For the most part, the immortals lived in relative harmony over the next few days, although Billy, who was scrutinizing the Italian's behavior, noticed a definite drop in the boy's happiness. Machiavelli didn't argue unless he was antagonized, but his new behavior upset Billy more than if he had shouted or thrown a fit. It seemed like there was a cloud hanging over the Italian.
By Friday, Billy was truly concerned about Machiavelli's melancholia. The teenager was shutting himself in his room a lot, and avoiding the other immortals. With the resolution of making him feel better, Billy went up to the Italian's room that afternoon to try again. He rapped on the door with his knuckles.
"Enter." Billy had to smile a little. Sometimes, Machiavelli's usual crisp manner still carried through, even if shrouded by his teenage emotions.
He pushed the door open and leaned on the door jamb. "Hey, kid. We've got some plans for tonight."
"Oh, yeah?" Machiavelli asked wearily. The Italian immortal was sitting at his desk, bushing his model car back and forth absentmindedly. "What are you doing?"
"The plans are for all of us," Billy said, coming into the room and sitting on the edge of his bureau. "We're going to go watch a movie at the old theater, have dinner. It'll be fun."
"I don't know," Machiavelli said dully. He pushed the car a little harder than he meant to and it rolled off the edge of his desk with a loud thump. The plastic windshield popped off, to the Italian's horror.
Billy touched back down to the ground quickly and scooped up the car and it's broken off part. "It's alright, I can fix that," he said quite kindly to the obviously stricken Italian. He set the pieces aside on the bureau, but didn't climb up again. Instead, he swung his hands around nervously for a moment, tried fitting them in his pockets and then pulled them out nervously again. He cleared his throat.
"Is something wrong? You seem to be cycling through a lot of emotions these days. And you never want to go anywhere anymore."
Machiavelli turned in his seat so that he was facing the American immortal and immediately regretted it. He shrugged, not knowing what to say.
"Is there something wrong between you and Scatty?" Billy queried softly. He picked up one of the Italian's Nerf guns and opened the cartridge. Pulling the trigger, he made the barrel spin. Not looking up, he added, "She says you're not talking to her."
Machiavelli stooped to tie his laces as a pretext of hiding his face. He had long since lost the illusion that he could deceive the American. Now he was just afraid that something on his face would give away what was going on in his head.
As the summer got closer to its end, Machiavelli had felt compelled to face some of his fears of the future and with that, a lot of his unresolved emotions towards Billy. Lately, he had been forced to admit to himself that he and Billy were far too incompatible to stay together in the long run. As soon as he was of legal age to take care of himself again, Billy probably wouldn't want him around anymore. The thought caused an empty aching feeling inside of him that he strove to squash.
Realizing he hadn't answered Billy, he glanced up and then back down again. "I've just been getting a lot of weird emotions lately. I think it's all the hormones," he said, still addressing his laces.
Billy still looked concerned and, to the Italian's mind, disappointed with his answer. "But why are you avoiding Scatty?" he asked curiously.
Machiavelli turned a delicate shade of red. Cause she's a better match to you than I am. "I don't know," he stammered. "It's just that…" But what it was exactly was something he had decided never to vocalize.
Inexplicably, Billy grinned. "Why Mr. Machiavelli, are you in love with Scatty?" He laughed.
Machiavelli grimaced. This was definitely not a conversation he had wanted to have and even if it was, it was going horribly. "No," he said with some finality. "Why? Do you love her?" he asked, hoping it sounded like an afterthought.
"Sure," Billy said happily. The Italian felt a strange sort of internal spasm. "Scathach's great. She picked out which movie we're going to watch." He pulled out his wallet from his back pocket and produced five tickets. "It's called Spiral Staircase. I first saw it when it came out in 1946. It stars Ethel Barrymore, grand-aunt to Drew Barrymore. It's kind of weird to have seen an entire family…"
"Billy, I don't think I'm going to go," Machiavelli cut in.
Billy visibly deflated. "Why? Are you sick?"
Machiavelli wanted to lie and say yes, but knew that Billy would see through it. He internally groaned. Billy was making him an honest man. "No, I just want some time alone." The Italian immortal felt guilty, seeing how downcast he had just made the outlaw. "Maybe we could do something tomorrow?"
Billy sighed, but nodded. "You sure you don't want some company tonight?" Machiavelli nodded again. "Alright. But you've got my phone number. Call me if anything's wrong."
"Okay."
"I'm going to make you some dinner now. You can heat it up later when you're hungry." Billy passed his hand through Machiavelli's hair. "Your hair's getting long again."
~MB~
Machiavelli almost changed his mind about going right before the others left. Billy certainly tried to entice him to come, but ultimately he declined again. He had decided that it would be better to spend less time with Billy in order to make their last month together a less painful experience. So while he was tempted to go with them, he thought it best to start this new pattern of behavior early.
After the others had left, he wandered around the cabin. He flicked on the TV, but couldn't get into any of the programs that were currently playing. Idly, he remembered that Billy said nothing good was ever on the television on a Friday. He turned it off again and threw the remote on the coffee table. It bounced off and fell on the floor. He winced.
Nervously, he began to pace a bit. He walked into the kitchen and glanced in the fridge. Billy had made him a casserole and left the instructions on the counter, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to commit to putting it in the oven. He wasn't hungry now, but he also knew that with the time it took to cook, he'd probably be overly hungry by the time he had put it in. He teetered on the edge of decision.
Georgette mewed from her place on the table. "Hi!" he said, suddenly very glad to see the cat. "Are you hungry?" The tabby meowed again, bending forward a little but not breaking eye contact.
Machiavelli pulled out a can of wet food for her. The sound of the can opening caused the Pup to come running in from the living room. Georgette gave him a haughty look. Apparently, their friendship extended only so far. "I can feed you too," Machiavelli said to the dog. His voice sounded strange in the silence.
He sat with the animals as they ate. A curious loneliness filled him up.
~MB~
"Do you really think something's wrong?" Scatty asked as Billy fished out the keys to the front door. "Everything looks fine. The lights are on."
"Well, I just wanted to check. You could have stayed there and kept the car. I could have walked back," Billy said as he opened the front door and flicked the light switch. "What the hell…" he trailed off. The American stood frozen as he looked around the living room. Machiavelli was slumped in the couch, several bottles on the coffee table and one tipped over on the ground, leaking wine onto the carpet. Some wine had somehow also spilled on Machiavelli, spreading in a nasty stain on his shirt which looked almost like blood.
The other immortals stopped at the front door, but Billy came to his senses and strode across the room. He pulled the boy up into an upright position.
"Mac?" Billy slapped the Italian's cheeks rapidly. "Wake up, Mac."
Machiavelli blinked blearily and smiled up at the American immortal. "Oh, Billy," the Italian giggled. "You came back. I've missed you loads." He wrapped his arms around the outlaw's shoulders and hiccupped.
"He's drunk," Billy said disbelievingly. He looked up at the Flamels who were still framed in the doorway. Scatty had crossed the room herself and was picking up the bottles.
"One, two, three… seven?" Scatty counted the bottles on the table. "And this bottle makes eight." She looked at the Italian who was slumped against Billy. "He's going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow."
"He drank every bottle we have. I can't believe this," Billy said. He lifted the Italian up which was not an easy task as the Italian was now nearly as tall as the American immortal. "I'm going to go clean him up. I'm sorry about this."
"It's okay," Nicholas said. He gestured around the room. "We'll clean up. Goodnight, Billy. Goodnight, Niccolò."
"Nighty night," Machiavelli laughed. He leaned back his head and made a gurgling noise in the back of his throat. The American sighed and readjusted his grip on the boy before going up the stairs. "Are you mad?" the Italian asked carelessly. He gave the American a sloppy kiss on the cheek and smiled up at him.
Billy sighed again and sat Machiavelli on the hamper in the bathroom. "I don't know, Mac. A little bit," he said shortly. He started the water going in the tub. "Get undressed, Mac," he said, not looking at the Italian. "You can leave your briefs on."
"You're mad at me again," Machiavelli said in a subdued voice.
Billy looked over at the Italian. He got off of his knees and helped Machiavelli out of his shirt. "I'm not mad. I just don't understand, Mac. This is extreme even for how you've been behaving." He pulled the boy up into a standing position. "Let's just get you out of these sticky clothes. I guess we'll just clean you up for the night. But tomorrow we're going to talk about this."
"Okay," Machiavelli agreed sleepily. He climbed into the tub and nearly fell. Billy caught him and helped him down. "I want to go to sleep, Billy. I'm very sad all the time."
"I'm sorry about that," Billy said softly. He set about to washing the Italian's face. "Really, I am. I just want this week to end."
"Me, too," Machiavelli whispered. He fell back against the side of the tub and waited for Billy to be done. His mood was rapidly dropping. He leaned against Billy after he was pulled from the tub, letting the American do all the work. "Billy, I feel sad," he mumbled.
"I'm sorry, Niccolò," Billy told him. He hoisted him up again. "We won't say anything about it right now. We'll talk tomorrow. Okay?" He laid the Italian on his side in the bed. Behind Machiavelli's back, he propped up some extra blankets and pillows.
"What's that for?" Machiavelli asked sleepily.
Billy pulled up his blanket before answering. "It's so you can't roll over, Mac. I don't want you rolling over in the middle of the night. You could throw up and end up choking on your own vomit."
"My head hurts, Billy."
"You had a lot to drink. I expect everything will hurt before tomorrow." Billy patted the Italian's side. "Okay, here's a trashcan for if you get sick. I'm going to go see the others off, but then I'll be in my room across the hall."
"Billy?"
The American turned around in the doorway. "Yeah, kid?"
Machiavelli closed his eyes. "Nothing." He heard the door click shut.
"Night," Machiavelli whispered softly. He lay back in bed, but didn't feel tired. He turned his head and stared up at the lines on the ceiling. The first night he had slept in the cabin, he'd thought they'd looked like fireworks, fuochi d'artificio, but now they looked like spider legs, or perhaps crab legs. He shuddered and shifted into an uncomfortable position, deliberately hunching his back so that he wouldn't fall asleep.
As the hours passed by, he was finally overcome by sleep. He woke into a familiar dream: they were on Alkatraz again, he was framed in the doorway of the Warden's house, and there was Billy, standing before the Karkinos. There was a pause where the gigantic crab raised one of its claws and then decisively drove it downward into the outlaw. Machiavelli shot up, groping in the darkness for his light switch. His head reeled with the sudden movement and the light only made it worse. He blinked in the sudden brightness and fought the urge to heave. After a few moments of deep breathing, he turned the light off again. But he didn't go back to sleep.