Spend your velocities (on backwards motion) [3/4]
I wrote this chapter while listenng to one of the soundtrack from the film 'tinker tailor soldier spy', if anyone is interestd, here it is:
http://uploading.com/files/6828m6d5/19.%2BTinker%2BTailor%2BSoldier%2BSpy.mp3/
Cesare writes three pages before he notices a shadow moving closer. The guitar squeaks as he drops his hand with an air of exasperation.
‘You’ve checked the bus before and after the gig, there is no need to stay up with me.’
‘You should sleep; I heard it’s good for you.’
Cesare rubs a hand over his bloodshot eyes, ‘yeah, it’s just, this is how I come down from a live. Nothing else works.’
‘Your drummer will beg to differ.’
That startles a laugh out of Cesare, ‘the second joke of the night from you, Should I be worried?’
‘No more than usual.’
‘Aha!’ Cesare grins, triumphant, ‘so you’re not trust-worthy after all.’
‘No one is, not completely anyways.’
‘So you’ll sell me out, if the price is high enough.’ Cesare sounds more curious than outraged.
‘No one can buy your life off me, if that’s what you mean.’
‘My dirty secrets, then?’
‘I wasn’t aware there was any left to sell.’ Micheletto quirks one corner of his mouth wryly, ‘and no, it’s not in my nature to betray for profit.’
Cesare is watching him now; watching as if he’s mentally putting Micheletto into neat little boxes, draw a circle around the bits he’ll pry open later on, ‘what will you betray for?’
Micheletto doesn’t know what he sees, but it’s Cesare who drops his gaze first, seemingly unbothered by Micheletto’s silence.
‘Hey girl.’ Giulia murmurs, crawling up into Vittoria’s bunk, fighting off a yawn. Fatigue is a good look on her, Vee thinks, running mascara and all. It makes her softer, almost fragile, nothing like the smirking, pouting entity on CD jackets and magazine covers.
She cards a hand through Giulia’s wild curls, damp with Louisiana air; air so thick with plant emanation you can drown in it. The strands cling to her fingertips like some shadowy creature from the deepest ocean.
Giulia falls asleep like that, head resting on Vittoria’s belly, the rest of her curled tightly into a ball, snuffling a little whenever the bus sways.
Photo shoots must be a special kind of hell, Cesare grimaces, feeling a headache gathering behind his eyes. Seriously, if he has to hear someone yell ‘come on, man, fuck the camera’ one more time, he will not be responsible for his actions.
Micheletto watches him practically scramble away from the group of half-naked models, before collapsing into Lucrezia’s waiting arms with a groan.
‘Once, I’d like it just once, to be photographed with clothes on.’
Lucrezia drops a kiss to his sweaty temple, chuckling, ‘you know how many copies of GQ were sold the last time?’ she pauses for emphasis, ‘shitloads. So, chin up, you ain’t see nothing yet.’
Cesare buries his head in Lucrezia’s shiny (and no doubt wickedly expensive) hair, nuzzling, ‘why do I have to play some sort of horndog every single time?’
‘No, no, no, not that.’ Lucrezia gives him a teasing once-over, ‘a sex god, okay?’
‘A piece of meat served up on a platter, more like.’ Cesare half lifts his head from the masses of blond curls, nose wrinkled. For some obscure reason, his gaze lands on Micheletto, darkening, ‘a dime a dozen.’
He’s miles and miles of golden, oiled up skin. The leather pants moulding perfectly to the strong muscles in his thighs. Eyes lined with kohl to bring out the specks of green and amber, shifting like leaves on an autumn pond.
Micheletto stays still, hands curled into loose fists by his sides. Backing down from a challenge has been trained right out of him from the day he enlisted. It’s pure automatic response: stand your ground, maintain eye contact, wait for the opponent to make the first move.
Time stretches, thick and sticky as tar.
Lucrezia shifts in his arms, uncertain, ‘Ces?’
The tension snaps, Cesare blinks as if he’s just startled awake, mumbling out an apology and steps back.
It’s not until after Cesare is called away by an assistant that Micheletto realizes there are little half-moons dug into the meaty part of his palms.
‘I’ll drive you.’ Cesare says, casual like. Micheletto stares back,
‘I don’t think…’
‘Look,’ Cesare kicks at an imaginary rock, ‘this way you don’t have to drag an extra person in on your day off. Plus, I need to get away from this bunch for a bit.’ He gestures at the bus.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Come on, I won’t crash the car, I promise.’ Cesare pulls the sunglasses down and the jacket collar up, a flash of white teeth.
Micheletto shakes his head inwardly; the paparazzi could probably spot him from space.
This has bad idea written all over it.
Cesare eats three helpings of Mrs Corella’s stew, smirking at Micheletto’s family album. (‘I didn’t know you were into artistic nudes.’ ‘I was three.’)
In almost all of the pictures there is another dark haired boy, grinning alongside Micheletto---from sitting to crawling to playing football, gap toothed to gangly shouldered.
‘That’s Augustino.’ Mrs Corella loads their bowls with ice cream, beaming fondly, ‘I always say I have two boys, not one.’
Micheletto doesn’t look up, concentrating on getting the last bit of graham cracker off his plate.
‘You and Augustino, huh?’
‘We grew up together, went into the army together, got the fuck out together, set up the company together.’
‘So why the hell aren’t you running off to Canada and adopting babies?’
‘He’s married.’
Cesare gives him an unreadable look, but thankfully lets the subject drop.
Of course, the truth is always simpler and more complicated than what they tell.
He grips the steering wheel tighter; it’s just one night, one goddamn night, desperate fumbling in hushed darkness, helping each other out when the need for another human body becomes too much. The stench of death and blood and stale sweat lodges in their throats, overwhelming all other senses.
And yet, and yet---
He remembers the single sound Augustino makes as he jerks in his grip, almost a sob, remembers tasting him on his knuckles after, the way Augustino sags into him, a warm, intimate weight.
Besides him, Cesare dozes, lashes two dark smudges against his cheekbones.
For one brief moment, envy burns white hot on Micheletto’s tongue.
They’re doing bodyshots, out of all things. Giulia has collapsed into a giggling heap after licking salt off Vittoria’s thigh, with Juan cheering and hooting.
Then Giulia turns her liquid eyes to Cesare, zeroing in on him like a hawk,
‘I dare you, Ces.’ She points a finger in Micheletto’s direction, eyebrows doing a merry little dance.
Micheletto maps out all possible exits from the bus before Cesare pins him with a sidelong glance, one corner of his mouth twitching up and up.
There is a tinny voice in his head shouting ‘back up, back up!’ like a broken record. But it fades into nothingness as Cesare staggers up, gathering salt, lime and a shot glass in both hands, and saunters over.
‘Stay still, don’t want to spill any do we?’ Cesare says matter-of-factly as he tugs on Micheletto’s belt, wedges the glass between his fly and belly. The words just a bit more rounded, the deliberateness of a drunk trying very hard to sound sober.
‘Hand.’ He rasps, Micheletto is holding up a palm without a second thought. His conscience stirs, uneasy, before turning onto its belly, already snoring. A laugh rumbles deep in Cesare’s chest as he tips salt onto the base of Micheletto’s thumb, brows creased in concentration.
The inside of the bus is a blur of noises and colours on the edge of Micheletto’s consciousness, hovering in and out of focus.
Lips first, softer than any men’s have the right to be, brush across where the salt is sticking to skin, almost nuzzling. Soon followed by a tongue, little cat like licks, chasing after the taste. Micheletto , watches, breathing in careful, controlled puffs. All the while Cesare holds his gaze, even as he licks up Micheletto’s wrist, slow and steady, for good measure.
He leans closer, pointy little nose resting in the hollow of Micheletto’s throat before he starts the downward journey, folding gracefully to his knees, hands interlocked in the small of his back. Body swaying ever so slightly.
The smile he gives Micheletto just before he cocks his head to the side gleams like the deadliest blade.
Cesare works the glass loose, lips wrap around the rim, sucking it into his mouth and slowly tilts his head back, throat bobbing.
Someone lets out a low whistle. Micheletto can hear clapping, clapping for god’s sake, while Cesare bites leisurely into the slice of lime, upper and lower lashes touching.
Later, Micheletto shoves him into the side of the bus, fingers gripping tight,
‘you little shit,’ he growls, banging Cesare’s head against the metal once, ‘you fucking tease. Pushing, always pushing.’
‘Who said I was teasing?’ Cesare wheezes, breathless, one thigh nudging against the bulge at the front of Micheletto’s pants.
Micheletto watches the curls falling messily into his dark, dark eyes; the gleam of sweat on bronzed skin and thinks, Christ, he does have a type.
http://uploading.com/files/6828m6d5/19.%2BTinker%2BTailor%2BSoldier%2BSpy.mp3/
Cesare writes three pages before he notices a shadow moving closer. The guitar squeaks as he drops his hand with an air of exasperation.
‘You’ve checked the bus before and after the gig, there is no need to stay up with me.’
‘You should sleep; I heard it’s good for you.’
Cesare rubs a hand over his bloodshot eyes, ‘yeah, it’s just, this is how I come down from a live. Nothing else works.’
‘Your drummer will beg to differ.’
That startles a laugh out of Cesare, ‘the second joke of the night from you, Should I be worried?’
‘No more than usual.’
‘Aha!’ Cesare grins, triumphant, ‘so you’re not trust-worthy after all.’
‘No one is, not completely anyways.’
‘So you’ll sell me out, if the price is high enough.’ Cesare sounds more curious than outraged.
‘No one can buy your life off me, if that’s what you mean.’
‘My dirty secrets, then?’
‘I wasn’t aware there was any left to sell.’ Micheletto quirks one corner of his mouth wryly, ‘and no, it’s not in my nature to betray for profit.’
Cesare is watching him now; watching as if he’s mentally putting Micheletto into neat little boxes, draw a circle around the bits he’ll pry open later on, ‘what will you betray for?’
Micheletto doesn’t know what he sees, but it’s Cesare who drops his gaze first, seemingly unbothered by Micheletto’s silence.
‘Hey girl.’ Giulia murmurs, crawling up into Vittoria’s bunk, fighting off a yawn. Fatigue is a good look on her, Vee thinks, running mascara and all. It makes her softer, almost fragile, nothing like the smirking, pouting entity on CD jackets and magazine covers.
She cards a hand through Giulia’s wild curls, damp with Louisiana air; air so thick with plant emanation you can drown in it. The strands cling to her fingertips like some shadowy creature from the deepest ocean.
Giulia falls asleep like that, head resting on Vittoria’s belly, the rest of her curled tightly into a ball, snuffling a little whenever the bus sways.
Photo shoots must be a special kind of hell, Cesare grimaces, feeling a headache gathering behind his eyes. Seriously, if he has to hear someone yell ‘come on, man, fuck the camera’ one more time, he will not be responsible for his actions.
Micheletto watches him practically scramble away from the group of half-naked models, before collapsing into Lucrezia’s waiting arms with a groan.
‘Once, I’d like it just once, to be photographed with clothes on.’
Lucrezia drops a kiss to his sweaty temple, chuckling, ‘you know how many copies of GQ were sold the last time?’ she pauses for emphasis, ‘shitloads. So, chin up, you ain’t see nothing yet.’
Cesare buries his head in Lucrezia’s shiny (and no doubt wickedly expensive) hair, nuzzling, ‘why do I have to play some sort of horndog every single time?’
‘No, no, no, not that.’ Lucrezia gives him a teasing once-over, ‘a sex god, okay?’
‘A piece of meat served up on a platter, more like.’ Cesare half lifts his head from the masses of blond curls, nose wrinkled. For some obscure reason, his gaze lands on Micheletto, darkening, ‘a dime a dozen.’
He’s miles and miles of golden, oiled up skin. The leather pants moulding perfectly to the strong muscles in his thighs. Eyes lined with kohl to bring out the specks of green and amber, shifting like leaves on an autumn pond.
Micheletto stays still, hands curled into loose fists by his sides. Backing down from a challenge has been trained right out of him from the day he enlisted. It’s pure automatic response: stand your ground, maintain eye contact, wait for the opponent to make the first move.
Time stretches, thick and sticky as tar.
Lucrezia shifts in his arms, uncertain, ‘Ces?’
The tension snaps, Cesare blinks as if he’s just startled awake, mumbling out an apology and steps back.
It’s not until after Cesare is called away by an assistant that Micheletto realizes there are little half-moons dug into the meaty part of his palms.
‘I’ll drive you.’ Cesare says, casual like. Micheletto stares back,
‘I don’t think…’
‘Look,’ Cesare kicks at an imaginary rock, ‘this way you don’t have to drag an extra person in on your day off. Plus, I need to get away from this bunch for a bit.’ He gestures at the bus.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Come on, I won’t crash the car, I promise.’ Cesare pulls the sunglasses down and the jacket collar up, a flash of white teeth.
Micheletto shakes his head inwardly; the paparazzi could probably spot him from space.
This has bad idea written all over it.
Cesare eats three helpings of Mrs Corella’s stew, smirking at Micheletto’s family album. (‘I didn’t know you were into artistic nudes.’ ‘I was three.’)
In almost all of the pictures there is another dark haired boy, grinning alongside Micheletto---from sitting to crawling to playing football, gap toothed to gangly shouldered.
‘That’s Augustino.’ Mrs Corella loads their bowls with ice cream, beaming fondly, ‘I always say I have two boys, not one.’
Micheletto doesn’t look up, concentrating on getting the last bit of graham cracker off his plate.
‘You and Augustino, huh?’
‘We grew up together, went into the army together, got the fuck out together, set up the company together.’
‘So why the hell aren’t you running off to Canada and adopting babies?’
‘He’s married.’
Cesare gives him an unreadable look, but thankfully lets the subject drop.
Of course, the truth is always simpler and more complicated than what they tell.
He grips the steering wheel tighter; it’s just one night, one goddamn night, desperate fumbling in hushed darkness, helping each other out when the need for another human body becomes too much. The stench of death and blood and stale sweat lodges in their throats, overwhelming all other senses.
And yet, and yet---
He remembers the single sound Augustino makes as he jerks in his grip, almost a sob, remembers tasting him on his knuckles after, the way Augustino sags into him, a warm, intimate weight.
Besides him, Cesare dozes, lashes two dark smudges against his cheekbones.
For one brief moment, envy burns white hot on Micheletto’s tongue.
They’re doing bodyshots, out of all things. Giulia has collapsed into a giggling heap after licking salt off Vittoria’s thigh, with Juan cheering and hooting.
Then Giulia turns her liquid eyes to Cesare, zeroing in on him like a hawk,
‘I dare you, Ces.’ She points a finger in Micheletto’s direction, eyebrows doing a merry little dance.
Micheletto maps out all possible exits from the bus before Cesare pins him with a sidelong glance, one corner of his mouth twitching up and up.
There is a tinny voice in his head shouting ‘back up, back up!’ like a broken record. But it fades into nothingness as Cesare staggers up, gathering salt, lime and a shot glass in both hands, and saunters over.
‘Stay still, don’t want to spill any do we?’ Cesare says matter-of-factly as he tugs on Micheletto’s belt, wedges the glass between his fly and belly. The words just a bit more rounded, the deliberateness of a drunk trying very hard to sound sober.
‘Hand.’ He rasps, Micheletto is holding up a palm without a second thought. His conscience stirs, uneasy, before turning onto its belly, already snoring. A laugh rumbles deep in Cesare’s chest as he tips salt onto the base of Micheletto’s thumb, brows creased in concentration.
The inside of the bus is a blur of noises and colours on the edge of Micheletto’s consciousness, hovering in and out of focus.
Lips first, softer than any men’s have the right to be, brush across where the salt is sticking to skin, almost nuzzling. Soon followed by a tongue, little cat like licks, chasing after the taste. Micheletto , watches, breathing in careful, controlled puffs. All the while Cesare holds his gaze, even as he licks up Micheletto’s wrist, slow and steady, for good measure.
He leans closer, pointy little nose resting in the hollow of Micheletto’s throat before he starts the downward journey, folding gracefully to his knees, hands interlocked in the small of his back. Body swaying ever so slightly.
The smile he gives Micheletto just before he cocks his head to the side gleams like the deadliest blade.
Cesare works the glass loose, lips wrap around the rim, sucking it into his mouth and slowly tilts his head back, throat bobbing.
Someone lets out a low whistle. Micheletto can hear clapping, clapping for god’s sake, while Cesare bites leisurely into the slice of lime, upper and lower lashes touching.
Later, Micheletto shoves him into the side of the bus, fingers gripping tight,
‘you little shit,’ he growls, banging Cesare’s head against the metal once, ‘you fucking tease. Pushing, always pushing.’
‘Who said I was teasing?’ Cesare wheezes, breathless, one thigh nudging against the bulge at the front of Micheletto’s pants.
Micheletto watches the curls falling messily into his dark, dark eyes; the gleam of sweat on bronzed skin and thinks, Christ, he does have a type.