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"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.
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.