He's thrown open the windows, all windows, inviting in the summer air. Graciès a Déu, the house is far enough from the mayhem of beach life, so there's no fried fat or sun lotion or thumping basslines. It's just a good clean breeze, with a hint of linden, salty and sweet.
Idly scratching himself, Cesare roots around the kitchen; not hungry, merely interested, and ends up with a wad of paper-thin mortadella that he rolls up and shoves into his mouth. "What are you reading?" he munches.
Miquel throws him a brief look. And you upbraid me for a lack of manners. Compared to you, I could have eaten at the pope's table.
"Mmmhm." Cesare licks his fingers, then wipes them on his jeans before he sits next to Miquel. "I recall we both did. Eat at the pope's table."
Another of those whatever-looks. It will never cease to amaze me what a perfect filth pig you are in private.
"Ah, but that's why you love me, caro. So." Cesare smacks his lips, dislodging a stray bit of mortadella. "What are you reading?"
They're charging an entrance fee for the Forum now. There. Miquel's index finger points out the article, then jabs deeper, through the Corriere della Sera, digits and knuckles disappearing.
Cesare tries not to notice. "That's preposterous. Completely defies the spirit of forum," he bristles distractedly. Although, upon second thought... he's not quite that scandalised. "Good source of revenue, I suppose. Since they're no longer using it as a cow pasture."
Speaking of cows. There's another food scandal, Miquel mumbles, still scanning the front page. Too much trouble to turn it, apparently. Something about rotten cheese, mixed with mouse shit and worms. Better have a look in your ice box, hm? Now he positively beams at Cesare, the perverse little runt.
"Fatti i cazzi tuoi." Cesare yawns, stretching his legs under the table. "Reminds me, though. Do you remember the time when those oil merchants let those lepers bathe in olive oil to ease their sores, and then went on to sell the stuff on Campo de' Fiori?"
Miquel apes the gesture, stretching as well. Wasn't lepers, and you know it. People had ulcers from the Mal Francese.
"Pffh. No me toquis es collons," Cesare grumbles.
But what if I want to?
"Let's see. Bed?"
Roguish smile. Oh gods, Cesare would kill for that smile.
Bed.
Idly scratching himself, Cesare roots around the kitchen; not hungry, merely interested, and ends up with a wad of paper-thin mortadella that he rolls up and shoves into his mouth. "What are you reading?" he munches.
Miquel throws him a brief look. And you upbraid me for a lack of manners. Compared to you, I could have eaten at the pope's table.
"Mmmhm." Cesare licks his fingers, then wipes them on his jeans before he sits next to Miquel. "I recall we both did. Eat at the pope's table."
Another of those whatever-looks. It will never cease to amaze me what a perfect filth pig you are in private.
"Ah, but that's why you love me, caro. So." Cesare smacks his lips, dislodging a stray bit of mortadella. "What are you reading?"
They're charging an entrance fee for the Forum now. There. Miquel's index finger points out the article, then jabs deeper, through the Corriere della Sera, digits and knuckles disappearing.
Cesare tries not to notice. "That's preposterous. Completely defies the spirit of forum," he bristles distractedly. Although, upon second thought... he's not quite that scandalised. "Good source of revenue, I suppose. Since they're no longer using it as a cow pasture."
Speaking of cows. There's another food scandal, Miquel mumbles, still scanning the front page. Too much trouble to turn it, apparently. Something about rotten cheese, mixed with mouse shit and worms. Better have a look in your ice box, hm? Now he positively beams at Cesare, the perverse little runt.
"Fatti i cazzi tuoi." Cesare yawns, stretching his legs under the table. "Reminds me, though. Do you remember the time when those oil merchants let those lepers bathe in olive oil to ease their sores, and then went on to sell the stuff on Campo de' Fiori?"
Miquel apes the gesture, stretching as well. Wasn't lepers, and you know it. People had ulcers from the Mal Francese.
"Pffh. No me toquis es collons," Cesare grumbles.
But what if I want to?
"Let's see. Bed?"
Roguish smile. Oh gods, Cesare would kill for that smile.
Bed.