Aut Caesar aut nihil.

He expects this will end any time soon. He expects it might as well... go on forever. Nothing in this place is right, and life has been restored to him, so why not youth, too? Because nothing lasts, you idiot. And while he likes his new un-heavyness, the gangly limbs and boundless energy, his elder self already sneers at him for taking such puppyish delight in things that will - will - pass again. How fleeting is youth. Take joy in today, for tomorrow remains... uncertain. Lorenzo de' Medici knew all about that, didn't he. Old before his time, and bent twice as fast.

Nervously, Cesare looks up, cradling the juice-and-something Dora sneaked between his hands. "My mother was a very enterprising woman," he says, half-proud, half-shy. "I hear you can still visit some of the places she owned in Rome. Not all of them, no. But a few. The Vacca - that was a tavern - at the corner of Campo de' Fiori; it's a bakery now. And on the other side of the market, there's the Albergo del Sole. That was hers, too. The walls were all wonky!" he laughs, and elder Cesare chokes with apoplexy that he's using such a stupid word. "Not a single beam at straight edges. That's because they built it into the ruins of Pompei's Theatre. Where Caesar was killed. Not me. I mean, Giulio Cesare. The Imperator. My mamma had an inn there. Funny, no? And she owned other places, too."

Then he falls silent for a moment, rubbing his hands before he has to sit on them to keep them still. The juice is quite. Strong, like. His elder self nearly dies of shame at his caterwauling thoughts - when I was your age I already had my doctorate, he tells himself, and blushes. "Anyway. After my youngest brother Jofré was born, our father took a new mistress, but he made sure mamma was well-appointed and lacked for nothing. He found her a husband of good repute and and. Then I had to move away from her, from her house on piazza Pizzo di Merlo, and live with Aunt Adriana. That wasn't... nice. So I guess I was happy when they sent me to school in Perugia."

"They say she - mamma, I mean - they say Vanozza de' Cattanei survived most of her children." He swallows, blinks, then quickly, hastily empties the glass.

following this and this...

He's... in hell. Not that he's making a terrible mess of this cooking business (well, a little, just a little perhaps), in fact he's amazed at how well things are turning out, ( but the pheasant was a bitch. )

"Do you remember," he asks quietly. "She was such a beautiful bride." He idly swings the bottle of grappa, empty as it is, to knock against his thigh. "Such a beautif-"

You're drunk, caro. Go to bed.

Cesare blinks wearily. "Such a beautiful bride."

Miquel doesn't comment. Swinging a leg from the window sill, chin propped on the other, sharp pointy chin on sharp pointy knee, pouting for no-one to see. Cesare is too drunk and maudlin to listen to anything Miquel could say, anyway. Such as, yes, and? who was it, the brilliant schemer and player who gambled away his sister? and funny, you, a Cardinal... has it come to your attention how, around Natale, you never think of the birth of our saviour, but only of Lucrezia marrying Ferrara?

Some Christmas. Miquel stirs a bit, paints invisible lines and signs on the window pane. Let's head out, he says at long last. You're brooding, and it's not healthy. Then, warmer, You haven't even asked me what I want for Christmas.

"Didn't see you write a letter to Befana," Cesare snorts and looks away.

Rising in a graceful arc, Miquel weaves up and around him, then disappears. He doesn't understand where this hunger for hurt comes from. He does, but... not here. Not now. With a world at his fingertips, and Cesare clutching nothing but his own ribs.

"Beautiful, beautiful. Magnificent desolation." -- Buzz Aldrin

"Man shouldn't revel in darkness. One should not court it, woo it, flatter it; take it to bed, or wrap one's naked skin in it. Why?" Cesare gazes into the distance. His eyes are amber sweetness, dead things trapped in them. "For desolation and despair will have their way with you. Once you have fallen in their company, it will be difficult to disentangle yourself."

When he glances at his hands, he notices how hard the right grabs the left.

"But perhaps your Master Aldrin, whoever he is, speaks of a different kind of desolation. Not the wastelands of the soul, but a kind of tabula rasa. The smoking plains of Geenna. I luoghi nascosti; luoghi de fuoco. I have seen such places." There's a smile, slow in creeping up and painful around the edges. "I can see the attraction. But where is the point in becoming a ruler of ashes?"

ctd from here...

Cesare disentangles himself from Isabel, steps over to the wrought iron railing. He leans over the edge, forcing himself to droop a bit, arms dangling while he presses halfmoon fingernails into his palms. Then he turns to her, eyes narrowed, and decides to plunge ahead - it's not as if she doesn't know or, at the very least, suspect what's on his mind.

"Daydreaming. Perhaps." He makes a little come, come here gesture, the prelude to a secret that is none, the overture to a wish she knows he harbours. It's all a matter of how to phrase it. Of how to please her while he's pleasing himself.

Once she's close, he leans over to whisper hot against the shell of her ear. "He would do well between us, I believe." His voice is hoarse and drops half an octave. "Perhaps he would taste sweet to you, too, once his legs are on my shoulders."

IJ, I hate you so much right now.

Lying on his back, arms behind his head, Cesare watches the clouds. Now and then his eyes drift shut. Spiaggia di velluto - what soft sand this is. His toes curl and dig, going from dry and fine to wet and coarse. Once there, his feet smoothe the patch to start and dig anew.

"Senigallia had a nice beach," he says, a propos nothing. "Softer than this even."

Miquel's outlines are faint in the sun. Cesare hasn't quite recovered yet from the shock of seeing him in a t-shirt and swishy grey skater shorts, the sort of tawdry thing they sell on the High Street. Not that you ever bathed there, Miquel laughs, drawing invisible shapes in the sand.

"Vero." He props himself on one elbow. "Care to go for a swim?"

You're silly. It sounds gentle. As if he didn't want to point out the glaringly obvious. Go ahead, he adds. I'll enjoy watching you.

"Can we talk?"

Miquel looks at him with these wide, bright blue eyes of his. Of course. No need to ask. The thought - voice? - thought is solicitous, caring, kind, and Cesare laps it up. There is no hand, but Cesare nudges it, trying to get Miquel to cradle his cheek.

So. I thought you wanted to talk.

Cesare doesn't reply. He sits on his perch - a massive chunk of driftwood the winter storms must have hurled against the shore - and keeps rocking himself, arms locked around his middle while invisible fingers are carding his hair. "It hurts," he mutters. "I don't know what to do."

When he raises his eyes, there's Miquel, right in front of him. Caro, perhaps you need to consult a physician.

"And tell him what? 'It's my shoulder; I broke it in 1506?' - 'Dottore, have a look, I think there's a bit of stray lance in my lung'?"

Perhaps. Miquel is squatting on his heels, nibbling his lower lip, a sceptical frown marring his face. Or it's something else.

"Sleeping on too many pillows?" Cesare resumes his exasperated rocking. "Déu... I can't breathe."

Clucking, Miquel pries his fingers loose - a shockingly physical moment, more real than any they've shared today. Yes, you can, he says. It's almost audible. How much more absolution can a person need, Cesare? Look at you. So greedy. Why don't you find someone to take a whip to your back and be done with it?

"Is that what you think? That I'm a glutton for punishment?"

Miquel lets go of Cesare's hands and gazes at the waves.

"Well fuck you then." Angry now, Cesare rises, stomping back towards the esplanade.