "Oh, yeah."
The tactician began to massage the other man's feet again. He shook his head. "Did you really forget how much older than you I am?"
"Kind of," the Kid admitted happily. "Your body's younger than mine right now. And you don't act like an old man…"
"I guess I'll take that as a compliment," Machiavelli told him.
"You should."
"What have you been doing all afternoon?" Machiavelli asked curiously, unconscious of the fact that he had spoken in Italian until he saw the semi-confused expression on Billy's face. He was just about to translate it into English, when Billy began to answer him.
"I was writing down a list of places we lived for Perenelle," Billy replied in flawless Spanish. Machiavelli had to smile. The two languages they were speaking were close enough that they could make out each other's meaning, but Billy's response showed him how the American must have felt hearing Italian. The differences stood out just enough to be jarring. "My mother, brother, and I, I mean," he clarified in English. "She knows where we've been."
"Have you been a lot of places?" Billy nodded vigorously. "I don't think it'll be as difficult to find my wife," Machiavelli said thoughtfully, tapping his thin lips. "We lived in a little house not far from where either of us grew up. When we were poor, we were briefly exiled, but I don't think she would go there. It wasn't a bad life for me, but I don't think she enjoyed it very much."
"You didn't mind being exiled?"
He shrugged self-consciously. "I didn't like being away from the Florentine courts, but there were aspects that weren't as bad as could be expected. I played backgammon with my fellow dwellers and wrote in the evening. Mornings, I used to take a long walk. It was better being ignored than being tortured. As I've always said, it is better to exist unknown to the…"
Billy snapped his fingers. "That's right. We've been putting off that talk about you being tortured."
Machiavelli slouched down in the chair, pulling his book up again to hide his face. "There's really no need to talk about it," he mumbled. Billy whacked him with a rolled up newspaper. "Hey! You hit me!" the Italian exclaimed in surprise.
"Do you honestly think there's 'no need to talk about it'," Billy retorted. "My friend, that I've spent all summer learning to love, and I don't know about the time he got hurt the worst? You promised we'd talk about it," he said, pointing at Machiavelli. "We've put it off for months. I'm not letting you get away with pushing it off more."
The tactician sighed, but lowered his book. "Fine," he agreed reluctantly. "What do you want to know?"
"What did they do to you?" Billy asked softly.
Machiavelli rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. "My name was found on an incriminating list. They believed that I'd been part of a failed conspiracy to assassinate the Medici rulers. So they used what is called a strappado, a popular torture device to come out of the Renaissance," he explained baldly. "Have you ever heard of it?" he asked. Billy shook his head, looking apprehensive. "Ah, well. Another form of it was used on POWs in the Vietnam War; I thought maybe you'd heard of it then. With the strappado, your wrists were tied behind your back; the rope was then thrown over a pulley. The prisoner was then hoisted into the air-"
Billy scrambled to his feet, looking rather sick. He backed away from the couch, as if to protect himself from what Machiavelli was saying, but made a motion for the other man to continue. Niccolò hastened to finish. "The prisoner would then be suddenly dropped toward the floor, only to have the rope stayed at the last moment. They would do this until the prisoner confessed. But I had nothing to confess. I was never part of that conspiracy."
"How many times did they do that to you?"
"Six." His response made the American immortal groan. Machiavelli spoke rapidly, as if it would make it less unpleasant if he got it over quickly. "Really, that's not so awful. Savonarola was dropped fourteen times."
"Not so awful!" The outlaw uncovered his mouth. His face had gone a deathly pale color, the color of old candle wax, and Machiavelli was beginning to worry about him. He looked like he was going to be sick. "Six times? I think that's the worst thing I've ever heard," Billy said weakly. "In the west, we just shot people. We didn't torture them." He cradled his arms in front of him, grasping at his elbows. Another thought seemed to strike him. "How are your arms not still messed up?"
"The procedure usually dislocated one or both shoulders, tore muscles, and often rendered one or both arms useless," he admitted unwillingly. "Immediately following the… right after it, I couldn't lift my arms at all. But I gradually got some movement back. And when I was made immortal, Aten fixed my whole body." He put up placating hands to the American immortal. "I'm alright, Billy. Really, it happened such a long time ago. I just don't like to talk about it."
"I wish I hadn't asked."
The tactician was inclined to echo the thought, but instead slipped off the couch. He approached Billy slowly and ran a hand down the side of his face. It was at times like these, when the Kid was scared or upset, that he was reminded of how young the American immortal still was. He wondered how Billy had hung on to his innocence after so many years of being exposed to a hard world. "Are you going to be okay, William? You're looking rather pale."
"I-" Billy coughed. "I just don't like hearing about my friends getting hurt. Specially you. Makes me want to go back in time and kill them all."
"Well, that's what got you in trouble in your time," Machiavelli chastised gently. "Would you like a hug? Or something? I'm worried about you." Billy nodded, so the taller immortal slipped an arm around the outlaw's shoulders. "We haven't hugged in some time," he laughed. "We don't fit together the way we did when I was littler."
"You fit just fine," Billy said. "We just have to get used to the height difference." He rested his head in the crook of Machiavelli's neck for a moment, then pulled back. He looked at Machiavelli, but seemed unable to say what he wanted to. He made a small noise of frustration instead.
"Billy, this doesn't change us in any way, does it?" The Italian couldn't help but sound worried. Billy shook his head, but he seemed distracted. "Good. Let's do something fun tonight then. Bring me to a movie." He smiled. "Buy me a popcorn."
"I can do that," the Kid agreed, pushing the fringe out of his eyes.
"It's been a long time since we've had your hair cut," Machiavelli observed, causing the other man to scowl. He tried wheedling him like he would have in the past. "Don't you want to look handsome for me?" Billy glanced at him, with an embarrassed smile on his face. Niccolò tried to sidestep the awkwardness by confronting it. "What's the matter? I can't get away with saying stuff like that to you anymore?"
"It does sound a little funny coming from a grown man," Billy agreed, his nose a little pink from amusement or embarrassment, Machiavelli couldn't tell. "Alright, Mac-a-whack, I'll go to the barber before dinner. Are you coming?"
"Why, do you think I need it?"
The Kid nodded. "If I do, you do."
Machiavelli shrugged and began to look around for his loafers. Finding them, he toed them on and headed for their coatrack. "Well, I guess we'll keep each other on track, this way. We'll just get haircuts together for the rest of our lives?"
"Sounds accurate considering you'll probably be the one to make me get a haircut for the rest of my life."
~MB~
"Why are we paying to see this in theaters when I know we have it on DVD?" Machiavelli queried thoughtfully, following Billy nonetheless up the stairs.
Billy surveyed the theater, pausing halfway up to look around. "Here, let's sit here. We'll get the best sound quality and view of the screen." He grabbed the Italian's arm, gently pulling him down the row. "We're watching it in theaters to get the true experience," he answered patiently. "Besides, better popcorn." He grabbed some from the carton Machiavelli was holding. The Italian immortal held it out for him, trying to entice him to hold the ungainly monstrosity of butter, but the Kid just smiled and declined. "Besides you told me that you wanted me to bring you to a movie.
"I guess I just assumed it would be a picture, I hadn't seen before."
"Oh. Well, I kind of assume that you haven't seen most movies."
"I guess I can understand that," Machiavelli agreed mildly. "It's just that people gave us kind of funny looks when we came in. I think they think we're dating."
"Who cares what anyone thinks of us?" Billy said lazily. He glanced over at the tactician. "It's none of their business if we were dating or not. I'm allowed to spend time with my favorite person without anybody judging me."
Machiavelli felt like he'd swallowed something warm, the feeling encompassing his heart. Part of him wished that Billy would stop saying such nice things to him. He would never stop loving the American immortal as long as Billy kept this up. "You don't mind being mistaken for a gay man, then?" he asked curiously, turning his attention away from the screen where the mindless advertisements had just gone around again.
"Nah, why should I?" Billy asked. He leaned forward, looking for any employees, before putting his feet up on the seat in front of them. He slid down a little, apparently very comfortable. Machiavelli shook his head at him wordlessly. The Kid seemed truly more concerned that he would be caught with his feet up than he was about being mistaken for what could be a fatal orientation in some parts of the world. "This is a great film, Mac. I could watch it a hundred times."
"I liked Shawshank Redemption," Niccolò agreed cautiously. "I don't know that I'd want to watch it a hundred times." He knocked Billy's hand out of the way to get to the popcorn. "We should have gotten a bigger thing of popcorn. We're going to be halfway through this one before the movie even starts.
"Just a minute ago, you said that this one was way too big," Billy reminded him, pulling a box of Nestle Crunches from his pocket. "Women are lucky, you know."
"How so?" Machiavelli asked cautiously, not knowing where exactly the American immortal was going to go with this.
"Well, for one thing, they can hang out with other women without anybody suspecting anything of them. But more importantly, they carry those big purses and nobody questions them on that. They could've gone to the store, bought a shit ton of candy and brought it all in with us. We can't do that! Instead we have to pay the premiums here." Billy let out a small mournful sigh.
"Yes, I'm sure the ability to carry purses makes up for the systematic inequality women face," Machiavelli agreed snarkily.
Billy turned his head slightly, laughing into the collar of his shirt. He shoved a knuckle into his mouth to muffle the sound. "Yeh- You're so sassy, Mac. Has anybody every told you that?" he asked when he finally calmed his laughter. His eyes were crinkled in obvious delight.
All of Billy's laughing rubbed off on the Italian immortal. He hid his small grin by taking a sip of the outlaw's drink. "No," he answered finally. "Nobody's ever called me sassy before."
"They should have," the outlaw told him forcibly. "Somebody should have, before this." And he kissed the shell of Machiavelli's ear. Niccolò glanced around the theatre nervously, but nobody seemed to have noticed. He relaxed ever so slightly, feeling better when the lights dimmed. Billy leaned in to whisper in his ear. "You're my favorite, Mac."
