AN: One more chapter after this. Kind of exciting, ist es nicht?
Machiavelli sighed happily. He could hear Billy downstairs, moving about in the kitchen, he guessed.
The sunlight crept into his bedroom, warming his face. A soft breeze caused the curtains to flutter. He burrowed deeper into the covers, unwilling to overcome his drowsiness. He didn't want to get up yet. It felt as though his morning hung in a delicate balance and, should he move too quickly, the balance would fall through.
Billy was singing along to the radio, but he was too far away for the Italian to hear what the song was. All he could hear was the clear cadence of the American's voice. Turning over, his had brushed against a contrasting fabric, discarded among the sheets. He reached down, feeling the denim of Billy's jeans and a t-shirt that the outlaw must have discarded after getting up. Something stirred inside of him. Before he could explore the emotion, he heard Billy coming up the stairs. He pushed himself back towards his side of the bed, watching the door.
"Oh, good, you're awake," Billy said, coming through the door. He was carrying a basket overflowing with laundry. "Happy 18th birthday! Ready to explore the city?"
Machiavelli was a little distracted by Billy's almost undressed body. He wished that the American had put on the clothes before coming up, instead of leaning over the pile now. "Uh, yeah," he said finally, tearing his gaze away from Billy's behind. The outlaw turned around to face him, smiling in a way that would have made the Italian immortal's knees weak and he silently thanked the gods above for the fact that he was still sitting in bed.
"You going to go around Philly in your boxers?" Billy joked happily. He fumbled with his belt for a moment, seeming to lose it in one of the back loops of his jeans. He crossed over to Machiavelli's side of the room, on the lookout for his shoes. "Mac? You gonna get out of bed?"
The teenager reluctantly nodded. He knew that as he got up, his developing erection was making a visible dent in boxers, but luckily for him, Billy seemed just as reluctant to make any remark towards the teenager's body as he was to hear it. "I just have to get dressed."
"Sure. I'll be downstairs." Billy grinned up at him, actually having to look up to see eye to eye to him.
"Okay." It was a small token of appeasement for Machiavelli's wounded pride to know that he was, at least, taller than Billy again. He proceeded into their bathroom, quickly shaving and brushing his teeth. He ran a comb through his hair, fixing the part. Glancing out into the bedroom, he made sure Billy wasn't still there before discarding his nightclothes in the wicker hamper and moved out into the room. He tucked his carefully ironed dress shirt into a pair of pants and decided he'd feel better if he was at least wearing a tie.
Thinking about ties reminded him of Billy's hideous collection and he idly wondered if he could get away with throwing them out, accidentally, of course. He decided this would be a personal mission for him. Doing up his own tie, he decided that he might look a little over dressed still, so he loosened the tie and undid the top button of his shirt. Slipping into dark brown loafers, he descended the stairs at last to join Billy.
The Kid was practically revving with energy. "You're going to like Philadelphia," he told the Italian, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "We don't have any food here, so I'll buy you something at one of the street vendors. Don't worry, it's good food."
Machiavelli nodded sleepily, poking his head out their front door. "Is it cold out?"
"A little bit now, but it's going to warm up," Billy told him cheerfully. "You're not going to want a jacket as soon as the sun comes out, believe you me." It helped that he bought the Italian a large coffee at the street vendor at the end of the passageway on which they lived. Machiavelli drank it black, looking around at the surrounding neighborhood. Billy had been right; they were in a nice neighborhood.
"It's called Rittenhouse Square," Billy said happily, indicating a sanctioned glen hidden among the skyscrapers. Machiavelli was rather surprised by the size of the park that his American friend was leading him into. They walked down one of the wide paths leading to the center of the square. "Nice, isn't it?" He bumped shoulders with Machiavelli. "It should be. They say that rent for Rittenhouse apartments are the 14th highest in the country. Guess not everybody could buy it in the 19th century when real estate was dirt cheap."
He got a smile from the Italian for that. "There are some advantages to being immortal," Machiavelli agreed mildly. He followed the Kid through the park and down a side road. They stopped in a bakery on one road and a delicatessen on another. This at least explained why Billy had been dragging a cart behind them. "Philadelphia kind of reminds me of Florence," Machiavelli mused as they walked down the streets. "With all the statues, I mean. Except all of your statues are clothed…"
"Yeah, we like our politicians to at least start out clothed," Billy agreed. He grinned. "Doesn't always work out so much, does it?" He laughed easily.
"Americans tend to be uptight about sexuality," Machiavelli continued. He grasped Billy's wrist briefly when he came to a stop in front of a suit shop. He looked longingly at the three piece suit in the front display. Realizing that he'd spent the entire day, just the day before yesterday, in sweatpants, he wondered what was wrong with him. Suits would fix it, he decided, assessing the dark blue suit on the right of the display.
"Well, there's being open about your sexuality and then there's fountains that shoot water out of ladies' tits," Billy countered, whispering the last part of the sentence like they were touring the local gerontology department instead of walking the streets of a vast city.
"Are you talking about the fountain of Neptune in Bologna?" Machiavelli asked distractedly. "Lactating Nereids were in fashion for a while. Billy, can I?"
"No suits today," Billy said gently. "We've got a lot of errands to run. Our apartment is not livable right now."
Machiavelli reluctantly followed his American counterpart down the sidewalk. "But someday soon, Billy? Promise me?"
"Yeah, Mac, soon you'll be the man I first met those few months ago."
"The man you met those months ago was wearing a suit," Machiavelli persisted hopefully. He decided to coax the outlaw, whose resolve seemed to be slowly fading as the weeks past. "We're in a big city now. I'll blend in. And it's like I said before, you can have the suits when I get too tall for them. Right now we have similar frames."
"I still think it'll make you stand out a bit," Billy said, putting a hand on his shoulder when they stopped at a crosswalk. He stood protectively over the Italian. It would appear that despite the growth spurt, he still felt compelled to watch over Machiavelli.
The teenager sighed ever so slightly, but didn't argue anymore. Billy glanced over at him. "We can at least update your wardrobe a little bit," he finally conceded. "No full on suits, though. Just some dress shirts and maybe a blazer."
The Italian nodded a little. "I can live with that. Are we going to go shopping now?"
Billy gestured to the now full grocery cart. "Let's drop these off at home and then we can go out again after lunch. We need to pick up some stuff to make the house livable. Sound good?" At Machiavelli's acceptance, he took off again. "Great. And I was thinking, you just turned 18. We should go out tonight, do something we couldn't do when you were a kid."
"Like what?" Machiavelli asked, trailing behind him.
"I was thinking we could go to a bar," Billy said, looking back at him. He assessed him critically, not stepping off the sidewalk, even when the walk signal turned white for them. Machiavelli slipped his arm in the other man's and led him across. "What do you think?" Billy asked, letting the Italian guide him.
"The drinking age is 21 in this country, unless I'm wrong," Machiavelli mused, dropping the other man's arm when they were on the other side. He glanced at Billy. "You know that."
"If we went to a bar, we'd have to use one of the fake ids that Nick packed, which isn't a big deal." Machiavelli nodded, figuring as Billy did that they were both way over the drinking age. "Is that where you want to go tonight?" Billy asked, stopping to look at him. Machiavelli considered it, weighing his options. It would be nice to do something completely adult again. He nodded again after a moment's pause. "Okay, should be fun," Billy said happily.
"But now you definitely have to bring me shopping this afternoon. And you've got to get better clothes too."
Billy looked offended, as per usual. "What's wrong with how I dress?"
"Well, you'd be alright if we were going to a cowboy bar," Machiavelli assessed, glancing at his companion. "But since we're in a city now, it'd be nice to see you in pants that aren't made of denim for once." He smirked, hearing the quiet hiss from the American immortal in front of him. He followed Billy up their front steps, helping to pull the cart up behind them and hanging on to it when Billy rooted around for the correct key again.
"We've got to get you a key of your own," Billy mumbled, pulling the right key off of the enormous key chain and putting it on the smaller key chain with his car keys. "Remind me to go to a locksmith this afternoon."
"I'll remind you after we go shopping," Machiavelli said happily, pulling out their groceries. He left the parmesian and gruyere cheese on the counter, but handed Billy the loaf of French bread. "I'll make lunch today. You slice this into 2.5 cm slices."
Billy took the bread, but looked confused. "How much is 2.5 cm? Isn't that kind of thin for sandwiches?"
Machiavelli closed his eyes and counted to five. "It's an inch exactly."
"Stupid metric system," Billy grumbled, searching in the knife drawer for a bread knife. And in an even lower voice, "Jimmy Carter trying to mess up a good thing." He pulled out the correct knife at last. Slicing into the bread, he began to whistle. "You know, Mac," he called, waving the knife slightly. "One year I was living here, I brought home a Christmas tree that I might have underestimated the size of. It was like, this big," he stretched his arms out. "And it was scratching the ceiling of the living room, so I had to trim it down. Problem was, I didn't have saw of any kind in the house. Want to guess which knife I used to take off the top?"
Machiavelli looked up from where he was grating cheese. "Oh, Billy, you didn't."
The Kid grinned. "Did, too. Don't worry, Mac, unlike Black Hawk, I actually wash my dishes." He glanced down at the bread in front of him. "Did you want me to cut the whole loaf? Cause I kind of just did."
The Italian immortal was looking through the cabinets, trying to find a baking sheet. "That's fine. I assumed you'd be having a couple of sandwiches anyways."
"I'm a growing boy," Billy told him, opening a drawer beneath the stove that Machiavelli would have never noticed. He grabbed one of the cookie pans on top and set it on the counter.
"You're growing sideways," Machiavelli countered, getting the butter out of the fridge. He handed it to his companion and moved over to the stove to make his white sauce. He moved aside to let Billy put the bread into the stove. Glancing at his watch, he factored ahead a few minutes. Lightly, he slapped Billy's hand the third time the American immortal moved in to steal some of his cheese. "Soon, you'll be eating just a ham sandwich because you ate all the cheese." He looked at his watch again and pulled out the baking sheet. Setting it to the side, he swatted again at Billy, who had taken another pinch of cheese while the Italian was distracted.
"Now that the bread's toasted, you want me to put the Dijon mustard on?" Billy asked, trying to appear helpful. He chewed on one of the end pieces of bread.
"If you think you can refrain from eating it all," Machiavelli said drily and the outlaw laughed. The sauce being done, he set it aside and got out the slices of ham they'd gotten that morning. "Are we going to do this every day?" he asked Billy.
"Make ham and cheese sandwiches? Might get old after a while," Billy joked.
Niccolò smacked him, the corners of his mouth turning up. "Go shopping for our meals every day."
Billy took the ham from him. "We should probably get some stuff to have on hand, just in case, but otherwise I don't see why not. We're not exactly employed right now, except for trying to stay alive." He looked down at the sandwiches. "Can we eat now?" he asked hopefully.
"No, we have to put them in the broiler for about five minutes." Billy looked very disappointed, so Machiavelli tried to distract him. "We didn't get anything for dinner?"
"I'm going to take you out to eat," Billy said loudly, over the sound of his stomach rumbling. He rubbed at his stomach self-consciously. "Before we go to the bar. It'll help you not get as drunk, if we put food in you right before hand." He looked at the timer on the stove expectantly. Niccolò had to stifle a laugh when he face dropped considerably. Billy pulled himself together. "You'll have fun at the club tonight. I'm going to bring you dancing."
"We'll be dancing together?" Machiavelli asked, quirking his lips. He smiled at the outlaw to let him know he was joking, but held out his hands expectantly.
Billy took his left hand, settling a hand on the taller immortal's hip. He grinned goofily at Niccolò. "Course! All the ladies are going to want to dance with yours truly," Machiavelli snorted, "but I'll break all of their hearts tonight. I'll only have eyes for you," he promised solemnly and Machiavelli felt a shiver go up his spine. "What about you, Mac? Are you going to dip me?" Machiavelli bit his lower lip, smiling at the American. He shook his head. "Nards," Billy cussed cheerfully, letting go of the other man as the timer went off. He got the pan out, managing to burn the tip of one of his fingers in the process. Sucking on his digit, he put the pan on the side of the stove that hadn't been in use.
"You've got to be more careful," Machiavelli told him, getting out two plates and a spatula. "Don't burn your mouth," he cautioned Billy, afraid that the man was going to attack the sandwich in his haste.
Billy looked absolutely dejected. "You mean, I still can't eat it?" He looked forlornly at his plate, then back at Niccolò.
Machiavelli rubbed his neck with some sympathy and offered him an apple instead. Billy took it from him, took a huge bite, and offered it back to the Italian who graciously declined. He watched Billy eat the apple with the same disbelief that he normally felt, watching his companion shove half of the apple in his mouth and somehow, take a bite without choking. "Probably now," he said after the outlaw was done, pulling part of the crust off of his and nibbling on it.
True to form, Billy practically flew onto the sandwich, getting cheese on his nose, but seeming very happy. "From now on, you should do the cooking, Mac," he told the tactician. "I'll just be the pretty face." Machiavelli snorted and shook his head. "Yeah, that's true. You're probably prettier than I am, all things considering. And I need to have a use, or you'll get rid of me."
They began to squabble about which one was better looking, Machiavelli highlighting his classical countenance while Billy tried to promote his rugged Western exterior. Niccolò laughed for a solid five minutes after Billy tried to claim washboard abs as one of his many attributes.
"I couldn't get rid of you," Machiavelli finally concluded, delicately eating. "You'd keep finding your way back." But he was pleased that Billy liked his cooking. He was surprised that he still knew how to cook at all. He rarely had cooked for himself in the past couple of centuries, preferring to eat at taverns and bars long ago, and from restaurants and take-out places in the past couple of years. Adding to that, he'd not eaten as much due to the problems with his tastebuds, and he was very surprised that he remembered anything from his youth about cooking. "My mother taught me to cook. She felt that I should be able to take care of myself, even if I did get married."
"Smart lady." Having finished both of his sandwiches, he leaned sleepily on Machiavelli's shoulder. Occasionally, the Italian would break off small pieces and feed it to him.