giacomo + cristofolo // better

[sunsetshift]

Who: Giacomo & Cristofolo
When: After Giacomo's post.
Where: The fletcher's.
Warnings & Ratings: PG-13 for fanboy.



The seizures were always the most sour part of his month. He got tense and clammy most times, muscles bunched like they ready to burst, and then the shaking began. He hardly ever remembered them, only the aftertimes of coming back to the real world. He'd been told he was almost infantile in the period that followed them, unable to do much besides mewl and and spit. His uncle had heard the crash of crates when he'd fallen, and now he lay bundled in blankets on the basement floor. It was his living space most days, the rest of the family favouring the floor above the shop. His uncle thought it best that his daughters did not accidentally run into a wolf in the middle of the night.

His mind and muscles felt slow as he stared at the flame of the lamp his uncle had set beside him. His ledger was but a few feet away, yet he could hardly be moved to get it. There was probably nothing but more of Cristofolo's whining about how inconvenient it was to be a werewolf, anyways. He'd take the boy to the woods with him this month, that much he'd already decided. How much he'd press the fact that Cristofolo's quality of life would rapidly improve the nicer he was to Giacomo, he still didn't know.

A spark of muffled voices and footsteps made his eyes flick to the ceiling. They both sounded familiar, but he could pinpoint neither in the moment. The sound of the door to the basement opening made him sigh. Maybe his aunt had called the doctor again, who would tell him nothing he didn't already know..

The fletcher and his wife had been surprised to see him. They'd stared when he'd asked to see Giacomo, stammered, but in the end they led him to a doorway and told him the boy was below. Cristofolo took the stairs carefully. He remembered the basement from the night Giacomo had changed him, but only in brief snatches of sensation. He'd seen the doorway from an angle, looming above him as he was dragged. The stairs had been sharp edges beneath his back. His boots thunked softly on each step, and he ducked his head when he reached the bottom.

The sight of the other wolf bound and curled in blankets made him frown. What had he meant by 'sick'? A fever, a stomachache? Or something worse? "Hello," he said softly. He hadn't felt sick himself, not yet. The first time he'd eaten dinner with his family after he'd been changed, that had made him ill, but he doubted Giacomo was referring to the same thing. He crossed the room, glancing around for any hints of the night he remembered here - bones, tattered clothes - but saw nothing, and crouched down beside Giacomo on one knee. "Your, ah... your uncle, he let me in." Cristofolo wet his lips anxiously. "You are alright?"

The smell of wolf flooded his nostrils before the sight of him did. The smile he managed for his young wolf was small, but genuine. "Hey," he said softly, voice hoarse. The way the light from the lamp flickered across Cristofolo's face was mesmerising, and he fell silent for a long moment. He bit his lip around his smile. "You're beautiful. Has anyone every told you that?"

Cristofolo hesitated, caught off-guard by the question. Was Giacomo drunk? "No," he said finally, because he didn't count his mother's opinions of him as truth. "You are alright?" He couldn't smell blood on the other wolf. It was the first scent he'd learned to identify. Blood and meat... Cristofolo rubbed a hand over his forehead, glancing over the blankets that covered Giacomo. No blood, no fever. He expected he'd be able to smell it.

He looked back to the other wolf's face, expression tight with worry, as usual. He almost hadn't come. It was a mark of his mother's hand in his upbringing that he felt guilt for it at all; this man had taken his life and twisted it without any regard to what it would do to him, to his family. But Giacomo was... stupid. Lonely. Cristofolo lowered his eyes, away from the other man's smile.

"I'm all right." His strength returned with every passing moment, though he also felt an incredible laziness at present. It was dark in the basement. Cold. Yet he had the warmth of the lamp, the blankets, and the heat that radiated from his new companion. He wouldn't go anywhere for a while. "Better now."

His limbs still felt weak as he pushed a hand out of the covers and rolled to face Cristofolo. Beautiful, really. "Every month," he started, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Before the moon waxes full, I get sick. My uncle calls them fits, really. I shake. Don't remember a thing about 'em. S'always happened. Just less now."

Fits? He'd seen a man succumb to one once, his limbs twitching and shaking while spit bubbled from his lips. The man had died in the end. Cristofolo frowned, gloved hands settling on his knee. The gloves had come in that morning, made special. Every fingertip was padded, though it was impossible to tell without close inspection. Even with his claws, they fit comfortably.

"Do they hurt?" Giacomo looked weak, tired, but not in pain. He wondered if he would suffer the same. Another worry to add to the list. His mother would lose her mind if he fell in front of her.

Did they hurt? His body felt weak, overworked, sometimes sore after, but he rarely had knowledge of them while they happened. "Yeah, guess so." He ran a hand through his curls to push them in front of his face, blinking when they fell back again. "I can feel 'em when they start kinda, my muscles get all hard." He shrugged. "How've you been? Are you cold? Did you eat all of your maid?"

Pity that the city had been paralyzed by mobbers, he realised. He could have been working on redigging that tunnel the whole time. "What did you do 'bout the mobbers? Miss Shiri made me hide and told me not to howl anymore."

"I'm fine." A stock answer, and one he rarely meant. He wasn't cold, at least. He had a thick cloak over his shoulders, and his new gloves were lined with fur. "No. There is still... a leg, left." Cristofolo looked away as he said it, thick lips twisting in a grimace. He'd sorted through the sack in the dead of night while the rest of his family slept, ravenously tearing into whatever meat he pulled free.

At mention of Shiri, he looked back to Giacomo with a frown. "Not to howl...?"

"That's good you didn't eat it all at once." So his young wolf at least had some control. His eyes squinted shut as he shifted again, struggling to get his elbows under him so he could raise up a little. "Um, yeah." He strained visibly as he tried to pull himself further to sit, eventually falling back to his elbows with a sigh. It was embarrassing to look weak in front of Cristofolo, but he could do no more for the moment.

"I guess I was, when she was yelling at the men outside. She told me to shut up." He blew at the hair above his eyes. "She knows what I am. But not you."

"Here," he muttered, leaning forward to slide an arm beneath Giacomo's to pull him into a sit. This close he could smell everything on him, every drop of sweat, dirt, the overwhelming musk of wolf. Cristofolo kept his eyes down. The more he grew accustomed to what Giacomo had made him, the more he realized - with only distant, obligated horror - that he liked it. Some of it. His new senses were wondrous to him. Unsettling at first, yes, but now...

He settled back afterward, gloved hands returning to his knee. "Shiri does?" The admission made his stomach lurch. He didn't dislike the Madame, not really, but he didn't trust her either. Many Madames doubled as informants. If she found out what he was, it would be all too easy to either blackmail him or sell his secret to the highest bidder. "You can't tell her," Cristofolo said quickly, trying to catch Giacomo's eyes. "She can't find out."

"I'm not a moron!" he snapped and gave Cristofolo's knee a sharp shove, one that had him leaning backwards with more force than he'd put into the other man. He fell back against the floor with a thump. An angry thump, he decided, and glared into the dark at the ceiling he knew to be above them. "You always say the fucking obvious. If I felt better maybe I'd hit you, I don't know. Damn."

Besides, if he really had the intent to tell Shiri he'd probably have done it by now on purpose or accidentally. That's just how he worked. But it still rankled, when people thought him stupid. Godric Vance could suck a few cocks for how he'd talked to Jack, he'd decided. "Damn."

He scowled at the man's sudden theatrics, inhaling deeply to keep from snapping back. It was a legitimate concern. From what he'd seen of Giacomo, the word 'discretion' meant nothing to him. "You said she knows. You told her?" It was a pointed question, and one he suspected he knew the answer to. Cristofolo rubbed at his knee, glancing back to Giacomo in wait for his answer.

"Of course I told her," he pouted at the ceiling. "How could I not tell her? She heard me." He hadn't wanted to tell her, but he didn't think it wise ot lie to her, either. She had an explosive temper and even stranger moods. "She didn't say much of it, just to stop scaring her customers." Giacomo snorted then and rolled to face away from Cristofolo, staring into the darkness. "She even let Gomer stomp in to hit me." Pause. "Try and hit me. Then she dumped a whole damn bucket of water on us."

His curls had frizzed in the humidity. He was hardly happy about it."Didn't tell her about you."

"She told me. Gomer did." Cristofolo smiled weakly. "I promised to hit you for her, but, ah... I will wait until you are not hurt already." It didn't surprise him that Giacomo had told Shiri. Probably with minimal prompting. How had he lived this long with his secret? Then again, he supposed everyone would care less about a fletcher's son with a strange affliction than a lord's son with the same. He could never consider telling his family.

"There is nothing you can do to stop them? Your fits?" His voice softened, guilty for having upset Giacomo in the first place. "I could ask my family's doctor, if you want. He is good about... not pressing questions." Most noble's doctors had to be. No one wanted their business aired.

Giacomo shook his head. "My aunt's called on a doctor plenty enough. They dunno. Most of the time they just say I'm touched in the head and there's nothing to be done." He didn't mind it sometimes, being thought stupid. It meant for less expections in the long run, giving him free run of his life. The part about being clumsy to a fault was true, but he'd never cut off anything that wouldn't go back yet.

He dipped his head to sniff at his shirt where Cristofolo had touched it. Slowly, he turned again to face him. "It's strange. Smelling something that's just like me around."

Cristofolo frowned, puzzled. "You have never had-- There was not another like you?" He'd assumed someone had bitten Giacomo the same as the man had bitten him, and either left or died. All the same, he couldn't help but feel similarly about Giacomo's scent. Smelling another wolf was... reassuring, empowering. He felt stronger when he felt the other man near him.

He glanced around the room again. It was a sad place to live. Faded floorboards and dirt, darkness. It was no wonder Giacomo had grown lonely. He looked back to the other wolf with sympathy, lips pressed together.

"Nope," he shook his head. "Never."

He knew there was a high possibility of another being like him living with the Golden Hour. Godric hadn't sounded all that surprised to hear he was a werewolf. The thought of meeting another wolf he didn't make frightened him. More now that he'd made Cristofolo like him. The swell of pride and possessiveness he felt whenever the other man was near - what would it translate to if he met a strange wolf? Cristofolo was his to bat around, but he'd never been one to throw fist or fang against strangers. "Guess I've just always been this way. Didn't start turning til a few years back, though. Fell asleep right down here as a wolf." He grinned at the memory. "M'uncle woulda killed me if I didn't change back."

His smile faded into something small and faintly embarrassed as he leaned towards the other man, sniffing at the hand on his knee. "It's so weird. You smell amazing." Is that what he smelled like all the time?

"You too," he mumbled, uncomfortable. Instinctively, he turned his hand over, palm up, as if offering it to a dog. He hadn't yet had the courage to visit his dogs in their kennel, too worried that they'd recognize his scent as something unnatural. His horse had stomped and snorted when he'd passed her on his way out. They knew, even if his family didn't, that he'd changed. Cristofolo watched the other wolf intently.

"It just... started?" He hesitated, then took the hand Giacomo sniffed from its glove. Even though he'd trimmed them not a day ago, his claws were already growing out, yellowed and curved and sharp. He'd cut himself more than once with them already. The slices they left healed unnaturally fast, but it was his clothes he worried for more. The servants would start to ask questions if all of his shirts were shredded. He flexed his hand, claws glinting in the lamplight, and then held it back out. "I had gloves made," he mumbled. "Like you said. Thick in the fingers."

"Yeah. Just started." That was one secret he wouldn't soon share. It remained embarassing that he might have brought his problem upon himself just by eating the man in the alley. The night he'd started to chew on him he'd smelled so appetising and tasted so good though, he wondered if it wasn't supposed to happen that way all along. He took the hand held out to him gently in his own. "Your hands are so soft." Inside his own gloves, his were leather from work, his claws cracked and broken from neglect at proper grooming.

His grin returned when he took one of Cristofolo's fingers between his own and pressed until the claw extended fully. Amazing. "Are you hungry?" he asked suddenly, eyes darting up to Cristofolo's face.

He smiled faintly. "Yours do work. Mine do paperwork." He rode too, fenced, but the only blisters he ever gained were from sketching for hours at a time. They were always soft, on the side of his ring finger, and usually smudged with charcoal or lead. It was harder to draw now that he had his claws to deal with; he'd torn the paper more than he'd managed to put anything onto it. It was frustrating.

At the question, Cristofolo's eyebrows rose. "I am always hungry," he admitted quietly after a moment's silence. The first day had been the worst; he hadn't yet gotten hungry enough to attack someone else. Whenever he felt close, he excused himself and retreated to his room. His maid was rapidly becoming no more than a skeleton. What would he do when he had no more meat to take from her? Cristofolo knew the answer, but he dreaded it.

"It gets better," he murmured, still massaging the hand in his grip. It had been terrible at frist for him, too. The thirst for blood and meat was terrible. The cravings never seemed to lessen. Mixed with a sense of new supreriority and power, his Uncle had to tan his hide a few times to keep from going out after the city at large. Cristofolo didn't seem to have any of the same bravado about him now, only the same calm timidness he'd come to expect from the Sabreme heir. He wondered if he still felt it a huge curse instead of being powerful at all.

"Next week I'll teach you to hunt. A lot of food then." There would still be stragglers from the Fest of the Green.and those that had been trapped in the city during the mobbings. Pickings would be easy, praise Cita. "Until then, though.." Without waiting for a confirmation, he took one of Cristofolo's claws between his fingers and dragged it along his forearm. He flinched at the slice of claw throug his skin and sucked in a sharp breath and regretted it almost immediately.. but he reminded himself of his young wolf and forced his arm forward towards him. "Go on."

"No-" he started when Giacomo drew his hand towards him. "Don--" The rest of the word was sucked back in, and Cristofolo stared at the wound a split second before bending to clamp his mouth to it, tongue catching the thick flow of blood that spilled out. The maid had tasted this way. Hot, rich. It'd lasted until he'd felt her heart stop; after that, the blood had gotten colder.

His knees shifted against the floor as he moved closer, back bent over Giacomo's arm. When the cut began to heal, his forehead wrinkled in a frown, and he angled his teeth to tear it wider.

Giacomo's mouth fell open when Cristofolo began to lick at his arm. His foot thumped against the floor once at the sensation, and he was grateful for the low light. It meant Cristofolo wouldn't see the flush that rose to his skin, among other things. It was wrong, he knew, to regard the feeling of lips sealed over a wound as they sucked his blood away as arousing.. but there was nothing else like it. Would it always be like that? If Cristofolo ever shunned him completely, he decided on the spot he'd make friends with a vampire. Or would Cristofolo feel the same if he did it to him? He should tell Miss Shiri about this, someday. She'd made a fortune.

He flinched at the nibble and pushed at the top of the young wolf's head, tongue rubbing at his eyeteeth. "Stop, now."

The growl rumbled in his throat before he could stop it, low and possessive. Cristofolo's eyes widened, and he drew back quickly. He hadn't even known he could make a noise like that. His hand went to his throat, and he swallowed what blood was still in his mouth. He could feel it smeared around his lips, across his cheek, and he stared, startled, at Giacomo. "Sorry."

He raised his hand to wipe his wrist across his mouth. Cita help him, that had tasted amazing. His eyes drifted to the healing wound on Giacomo's forearm. He could still smell the blood. The blood, and sweat, and another sort of musk. Frowning, he looked curiously to the other wolf. Was he going to be sick again?

The growl was unexpected. It almost brought one in return from him, but he stopped short. He didn't mean it. He looked contrite. If he did it again, though.. "It's. It's okay," he said tightly and eased onto his stomach. "Uhh." What had they been talking about, before? He curled his arms under his head in an attempt to think. "You got some.. on your face still."

Nope, nope. "And um.. we'll leave on Tuesday, all right?"

"Alright." He would have to think up some excuse to give his family for his absence. Some artist out in one of the villages, maybe. Cristofolo took a handkerchief from his pockets and wiped at his mouth, his chin, then looked up questioningly at Giacomo. "That is all of it?"

A pause, and he wet his lips. "In the morning? Or night? Should I bring anything?" He was making this sound like a camping trip, but he couldn't help asking. He'd always been particular about preparations, a trait he suspected he'd inherited from his mother.

"Hm.." Giacomo steeled himself against the impulse to lean forward and lick the spot of blood Cristofolo had missed at the corner of his mouth. Even if the other man didn't budge while he kissed him, there was still the fact he'd be lapping up his own blood. That, he minded. Instead, he licked a gloved finger and wiped at it that way. "All good now."

As to the young wolf's questions, he nodded. "Ah.. let's say night. And you don't need to bring much. Some clothes, some blankets."

He had to steel himself to keep from leaning away from Giacomo's finger, and he kept still as the other man swiped his finger across the corner of his mouth. Reassuring scent or not, Cristofolo was still unused to casual touch. He swiped his tongue over the spot Giacomo had brushed uneasily. "Alright."

Blankets? He had envisioned them spending their days in the woods as wolves. Why would they need blankets? Arguing with Giacomo would only earn him more scolding or a smack to the head, and so Cristofolo only quirked his lips and nodded. "You will be okay? By then?"

He had thought the spoiled Sabreme boy might want them for comfort. And even as a wolf, soft things were much appreciated. He nodded at the question and tongued the inside of his lip, distracted. "Yeah. I'll be fine." He laid his head on his arms with a faint smile. "It'll be fun."

They'd hunt and run and hunt and run and sleep and..run. The description was lacking in his mind, but it didn't sound boring. Something he needed every month at the turn of the moon, which meant that Cristofolo would, too.

"They say the mob is outside the city," Cristofolo murmured uneasily, one hand rubbing at his own forearm. He wanted to say he'd been disturbed by the sight of Giacomo spilling his own blood for him to drink, but he hadn't. It'd been natural. The elder looking out for the younger. He rubbed at his forehead, annoyed with himself for slipping into these thoughts again. The other man was not his pack leader, not his brother or mate or whatever other stray thoughts happened to crop up at inopportune times.

"If they find us..."

The mob really didn't concern him. He'd been a little frightened at first to hear it, but most of that was a reaction to everyone else's excitement. Miss Shiri could screech surprisingly loud and long and string together curses he didn't even know existed. But now the threat had faded and the men had taken to the woods. The woods were not their city, it belonged to animal and Other.

"If they do," he grinned and tossed his head to clear the hair from his eyes, puffing at it when it fell back anyways. "Dinner will be an easy find."

Dinner? Cristofolo stared, startled. But they were a mob, a pack of men, how could they...? He thought of bringing them down in the dark, of skin ripping and blood spilling into his mouth, and suddenly the idea didn't frighten him. They were wolves. What did they have to fear from a few cowards hiding in the woods? A twitch of a smile broke through before he pressed his lips together and nodded, rising to his feet.

"I'll be here by sunset," he said, and stuffed his bloodied handkerchief into his pocket. He hesitated, then added, "I am sorry you're... you're sick. I, ah... I hope you recover quickly." He was used to saying such things to acquaintances, business partners, to the artists he sponsored, but only rarely to friends. It seemed too polite, too distant. Was Giacomo a friend? Twisted, that he considered him one. The man had ruined his life. But he was lonely, Cristofolo reminded himself, and he'd given him such a gift too... He drew a deep breath and forced a smile. "Thank you for the blood."

"No problem." The wound still stung, throbbed a little under the pressure of his head, but it was no big annoyance. Cristofolo's knack for biting and reluctance to stop would have to be addressed at some point, but it was exciting to see natural predatory instincts surface in him. "And I'll be fine. Just takes a day or two." It was like looking a mirror. A thinner, browner, more handsome mirror. Richer, too..

"I'll see you at sunset, then." Giacomo couldn't deny that he was excited. His young wolf's first full moon!