Sometime during the night, Machiavelli must have woken up because when he woke up the next morning at half past ten, all the lights had been turned off and the magazine he'd been leafing through when he started falling asleep was tossed on his bedside table. He sat up slowly, blinking the crust out of his eyes, and yawned. "I'm going to have to clean these sheets," he mumbled. That was not the way I planned on spending my first day alone, he thought.
By the time he'd summoned the motivation to get out of bed, he'd changed his mind again. Maybe that was the best way to spend my first day alone. Either way, he decided his first stop better be the shower.
He pulled his shirt off as he crossed the room. Waiting for the water to heat up, he held a hand cautiously under the stream before climbing in. He dipped his head under, getting his hair wet, and began working his shampoo in. Leaning against the wall of the shower, he let his thoughts drift. He put minimal effort into completing ablutions, the water pouring down on him until he started to notice a dip in the temperature. Quickly, he used his conditioner, barely managing to get it all out again before the water got icy cold.
Not wanting to shave with only cold water available, he decided to make himself a casual brunch before continuing to clean himself up for the day. He mumbled incoherently as he went down the first flight of stairs. Stopping at the second landing, he happened to glance into the mirror across from the stairs. "Ah, che cazzo?" he groaned, looking for the first time at his hair. Already his hair was beginning to dry, all sticking out at crazy angles.
"I've got to fix this before my hair dries like this and I have to take another shower," he mumbled, ducking into the tiny bathroom on the floor with his bedroom. "Good, good," he said to his reflection. "Second day alone and already you're talking to yourself. You're doing well, Niccolò, very well." He fumbled around in the drawers, looking for a brush and finding everything else- bandages, a very old bottle of hydrogen peroxide, tweezers, and a box of condoms that he seriously doubted were still good.
He ended up going back up the stairs to run a comb through his hair.
Alright, you're having a slow start, but this is okay. He pulled out a yogurt and snagged a piece of fruit, contemplated eating at the bar and decided that despite the light that came in from the high windows, it would be too depressing. He went upstairs instead.
Eating in the living room, he decided that he'd better commit to cleaning up the rest of the apartment before Billy got back. It would take up his time, he hoped, and be a nice surprise for the Kid when he got back. So far, they'd done almost all the rooms anyways. There was now just the dining room, also on this floor, and the rest of the upstairs study. That's doable.
~MB~
After his brunch, Machiavelli didn't know what to do with himself. He felt that it would be a poor decision to spend the entire day inside, when it was admittedly beautiful outside, but also didn't know where to go or what to do. It had been easy to get in the habit of letting Billy lead the way. He wasn't good at venturing out on his own.
With a certain sense of uneasiness about him, he decided to take a walk around the neighborhood. He felt ill at ease with those around him, marked, as though he was wholly different from them. There's some truth to that, he felt, as he was centuries older than everyone he might meet on the street.
The trouble, he mused, was that he couldn't imagine going back to his lonely life in Paris after all this was over. Before, he'd at least had Dagon to keep him company. Now he would be going back to an empty house. His job he no longer cared much about; they'd sent authorization months ago, putting his second in charge in command. He'd all but retired.
Turning absently onto a tree lined street, he almost walked past the suit shop they'd passed on their way to the Mütter museum weeks ago, but paused and walked back. He looked at the display, a small grin tugging at his lips. He turned around again and decided to consider the idea as he walked around the block.
Whereas in his teenaged "years" he had been impatient to reclaim his suithood, he was a little more patient now. He reflected that at last measurement, he wasn't quite his previous height. About to turn 21 this next weekend, he felt that he could wait out these last minute changes. Still, the idea was very tempting. Billy would come back and the closet would be full of suits, he mused. And the thought occurred to him, I should get rid of those ties while he's gone.
He decided ultimately that he would wait another week or so before getting his closet of suits. Billy hadn't banned him from getting that particular article of clothing, he'd just advised against it, and for once, Billy was probably being the wiser of the two.
He ran into a farmer's market one road over and decided to load up. I need a hobby, this can't be my life, he thought as he picked through artichokes and asparagus. Eventually, he decided he had enough and he headed for home, laden down with all sorts of food.
"I can start cooking again," he said aloud, once he was in the safety of his own dwelling. He shoved the bags of vegetables in their dumbwaiter and snagged Billy's laptop from the living room. Climbing downstairs, he set the laptop on the island. While he waited for it to power up, he explored the space a little more.
He was still getting used to living in a brownstone again after having spent his summer in the cabin. Across the far wall was the line of cabinets, as well as the big appliances (the oven, refrigerator, and sink). On the walls that were in the front and back of the house were high windows, the front windows with wooden shutters blocking out their kitchen from the view of the street. Moving those shutters aside, he could see gutters with grating around it.
Behind him, he knew he could go through the heavier door and would find himself in their garage, but what really interested him was the door leading out to the back. He patted his pockets to be sure that he had his key with him- it would be hell to be locked out with Billy halfway across the country- and pulled it open.
The door creaked heavily on its hinges, almost groaning as he pulled it open. Just outside the door were roughhewn stones steps that he automatically decided would be hell to go up and down in the wintertime. Now however, they were just covered in leaves and, on one side, moss. He stepped carefully onto the grass, feeling the grass crunch under his feet- it had been getting colder during the nights and now as evening approached, the temperature was dipping again.
Looking around, he decided that while the brownstone would be a nice play to vacation, it would not be a good place for Billy to live at forever. Living among over a million people might afford them some safety in terms of masking their auras, but it was not nearly big enough to encapsulate all that he knew Billy needed. This tiny yard could not be enough for the outlaw used to the big outdoors. Even for Machiavelli, the neighbors were too close and the buildings, too tall. Though Paris had recently raised its height limits, there were almost no skyscrapers in the city he'd made his home for the past century, making Philadelphia a marked and sometimes unwelcome difference for both immortals.
Glancing over at one of their neighbor's brownstones, the one behind theirs, he was surprised to find that he was being watched by what appeared to be a teenaged girl. He waved awkwardly, wondering how long she'd watched him muse in the back yard. As soon as she saw him looking up at her, she bolted from the window, disappearing behind these hideous pink curtains.
Is this going to be my life for the next month? Gawked at by teenage girls until I get old and moldy? With one last sweeping look at the yard, he went back inside. Making sure the door was firmly shut behind him, he set the dumbwaiter to go down and turned the laptop around. It was powered up finally and he hit the internet shortcut, looking up potential recipes. When it began to really get dark, he got up to flick on the overhead lights. He finally decided on a chicken capri recipe, unloading the ingredients he needed and putting the others in the fridge or on the counter as needed. He hummed a little under his breath.
It hadn't been such a bad day, he reflected, getting ready to go to sleep that night. Still, he missed the American immortal.
Despite the re-occuring bouts of loneliness he felt, Machiavelli had to admit the time alone did give him much needed space to act out his sexuality. Going to bed that night, he stripped off his clothes as he went up the stairs, boldly leaving a trail of the various articles behind him.
He shivered in the cold air; the experience not at all unpleasant. He felt a voyeuristic thrill being totally undressed and exposed. Relishing the feeling, he left the shade of his bedroom window up as he moved around the room. He got under the covers.
"Fuck," he mumbled almost immediately. His ministrations from the night before had been largely forgotten over the progress of his day, meaning that he'd just landed in cold puddle of drying ejaculate. Getting out of bed again, he wiped his side with his t-shirt and moved around to Billy's side of the bed.
Pushing back the covers, he found that the Kid had left his nightclothes from the night before on the bed, tangled among the sheets. Extracting them, he dropped Billy's t-shirt on the ground, but lingered over Billy's boxers with undeniable interest.
"Don't be a creep," he said out loud, dropping the undergarments to the floor and climbing under the covers. He turned out the light.
Still though… Perhaps it was the cold cotton or his hormones, but he began to work his fingers down his body, felt the response and with a little groan, reached over the edge of the bed. Feeling around in the darkness, he snagged the briefs again. "I'm definitely going to hell," he mumbled, losing a little self-esteem but reaching a new level of excitement.
