"Look, I don't want to talk about it anymore," said Pierre. "Go ask someone else."
Giovanni sighed and rolled his eyes. He had been more than surprised when he'd found out that Pierre was marrying Theresa, but now finding out that she was with René, that she'd never, in fact, been married to Pierre…it seemed as though no one could provide him with the answers he wanted. The whole thing was tangled and confusing, and it had all happened so fast. Theresa was with René now, at this moment, becoming his wife in every sense of the word, and Pierre didn't seem to give a damn. He was staring up at the night sky with a half-empty wine bottle beside him. It was almost like any other normal night. "Pierre, please."
Giovanni sat down beside him, taking the bottle and drinking. The wine was unnaturally sweet, but it slid down his throat easily. Pierre would not look directly at him; he continued to stare up at the sky as though it was far more interesting than anything else. He did, however, acknowledge Giovanni's presence by reaching for the bottle. Giovanni handed it to him wordlessly and watched him drink.
"We all thought René would only hurt her," said Pierre finally. He turned, looking at him. "You asked me to keep an eye on her, to make sure he didn't do anything improper. And when René kept coming around, your uncle asked me if I'd marry Theresa. He thought that if Theresa got married, René would lose interest in her. I thought I was protecting her."
"But…she says you don't even love her – "
"I don't, at least, not in that way." Pierre was staring at him, his dark eyes clouded with some emotion that Giovanni couldn't quite identify. He was tempted to label it as sorrow, but it seemed to run deeper than that. "I thought I was protecting her." He took another drink. "I mean…you'd do the same for Marie, wouldn't you? If you and Katarina weren't married."
Giovanni shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe." Pierre handed him the bottle. "But I don't love Marie like that. I don't think I could marry her if I didn't love her."
"Not even to protect her?"
He took a drink. "That's not why you marry someone," he said. "You marry a girl because you love her, not because someone's asking you to protect her." He realized how bitter he sounded, and he looked over at Pierre. Pierre was nodding in agreement, and this surprised Giovanni. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean it like that – "
"No, you're right."
"Besides, Marie seems happy."
Pierre rolled his eyes. "That stupid bastard only married her because he got her pregnant."
"Well, what would you have done in his place?"
"I would've kept it in my pants."
"Come on, you're acting like he molested her."
"He practically did," said Pierre, bitterly. "He took advantage of her."
Experience had taught him that arguing with Pierre was an exercise in futility, but Giovanni did not feel like giving up. Pierre had always treated Marie as though she was helpless. Her deafness may have been a hindrance, but it didn't render her an idiot. She could take care of herself. She could make her own choices. "He loves her. If he didn't, he would've just left with the rest of his family."
Pierre sighed, and Giovanni handed him the wine bottle. "You're right," he said, taking a long swig. "I just…she's my little sister."
"I know. I feel that way about Theresa."
"You didn't seem so upset when I married her."
Giovanni shook his head. "You're my best friend," he said, "we're practically brothers. I did think it was a little strange that you wanted to marry her, but I know you, and I trust you. I certainly trusted you a lot more than René." Pierre nodded. "It's very strange that you didn't…you know…"
Pierre groaned and took another swig from the wine bottle. "God, does everyone know?"
"Yes."
"Damn it."
"Why did you lie about it?"
Pierre shrugged. "Theresa was crying. She kept saying that she had to, even though she didn't want me. I couldn't force her." He stared down at the wine bottle before finishing it. "I also didn't want everyone to think I'm impotent."
"Well, I already think that."
Pierre laughed. "There are several prostitutes who can tell you otherwise," he said. He stood up. "I think I'll go pay one a visit."
"What would your mother say about that?"
"Oh, she'd just tell me to get married," said Pierre, still laughing, " 'I'm not getting any younger, Pierre, and you know I want to see you happily married before I die.' "
~xXx~
"I know it isn't much," said René, "but once I've been saving my money so we can get a house."
Theresa smiled at him. "It's fine," she said. The room was dim and located above a noisy tavern, but she didn't care. The rickety table and chairs, the crooked shelves, the chipped basin full of water, the bed by the window – she seemed to take it all in, and she clearly didn't care about its shabbiness. It was a room for her and René, a place of their very own. They would begin to build their new life here. "It's perfect."
René embraced her, pulling her close, and she rested her head against his chest. He closed his eyes, stroking her hair. The cheapness of the room, the noise that drifted up from the tavern below – none of it mattered. It was as though none of it even existed. It felt as though the entire world had vanished, leaving only him and Theresa and their love.
René opened his eyes and lifted her into his arms. Theresa gasped, startled, and gripped his shoulders. "I love you," he said, bringing her over to the bed – their bed, now – and laying her down on it. "I love you so much."
"I love you too," she said, stroking his cheek, running her fingertips over his face. She pulled away from him, and he was startled for a moment. She began undoing the buttons on her blouse, her fingers moving slowly and carefully. He watched as she let it slide off of her shoulders. He pulled his own shirt off now, climbing onto the bed beside her. Her skin felt soft and smooth and warm, and he wanted to kiss her. He did, brushing his lips against her neck and shoulders, inhaling, taking in her scent. She let him touch her breasts, let him kiss them.
They knelt before one another, almost as if in prayer, holding each other. Theresa kissed him, her lips hungry. She pulled away from him again, this time undoing the buttons on the side of her skirt. René watched, fascinated, as she removed the garment. He tugged his trousers off now, eagerly, clumsily, nearly falling off the bed. It made Theresa giggle, and he felt himself blushing as he took her in his arms again. He lay down, pulling her on top of him.
He had never been with a virgin before, but he'd heard that it was easier for one if she was on top. Besides, he did not want to do anything to irritate the wound in the back of Theresa's shoulder. She straddled him, let him enter her, and he did so as slowly and gently as he could. She was warm and soft, and she moaned his name as she moved. He moved with her, creating a steady rhythm. "I love you," he said, "oh God, Theresa, I love you." The whole thing was ecstasy. Touching her, holding her, seeing the love she felt for him, feeling her pleasure, it was amazing. He had been with women before, but he had never truly made love until now.
It ended as quickly and passionately as it had begun, and he watched as Theresa stood by the basin, wiping the blood off of her thighs. He rose, pulling the bloodstained sheet off of the bed, and joined her. He was surprised at the amount of blood; he hadn't expected there to be so much. He hoped he hadn't hurt her. He put his hand on her shoulder, and she looked at him, smiling. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
She shook her head. "No."
Her blood had, naturally, gotten onto him, and he wiped it off before following her back to the bed. He slid beneath the remaining blankets, relishing the way she snuggled against him. Her body was soft and warm, and she rested her head against his chest. He stroked her hair. "I can hear your heart," she said.
"What does it say?"
She giggled, lifting her head to look at him. "It says 'I love you.' "
~xXx~
He groaned, winding his fingers through the prostitute's soft blonde hair. He let his mind wander, let it drift, knowing that even if she could read his mind, she was in no position to judge him. She sold herself, she let men touch and defile her in exchange for money; what would she care if he thought about another man while she pleasured him?
Despite this, Pierre still bit his lip, stopped himself from calling out Giovanni's name as he climaxed. He opened his eyes, letting the room come back into focus. He pulled his hand out of the prostitute's hair, doing so slowly and gently. She was wiping her mouth, getting to her feet. He'd already paid her, but she was holding her hand out for more as he rose. He tugged his trousers back up and reached into his pocket. He handed her another coin, and she took it silently.
He left her, his hands jammed into his pockets, his head lowered against the crisp night air. He supposed that he should go home even though he didn't really want to. He had no real desire to return to the bed he'd once shared chastely with Theresa. It would still smell like her, like her sorrow, like her tears. She was happy now, at least, in the arms of the man she loved. If only I could be so lucky, thought Pierre.
He waved the thought away, reminding himself that what he felt for Giovanni was not normal. It was wrong. It was unnatural. His mother would disown him if she knew; she'd probably die from the shock of it. He himself would be executed for it, burned at the stake, though not before being brutally tortured. He passed the house that Giovanni and Katarina shared, forcing himself not to look at it. Giovanni would be asleep, Katarina nestled in his arms.
Pierre knew that sleep would not come to him tonight. He knew before climbing into bed – the bed that still smelled of his blood and Theresa's tears – that he would spend yet another night lying awake, wishing he could trade places with Katarina.
~xXx~
The world could be a harsh and cruel place, but it could also be a beautiful one. Though the room was small and sparsely furnished, though the sounds of the tavern beneath it drifted up through the floorboards, Theresa felt happier than she'd ever been before. She was fairly certain that René was asleep; she could feel his chest rise and fall with rhythmic slowness. She closed her eyes, listening to his heartbeat. It was strong and steady, and it told her that he loved her.
She opened her eyes, glancing briefly at the crumpled bed sheet that lay on the floor. The blood looked blackish in the moonlight, like tar, and she found herself thinking of Pierre, of his infinite kindness. He was such a good friend. She told herself that she'd find a way to repay his kindness some day.
Theresa let her eyes drift closed. It was another thought for another day. For now, she and René belonged to each other. They would save their money and eventually move out of the cheap room above the tavern. They would have a proper home. The wound in her leg was healing, and it would only continue to do so. Eventually, she'd be able to walk without the crutches and without a limp. She would dance again, and René would watch her, smiling at her as she twirled.