When the Italian immortal woke the next morning, his mind was blissfully blank. He tried to remember the exact moment when he'd fallen asleep last night, but found that he could only track his wakefulness up to a certain point before it all became confusingly commingled with his drowsiness.
Still, he found that to his surprise, he was in a better mood now that it was a new day. The weight of the comforter rubbed against his developing erection and he wiggled his hips to explore the sensation. Without much hesitation, he kicked down his shorts and, raising his body slightly, slipped off the t-shirt he'd slept in and let it drop down beside the bed.
His younger body was affording him more sexuality in one half a year than he'd felt in the past decade and he had to admit that despite the occasional loneliness and self-doubt, he couldn't deny that he was having fun.
The blanket had been pushed back when he'd taken off his shirt and now he deliberately left his chest uncovered, letting the chill of the early morning arouse him further. He tweaked one nipple, teasing it by flicking and rubbing it, and slipped his other hand below the blanket.
His body thrummed with pleasure.
He withdrew his right hand from the covers only to suck on his digits until they were suitably wet for his purpose. Feeling close too close to climaxing for his comfort, he gently tugged on his balls, relaxing slightly in the process. He continued to work his body, confusing thoughts of his wife and Billy playing on the edge of his mind. Had he been in his normal frame of mind, he might have found the oscillation between the two a touch upsetting, but for now he was too excited to read deeper into what this amalgamation of desire might mean.
~MB~
Despite missing the other immortals and his confusing feelings towards his most constant companion, he couldn't say that he was having a bad time necessarily. By the middle of that week, Machiavelli had found a pleasant little café to eat lunches in. He got in the habit of waking up midmorning, bathing, and wandering down the street, a book in hand.
It wasn't the same as his time with Billy, but sitting in the café did afford him some human interaction that the Italian otherwise would have lost entirely in the outlaw's absence.
Today, he carefully ate the French onion soup, noting that while it certainly wasn't on par with what he could have had if he'd been in France, this wasn't low quality. He kept his book open on the table before him, not really reading at the moment, but using it as a prop. It made him feel a little less lonely, like he had a purpose, with the book in front of him. Occasionally, he would turn the pages of the book to keep away suspicion, but the words slipped away from him like water in his hands.
Glancing at his watch, he kept careful track of the time. The mattress Billy'd ordered before leaving was scheduled to come in in today; he'd gotten a reminder text this morning. Preparing for it to arrive had helped his troubled mind focus on something outside of the situation he'd found himself in.
The bed was supposed to be dropped off at 13:00, so by half past noon, he decided he'd better head back to the brownstone. Glancing at his clock one more time, he gathered his stuff and began the walk back to the brownstone.
He was surprised, on his arrival, to find the girl from behind the pink curtains, presumably their neighbor, waiting on his front steps. He almost considered walking right by the house, to avoid sheer awkwardness, but too late- she'd looked up and seen him looking and they made brief but awful eye contact- and he knew that he'd have to talk to her.
"Hi," he murmured, wanting to be polite, but also wildly wondering why she was there. Should I mention seeing her the other day? No, better to pretend that it didn't happen. "Can I help you?" he asked, hoping against hope that she had something purely neighborly in mind, but remembering at least one night where he'd discovered her spying on his bedroom window and feeling a flush rise involuntarily.
"Maybe you can," she almost purred, and Machiavelli's instincts to run away screamed at him, goading, begging him to walk into the street perhaps and pretend to get hit by a bus… It would be hard to explain to the other neighbors, but perhaps he could find a new place to stay for a while... "My name's Melissa. My friends all call me Missy. You should too."
"Well- Missy- it's nice to meet you, but I have a delivery coming soon, and I just wanted…"
"You have a gorgeous accent. What are you, French?"
"Italian," he sputtered. "And I have a delivery coming…" he trailed off, correctly assuming that she'd stopped listening. He feebly gestured to the door behind him.
"I think Italian men are sexy." Just a moment ago, you thought I was French, he thought crabbily. He actually shook his head at that. Focus, Niccolò -this isn't the issue at hand- but there are more languages than French- Focus!
"Can I help you with something in particular?" he asked again, trying to edge around her up the stairs. Billy'd know how to get rid of her, he thought wildly and for not the first time that week, but perhaps more keenly than ever, he wished the Kid was here and he was wherever the outlaw was, if they could not be together.
She ignored that. "You haven't told me your name yet," she said accusingly.
"It's Niccolò," he revealed reluctantly. "Shouldn't you be in school, Missy? You're what, 16?" He deliberately lowballed her, knowing that it would likely annoy her, which would throw her off balance and give him he advantage.
"I'm turning 18 in two months," she snapped defensively. He saw he'd struck a nerve and he gave her a charming smile now, glad to still be able to manipulate people, if only on some level. He'd been afraid that Billy had worked the deceit right out of his heart and that would have been a shame when there was still people, people like this, who could only be dealt with using some form of trickery.
"You should still be in school. It's the middle of a day on a Wednesday." Never in all of his years had he felt as old as he did in that moment, but still, scolding her had reminded him that he'd once been a father to teenagers and he smiled. Lately he'd been feeling rather cast about, but in that moment, he'd been sure of himself again, if only for a fleeting moment. He opened the door with his key and glanced back at the fuming teenager. "Have a good day," he said with surprising merriness and closed the door with a snap.
Leaning against the door, his smile faded as he wondered what his life was coming to. Desperately, he wanted to see if she was still out there, but he felt this would only encourage her should she catch him in the act. Perhaps, I misinterpreted that situation, he thought next, feeling a pang, and was inexcusably rude. Hmm. I'm going to have to call Billy and see how he'd interpret that conversation.
He fished his phone out of his pocket, began to dial Billy's number and remembered the photo album. Besides they had just talked last night... He ended the call without finishing dialing. Frowning, he went through the doorway and down the stairs to the kitchen where he set water on the stove to heat. The phone, he put on the counter.
Fetching a mug from the upper shelves, he looked for their carton of tea leaves and was dismayed to find they had only tea dust left. Unwillingly, he got down the box of tea bags that Billy'd deemed 'just as good' and put two in their kettle. Waiting for the water to boil, he picked up his phone and tapped it against his lips.
Of course. Why hadn't he thought of it before? He could call Scatty, should in fact, call the red-haired immortal. He'd missed her terribly, almost as much as he'd missed Billy, and they'd been separated for even longer.
He glanced at his watch. The movers were going to be arriving any minute. He could call her after that.
Indeed, the thought had barely crossed his mind before he heard the deep gonging of the doorbell. He switched the stove off again with a sigh and climbed up to the main floor. Pulling the door open, he was relieved to find that it was actually the deliverymen and not just his now irate neighbor. He directed them to the floor above, staying out of their way for the most part.
Sitting in his front hallway, he glanced at the disappearing backside of one of the young men hoisting the mattress up the staircase. And felt nothing. 'No, that's not true; you feel a certain amount of relief, don't you?' he mused to himself. Your feelings towards Billy, they're an enigma, but you're not ready to completely change yourself.
"Just move in?" the older man asked cheerfully.
Machiavelli smiled. "About a month ago now, but we've been busy trying to clean it up in here. As you might notice, it's an uphill battle." He gestured around the house.
"Ah, you'll get there in the end," the mover- his nametag read Lawrence- said pleasantly. "My wife and I, we're still moving things around the house. You never find a spot for everything… Hey, John! You almost done?" They both cocked their heads to hear the response. There was a vague shout from the second floor and Lawrence, who seemed to understand the words better than the Italian immortal had, nodded his head. "My son," he told Machiavelli, affection apparent.
"It must be nice to be able to see your son every day," Machiavelli told him, and it was nice, he thought. I spent too much time away from mine. He waved the thought away, unwittingly making a small gesture with his hand.
"It is. Hey, you alright buddy?"
Americans, Machiavelli thought fondly. "Yes, sorry, I just had something else on my mind."
"Ah, well, I think we're all done. You let us know if you need anything else, now." He handed Niccolò the folded up bill and collected the rest of his stuff.
Machiavelli leaned on the doorway. "Thank you. I will," he called down. He watched the van pull away from the curb and glide down the road before he closed the door behind him.
Heading up the stairs, he entered what was going to be his bedroom. They'd set up not only the mattress, but the furniture that Billy'd ordered. He had to admit, it was a nice room, but he still preferred the little bedroom upstairs where he'd shared a bed for the last month with the outlaw. It's more normal this way, though, he thought regretfully.
Loosening his tie, he grabbed the bed set he'd bought that morning out of the closet and began pulling out pieces. What is all this stuff? He wrinkled his nose. You're almost five and a half hundred years old and you can't make a bed on your own, maybe you should focus on learning how to do normal things… The fitted sheet was giving him trouble and vaguely, he wondered if the two men who'd just left would make up his bed for him if he called them back with a promise to pay handsomely. No, come on! There's only so many ways to put this sheet on; you've just got to commit Niccolò!
Eventually, he got both sheets on and the comforter, and after some difficulty, the pillows too. Stepping back to survey the results, he shook his head. Never had he seen such a poorly made bed before. "I should have paid Dagon more…" he mumbled under his breath.
~MB~
That night, he finally got around to calling the Shadow. She picked up after two rings.
"Hello?"
"Scatty," he said, genuinely glad to hear her voice again. He pictured her, maybe lying on the couch in the living room, or else in the room they'd painted for her, and felt a rush of fondness settle over him. "It's Niccolo," he said unnecessarily.
"Hey, you! You guys haven't called me in like a month! What gives?"
"I've been meaning to, really I have." And he had. But why did you wait a month? "I was actually hoping you might come visit me. I have a little problem."
"This is something I can answer that Billy can't?" she wondered into the phone. Machiavelli could tell from her tone that she wasn't trying to brush him off but was genuinely confused.
"Billy's not here right now." Quickly, he detailed where the American immortal had gone and why. At her prompting, he described the past couple of days for him, what he'd been doing, how he'd spent the days. He couldn't help but admit to her his growing sense of loneliness. "…It would be nice to have you here for that reason, but I also have another… interesting situation that having you around might help with. And there's something I want to show you, I can't tell you about it over the phone, but… will you come?"
"What's the interesting situation of which you speak?" she asked curiously.
Machiavelli turned red. "There's, there's a girl that lives in the brownstone behind us. I ran into her today, in front of our house, but I don't think it was a chance encounter. She's taken some interest in me…" He trailed off, thinking how ridiculous this must sound. "She's too young to even entertain these notions, but she won't relent. Will you help me out?"
"You want me to act out the part of your girlfriend," she worked out shrewdly.
The tactician hadn't figured on it in terms such as that, but after some thought he realized that was essentially what he'd been asking her to do. "I just need some help… firmly discouraging her. She's a nice girl, I just- please stop laughing at me- I just really want to see you, Scatty. Please come."
"Alright, hot stuff, I'll come out to see you. It will be nice to see you again." He nodded in agreement on his end. "I'll have to work it out with the Flamels; they'll have to drive me to the airport and I'll have to see when I can get the next flight… I'll text you the details when I find them out, okay?"
"Okay. Scatty… thank you," he said sincerely.
