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"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.
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.