"Hey, Mac." Machiavelli could hear Billy's voice calling to him, but it sounded far away. He turned over in his sleep and began to suck on his knuckles. It was a very nice dream he had been having. Guido was in it, grown up, smiling at him. Billy's voice intruded again. "Mac!"
The Italian sat up, suddenly awake. He jerked his hand out of his mouth and wiped the back of it on his pillow case. "What's up?" he asked.
"What were you thinking about sweetheart? You were smiling." Billy didn't wait for an answer, but sat down on the Italian's bed. "It's nearly noon," he said conversationally. "And the Germains have to leave after lunch. "So-"
"It's nearly noon?" He moaned and crawled out of bed. "Why'd you let me sleep this long?" he asked, pulling off his shorts and rooting around in his closet. "Where are my clothes?"
Billy grinned at him. "Let's see. To answer your questions: Yes, because you were tired, and here have some underwear." He tossed a pack to the preteen.
"Well, you don't have to worry too much. Between the ages of about 12 and 16, I grew very little." The Italian looked around. "It's a mess in here," Machiavelli commented. He stepped into the boxers. "What were you doing, sorting clothes?"
"I was actually. It seems like every time I turn around, you've gotten bigger." The American scooped a pile of clothes off the ground. "These are the clothes I think will still fit. Even if you don't grow much over the next few weeks, we're going to have to get you some colder weather clothing." He rubbed the stubble on his chin. Since you're getting ready, I think I'm going to go tell the others you'll be down soon."
"Wait, I'm almost done," Machiavelli called. He grabbed a shirt, pulled it over his head, and followed Billy down the stairs. The European immortal jumped as all the other immortals began to sing Happy Birthday to him. He blushed deeply. "You got me a cake," he said, looking at the table.
"Baked Alaska," Germain agreed.
Joan touched her husband's arm. "Francis looks for any excuse to add fire to the occasion." She smiled at him.
"Of course," Germain agreed. He plucked the candle shaped like an eleven off the cake and lit it with the tip of his index finger.
Machiavelli slid in next to Nicholas. "Are we having cake before lunch?"
"It would appear so," Nicholas said.
"Do you have to leave?" Machiavelli asked suddenly. The adults looked up. "I don't want you to leave. I'll miss you."
"Will you miss me, too?" Black Hawk called from the other end of the table.
Billy looked up sharply. "Why, where are you going?" He tugged Machiavelli's cake away from him and replaced it with a sandwich, but never broke eye contact with the Native American.
Black Hawk made a motion towards the French rockstar. "Germain has made me a job offer. I'm going to run security at his concerts for the rest of the season. Like we used to do."
"I'll miss you," Machiavelli said, cautiously. He was surprised by his feelings. The Native American was cavalier and caustic at times, but the Italian recognized the fun that Black Hawk brought with him.
Joan caught the Italian's troubled expression. She touched his arm lightly. "It's not goodbye forever," she said smiling at him. "Francis's tour ends in October and then we'll come see you again."
Billy swiped a bite from Machiavelli's cake. "Maybe we can go see one of your concerts."
Germain brightened. "Absolutely. I'll send you tickets." The conversation steered in the direction of music. Nicholas and Scathach got into an argument about the importance of the British invasion.
Perenelle and Joan had no apparent interest in the topic. They broke away from the group shortly before the lunchhour finished and stood on the porch, chatting rapidly in French. Machiavelli broke away from the bigger group and drifted towards the women. "Bonjour," he said, smiling at them.
"Hello, dear," Joan said. She drew him into a hug. "I'm very happy that we met each other this week. J'espère que nous pouvons être des amis de longue date."
"Moi aussi," Machiavelli agreed. He looked up as the others got up. "Oh, is it time to go already?"
"I suppose so," Joan said. "Francis and I have to be in Seatle by tonight." She kissed Machiavelli on both cheeks before moving on to say goodbye to the other immortals. The Italian flushed happily, but was surprised when St Germain grabbed the Italian by the shoulders and kissed him as well.
"Bye," he called.
~MB~
"It's kind of sad, the Germains being gone," Machiavelli said that night. He came into Billy's room and leaned on the doorframe.
The outlaw glanced up. "I know. But they'll come back again. Germain's tour finishes up at the end of the year." He waved the Italian in. Machiavelli straightened out his long legs and strode into the room. It occured to him that he hadn't ever really looked at Billy's bedroom before. There was a surprising number of books on the side tables, though a space had been cleared for a picture of Billy's mother. "You know, Mac, I never really thought about this before, but Phantom of the Opera is rather frightening," Billy commented, thumbing through his copy of the book.
"You never thought it was frightening before?" Machiavelli asked somewhat incredulously. He thought a moment, before asking suspiciously, "Have you read it before?"
"No," Billy admitted without a trace of shame. "But I love the music. So I should like the book. I think I'm going to read it next."
The Italian climbed onto the bed beside the American. "What abour your Sherlock Holmes book? Aren't you going to finish that?"
Billy looked up. "Oh, I finished that the other night. I need very little sleep," he explained, seeing the other immortal's dubious look. He glanced down. "Say, Mac, did you know you're starting to get hair on your legs again?"
Machiavelli slid his legs under the blankets quickly. "Yes, I'm aware," he snapped.
Billy thought for a moment, then his whole face lit up. "You're going through puberty," he laughed and slung an arm around the Italian's shoulders. "My baby boy's growing up," he said, wiping a fake tear from his eye.
The Italian roughly pushed Billy's arm off his shoulders. "Oh, shut up," he said in a low voice, scrunching down in the bed.
Billy cocked his head. He seemed to be doing some calculation. "That means... that means in about a week or two, you're going to start getting bitchy, what with hormones and all..." He tossed the book on the nighttable. "Then you'll be even more frightening than my book," he concluded happily.
The Italian moaned unhappily. "I don't want to go through puberty again. I didn't like it the first time."
"Necessary evil, I'm afraid." Billy grinned at him, his blues eyes twinkling. "Unless you wish to be remembered for the little prince, instead of The Prince."
"Aspetti!" Machiavelli swore. He sat up in horror. "No, no, no... How could you do that to me?" He slipped off the American's bed and began to pace back and forth. Billy smiled broadly but began to apologize, even catching the boy's hand. Reluctantly, the Italian sat back down.
"I'm sorry, Mac," Billy repeated. "But it's a valid point. And it will be over soon," he swore. He began to rub the boy's back before kissing the back of his hair. "We've got to give you a haircut, sweetheart."
"I'd like a haircut," Machiavelli acknowledged. He looked back at Billy. "Are you going to tuck me in?" he asked.
"Of course." Billy rolled out of the bed and onto the floor. He smacked the ground lightly and came bouncing to his feet. "Listen, Mac, I'll do my level best not to make fun of you. You just might have to remind me from time to time."