He comes back with a little tray, two minuscule cups of sweetly foamy dark-roast, not the vile supermarket Lavazza, and plonks them down near the couch. Alex scowls at him, sullen like Juan when he didn't get what wanted, a new horse, new sword, new this and that, and Cesare, the boy-bishop of Pamplona, had to fold his hands and stand back, demurely, watching his brother's star rise. Not that Juan had ever done a single deed that merited such advancement.
Shaking himself away from that unpleasant train of thought, Cesare disappears again for a second. Truth be told, he's grateful for the brandy, too.
He grabs the biggest, most bellied snifters he can find. Not that Alex would ask for a glass; given half a choice, chances are he'd simply slug it back.
"So," he mutters apropos, burying his nose in deep wood-scents, apricot, smoke, and beautifully toe-curling sheer alcohol, "any explanation for the... lack of a wall?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-12-12 05:36 pm (UTC)Shaking himself away from that unpleasant train of thought, Cesare disappears again for a second. Truth be told, he's grateful for the brandy, too.
He grabs the biggest, most bellied snifters he can find. Not that Alex would ask for a glass; given half a choice, chances are he'd simply slug it back.
"So," he mutters apropos, burying his nose in deep wood-scents, apricot, smoke, and beautifully toe-curling sheer alcohol, "any explanation for the... lack of a wall?"