Universal Wolf (1/1)
Universal wolf
‘Where were you?’
‘Hidden away inside the Sforza castle, Your Eminence.’
‘No you were not.’ Cesare tags off the travelling cloak, almost ripping his undershirt in the process, ‘you didn’t show up until I was almost at the city gates.’
Micheletto remains silent, eyes downcast.
‘My trust can be earned, and so can it be lost. I ask you again: where, were, you?’
‘At the cemetery, Your Eminence.’
‘To honour the memories of your ancestors, no doubt.’ Cesare whirls around, his favourite dagger pressing precariously close. Micheletto stays put, breathing in shallow puffs to avoid cutting himself on the wicket edge, ‘next you’re going to tell me this is from an encounter with a spirit. A vengeful one, by the looks of it.’
Micheletto belatedly remembers the dull ache, the sharp sting of Augustino’s teeth sinking into the side of his neck (how he kissed the same spot after, murmuring words into sweat damp skin). He fights the urge to shield the mark from view, instead making quick work of his tunic, loosening the knots.
‘Whip me then, Your Eminence.’
‘So you’d rather bleed than be forthcoming with the truth.’ Cesare laughs, a grating sound. Micheletto braces himself for a blow, only to be met with silence. Eventually he makes himself meet Cesare’s dark eyes; eyes that storm and war.
‘Leave.’
Micheletto’s heart sinks; Cesare’s rage is a terrible thing to behold. But his vengeance is something far more imaginative.
Besides, Micheletto is not the only hound in the cardinal’s service.
The ride to Forli takes at least a night and a day, Micheletto makes it just before dawn, the ground still damp with dew. His horse collapses in a quivering heap by the fountain, he’s off before the poor beast whines out its last breath.
Augustino looks more dazed than surprised, Micheletto cuts in before he opens his mouth.
‘You have to go.’
Augustino gawps, clearly failing to comprehend. Micheletto slams a hand to the creaking door frame,
‘Take your woman with you if you must, but be gone by sun down.’
‘Why?’
Micheletto shakes his head, blinking sweat out of his eyes, ‘I cannot say. But by all that is holy, go, get away from here.’ He turns to leave, but Augustino grabs for him, clutching his arm in an iron grip,
‘Will we meet again?’
Micheletto merely drags the corners of his mouth up, the scar twisting his expression into a grimace. He doesn’t think that question needs an answer anyways.
He honestly cannot say who moves first, Augustino dragging him closer or he clawing the back of Augustino’s neck, twisting the sleep warm hair in between his fingers. They bite into each other’s mouth, teeth clanking but neither bothers to slow down.
Growing up, they've shared many kisses: chaste ones on the corner of the other’s mouth, clumsy ones ruined by giggling, long, drawn out ones, feeling more than hearing the keening noise deep in their throats. Kisses that tasted of cheap ale, rain, sweat, summer berries and winter snow, and lately, rotten lilies in open graves.
This one tastes like ashes and empty remains.
Micheletto licks at Augustino’s lower lip, sucking on the familiar plump curve before pressing a hand to that chest, pushing firmly.
‘Now go, do not delay. Not for one moment.’
Augustino reaches out, fingers closing around nothing. Micheletto’s retreating back already melting into the surrounding darkness.
He lets the hand drop, a cry dying at the tip of his tongue.
When he gets back, he drops into bed fully clothed, sleeping the sleep of the righteous.
Or as a man already dead.
Cesare sucks on a thumb shiny with grease, a low noise of appreciation rumbling in his chest. He may be born into wealth, but he has the ravenousness of a young wolf: for food, for power, for bloodshed.
It’s a side of him he never bothers to hide, especially not in front of Micheletto.
‘A white dove brought me an intriguing message this morning,’ he murmurs, seemingly to himself, scraping the tender flesh of an orange off its golden skin.
Micheletto waits: Cesare does have a fondness for the dramatic.
‘A message concerning a certain friend of yours, Augustino.’
A pause, Cesare wipes his hands on a silk handkerchief, unhurriedly twisting the fabric in between the digits,
‘I wonder, will you draw your sword on me, if I tell you an unfortunate accident has befallen the couple?’
Micheletto stops breathing for a moment, vision swimming---
(Augustino, beautiful, honourable Augustino, Augustino who longs for a family of smiling children, who is quick to anger but quicker to forgive, who’s always gentle in the way only a giant can be)
‘No.’ he grits out, feeling blood seeping through that one word.
‘No?’ Cesare stands, strolling to the window, his back carelessly turned, ‘you were close, were you not?’
‘Your Eminence.’ Micheletto interrupts, blunt fingernails cutting into the meat of his palms, ‘may I be excused?’
‘Why, not feeling well Micheletto?’ Cesare huffs out a laugh,
‘Do not fret. Your Augustino and his lovely bride is indeed quite well, so well, in fact, he nearly took my messenger’s head off. Not that he meant any harm.’
Micheletto drops a shaking hand to the back of a chair, ‘If, this is Your Eminence’s idea of a harmless joke---‘
‘Oh no, that’s not the funny part. The funny part is, why did you have a habit of meeting your friend in a cemetery, in the dead of the night?’ Cesare yanks the heavy drapes close, turning to pin Micheletto with a speculative look.
‘What were you trying to hide, Micheletto?’
Silence
Cesare takes three strides towards the assassin, putting a hand to the side of his neck, thumb pressing down casually,
‘Only a sinner has the need for secrecy. Wouldn’t you agree?’ he leans forward, putting his mouth as close to Micheletto’s ear as possible without actually touching, satisfied when the other man tenses ever so slightly.
‘Tell me.’ He grips the fine hair at Micheletto’s nape, shaking him once, hard, ‘tell me. All the sordid details of your crime.’
The air around them thick with the cloying smell of incense, syrupy sweet. Micheletto inhales, mouth suddenly gone dry.
‘We would, strip.’ He keeps his gaze forward, unseeing, ‘not touching, until we were both bare as the day we were born.’
Cesare chuckles, the sound so quiet it almost doesn’t carry through, only a puff of breath upon goose-bumped flesh.
‘And?’
‘Kissing, slow at first, digging fingers into muscles. He has this scar on the wing of his left shoulder, fell off a horse when he was thirteen, like the dip on a ripe peach.’
‘What of the scars I gave you? Did he notice?’ Cesare’s hand slips further down, mindlessly fingering one old welt.
‘He asked, I deflected the question.’
‘How?’
Micheletto lifts a finger, feeling bold, strokes it across the angle of Cesare’s jaw, where the skin is the softest, ‘he likes a bit of teeth, right here.’ Cesare hums,
‘Go on.’
‘I could feel it already, a hardness dragging along my belly, always so impatient to tumble us to the ground. But I didn’t want that, not yet, I wanted a taste of him in my mouth first.’
The thumb at Micheletto’s throat twitches, almost subconsciously, Cesare’s voice, when it comes out, turns smoother, deeper, honey over gravel.
‘Ah, fitting. Something his blushing bride would never do. No respectable woman would even dream of offering.’
‘It’s familiar, to feel him swell upon my tongue, to hear him gasping while I swallowed him to the root, his skin tasted like sunshine and hay---’
(A shaky hand cradled the back of his head, pushing down at the same time as those hips snapped up. Tentative at first, getting harsher when he realized Micheletto wasn't choking or pulling back. The tip of his nose bumped into the curly trail of hair, and that was it, Augustino jerked, bubbling out something unintelligible, a warning, or maybe a name.)
‘Enough.’ Cesare cuts in, his tone betrays nothing, ‘did you let him have you?’
‘No.’
‘Then perhaps, it was the other way round then?’ Cesare pulls back slightly, his face a perfect façade of mild curiosity, lips quirked, ‘what was it like? I have been told that it’s not dissimilar to when one lays with a woman.’
‘It’s like, jumping into a bath that’s too hot. Or plunging a knife into a living body for the very first time.’
Cesare’s breath hitches, the thumb rubbing back and forth as if to ground himself as much as to hold the other in place,
‘Is that so?’
Micheletto knows he’s remembering: how blood spills over your skin like a caress, warm and intimate. How the victim’s breath whooshes out in one great exhale, helpless like one caught in the thrall of passion.
Cesare laughs again softly and abruptly lets him go, stepping back two paces himself. Save a faint sheen of sweat at his temples, there is no tell about the conversation that has just taken place.
‘Since we’re in the mood for confessions,’ Cesare moves away, the satin of his cassock shimmering in the dim light, an array of crimson, ‘there is but one sin I would willingly admit.’
‘What might that be, Your Eminence?’ Micheletto schools his voice back to polite interest.
‘Greed.’ Cesare narrows his eyes as if searching for some perfect expression, ‘I want,’ a quick flash of white teeth, ‘everything.’ He half-turns, spreading his arms to an invisible audience of thousands,
‘Even things that are not mine to have.’