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"My greatest loss." His voice is flat. He rises from the bed, walks over to the window to finger a curtain and trace its patterns. With a soft snort he says, "Come, Miguel. These good people want to know about my greatest loss. Perhaps you would care to tell them?"
Head cocked as if listening for voices, cheek waiting for that breeze, he stills, holds his breath. "No? Not interested? You're not ashamed, are you? Come, Miguel. Come sit with me." It sounds tender, mayhap a touch too pleading for his own taste, but he's been reduced to pleading and begging anyway. Might as well beg for the only thing worth dropping to his knees for. He returns to his bed and gingerly sits on the edge, hands folded in his lap, like someone who expects to be fetched any second, pulled from this cell, this hotel room, and dragged to his judgment. Distractedly, he scratches an old scar hidden under ever-present stubble.
"He's funny, Miguel," Cesare starts slowly, addressing no-one in particular. "Can't shut up when you ask him to. Never speaks when it really matters. The things he could have spared us if he had opened his mouth. Mh?" Startled, he looks aside at the inaudible interruption. "Well, true. I wasn't exactly a wellspring of words and flowery confessions either. I thought actions would speak louder than words, but then I never thought I might be trespassing... going where I wasn't wanted." Unweaving his hands, Cesare throws himself back on the bed and lets his eyes roam across the ceiling. "So, he was funny, Miguel." As if that settled anything, undid a single hurt, redressed a single tort.
"See, the problem was that while I loved him well, he loved my sister better. He, who had promised to watch over me until the end. Fucking my sister. Giving her a child. Fucking eloping with her. I swore I'd cut off his legs so he would never walk away from me again..." Rubbing his eyes, he rummages through his jeans pockets for a tissue before he continues, voice dropped to a weary monotone. "What can I say. I wanted him back at all cost; I wasn't quite myself then. And when he came back, it was already too late. - I didn't force you, did I?" he whispers to the wall. "Didn't force you to return a second time, I mean. You could have stayed in Florence with Niccolò's militia, at least until the Medici returned, no? Nobody forced you to go to Navarra. Nobody asked you to seek me out." He swallows, clears his throat. "Least of all I; I had years in prison to reconcile myself to the prospect of being without you."
Cesare raises his right hand then, palm open, fingers splayed. "My pearl of great price, lost in the mud. I couldn't even close my fingers around it that morning. - Oh for god's sake, stop snivelling, Miguel." His arm falls back to weakly cradle his side. "So, here we are. And I would prefer you to leave us now."
Head cocked as if listening for voices, cheek waiting for that breeze, he stills, holds his breath. "No? Not interested? You're not ashamed, are you? Come, Miguel. Come sit with me." It sounds tender, mayhap a touch too pleading for his own taste, but he's been reduced to pleading and begging anyway. Might as well beg for the only thing worth dropping to his knees for. He returns to his bed and gingerly sits on the edge, hands folded in his lap, like someone who expects to be fetched any second, pulled from this cell, this hotel room, and dragged to his judgment. Distractedly, he scratches an old scar hidden under ever-present stubble.
"He's funny, Miguel," Cesare starts slowly, addressing no-one in particular. "Can't shut up when you ask him to. Never speaks when it really matters. The things he could have spared us if he had opened his mouth. Mh?" Startled, he looks aside at the inaudible interruption. "Well, true. I wasn't exactly a wellspring of words and flowery confessions either. I thought actions would speak louder than words, but then I never thought I might be trespassing... going where I wasn't wanted." Unweaving his hands, Cesare throws himself back on the bed and lets his eyes roam across the ceiling. "So, he was funny, Miguel." As if that settled anything, undid a single hurt, redressed a single tort.
"See, the problem was that while I loved him well, he loved my sister better. He, who had promised to watch over me until the end. Fucking my sister. Giving her a child. Fucking eloping with her. I swore I'd cut off his legs so he would never walk away from me again..." Rubbing his eyes, he rummages through his jeans pockets for a tissue before he continues, voice dropped to a weary monotone. "What can I say. I wanted him back at all cost; I wasn't quite myself then. And when he came back, it was already too late. - I didn't force you, did I?" he whispers to the wall. "Didn't force you to return a second time, I mean. You could have stayed in Florence with Niccolò's militia, at least until the Medici returned, no? Nobody forced you to go to Navarra. Nobody asked you to seek me out." He swallows, clears his throat. "Least of all I; I had years in prison to reconcile myself to the prospect of being without you."
Cesare raises his right hand then, palm open, fingers splayed. "My pearl of great price, lost in the mud. I couldn't even close my fingers around it that morning. - Oh for god's sake, stop snivelling, Miguel." His arm falls back to weakly cradle his side. "So, here we are. And I would prefer you to leave us now."
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