Chapter Text

Chapter 1

CESURA

In his readings, he had once heard politics compared to the motion of celestial bodies: There was a central anchor around which all others danced in ceaseless perfection. Machete could see the metaphor, that wasn’t hard, but he couldn’t agree with the underlying premise. The motions of the celestials were regular, agreeably so, never changing day in and day out; he had thought it more like a shore. Regular, but ever-shifting, every day just a bit different from the last.

And, occasionally, a storm will surge over the land.

The cardinal had recused himself for the day after the attempt on his life, after the first time he had extinguished the life of another. He had scrubbed himself clean, especially his face and fur, spent the hours delicately maintaining them, but the taste of iron lingered about him like a malignant cloud. Blood-soiled garments were replaced, yet still they were red. Machete lingered in front of a mirror, undecided if he was completely clean; every time he looked away, he felt an itch, a warmth across his face where the spatter had soaked into his fur. His fingers tensed as they curled around his collar, adjusting it, feeling the creases where he had felt the grooves of a hilt just hours before.

Only a knock could pull him from his thoughts. His eyes whipped from the mirror to the door, as if his glower could send the intruding noise away.

“Did I not request to be left undisturbed for the evening, Vittorio?”

Hesitance leaked through the door. “Your visitor insisted, Eminence.”

A hand returned to his face, adjusting his fur where the spatter had struck him once again. Well, he had spent enough time in front of a mirror. “Let them in, then.”

Machete glanced back at his reflection for a moment, straightening his stance and preparing to receive whomever it was knocking at his door so late. Broken from his reverie by the intrusion, he finally noticed the trickle of light from his covered window. His ear twitched as he heard a warble from outside. Had it been so long? Glancing at the candle by his bedside, he found it burned to its stem. How heavy his eyes suddenly felt at that moment.

The door opened, bringing the cardinal’s attention to a stocky man in the tricolor of the Guards. He kneeled in the open frame, eyes cast to the floor, as Vittorio, much smaller than their guest, fumbled with his hands behind him before politely stepping away.

“Your Eminence,” the visitor acknowledged Machete, Italian accented in a way hard to place. “His Holiness and His Eminence the Dean have requested your person be guarded after the recent incident. I also bring news of the investigation into the assailant.”

Anger flared in his chest, a smoldering coal exposed to a sudden wind. Machete felt his hackles raise, but he forced himself to calm. He could not contradict a request from His Holiness. “Very well,” he admitted, stifling a sigh. “I assume you will have found little from your investigation. The man was just some vagrant given a dagger and an untraceable promise. Am I correct in this?”

The man, gaze kept low, nodded wordlessly.

“As I suspected. You may rise. If I am to be… accompanied, guarded, just ensure it does not interfere with my work.”

The Guard raised as he was bade, giving Machete a chance to examine him. He was broad, nearly tall as the cardinal, and certainly looked the part of an experienced Swiss, a scar on his brow and cheek that seems to have narrowly avoided taking his eye with them. Most of the fur he could see was white, with just a touch of dark color around his face and the ends of his long ears. Dark eyes greeted the cardinal’s with a simple, dutiful expression, with perhaps just a touch of apprehension well masked.

“I am assigned to your person whenever you leave your residence to attend the Curia, Eminence. Your chambers will also be guarded until His Holiness feels that you are safe. I will… endeavor to be unobtrusive, to leave you undisturbed.”

“Very well. I will call upon you when I leave.” He glanced back at the candle, flame guttering at the bottom of its wick, and considered if he should just take the day, or at least the morning; the sudden necessity of the guard, along with the heaviness of his eyes, were as millstones around his neck. However, he doubted his work would wait for him to get a bout of fitful sleep. He added, “After I break my fast, I will attend the Curia.”

“I will be waiting, Eminence.” The Guard inclined his head, then closed the door. Heavy footsteps sounded behind it, diminishing by the moment, until Machete was alone but for the noises of morning.

Letting out a sigh equal parts exhausted and frustrated, the cardinal allowed himself to collapse into a chair a few steps away. His ears drooped, eyes falling sightlessly to the floor as he let himself just be exhausted for a moment. It was all too much: The troubles in Germany, the Low Countries, and Italy never ceased, creating equally unending work for him; the censors in the Sacred Index pestered him whenever they found him to petition His Holiness to do something about Venetian printers ignoring orders to not print banned books, as if they would listen; jurisdictional conflicts over the New World never stopped; snide statements and insulting insinuations about the favoritism of being the protégé of His Holiness and being made cardinal; and so on and so on and forevermore. It was all too much.

The Guard would only make it worse. The eyes on him, the comments, the simple constant presence of someone else, all of it. Simmering with indignance, exhaustion turning to frustration, he brought his hands to his face as he glared down at an innocent stool. He would have to endure it, try his best to keep his profile low, despite already surely being the topic of gossip. After all, he was busy enough to just stay in his office. He just had to make it there; they wouldn’t bother going to him to wish their condolences, they’d only do it in public, the vipers. To avoid them he’d have to leave now. Food could wait.

His gloved hand idly brushed along a clean cheek as Machete thought, before he stood, striding out.

The morning was idyllic. Songbirds trestled and warbled about the Giardini del Quirinale, a pleasant breeze bringing in brisk air and rustling through branches and bushes. It was a relative quiet for the Eternal City, with only the earliest of risers shouting their wares, priests and deacons quietly chatting amongst themselves as they made their own way about the palace, giving him wide berth. The sun, only recently risen from its slumber, did not trouble him with its intense glare. Machete should have taken pleasure from all of that, let it refresh him after his lack of sleep, but he was not in a mood to appreciate it.

The Guard behind him, despite the careful steps to stay both relatively quiet and a respectful distance from the cardinal’s back, was far too much of an oppressive presence for him to truly relax. The knowledge that the Guard was always there, that his eyes were on Machete’s back, made his fur stand on end. It itched. Constantly, like the spatter that was no longer on his face. He ignored it, eyes focused hard forward.

Suddenly, he realized he was about to turn the corner where he had been intercepted by the assassin. He stopped, staring forward, feeling like he would certainly still see that body there, blood pooled around it, staring up at him with fading eyes. Or worse, there would be another there, to finish the task his compatriot failed… just waiting for him to return. His hands went to his face for a moment, before he shook it off, feeling eyes on his back. Machete turned away, deciding to go through the Giardini today, which he very rarely did.

Making his best attempt at stately serenity, the cardinal strode forward. A bystander might guess it was a morning like any other. Only the bright presence of the Swiss Guard behind disrupted that illusion, garish colors on flowing fabric clashing with the simple red and black of the beautifully tailored coat the cardinal wore. They moved in near-unison, the Guard matching the stride of the man before him, tassels on his halberd shifting with the motion.

They moved past delicate displays of the wealth of the Church: carefully cultivated hedges guiding them forward along paths, fountains with statues of angels burbling forth fonts of water, pastoral and forested scenes beautifully sectioned apart from one another as if plucked from various other locales. Only the scaffolds in the distance on a wing of the Palazzo disrupted the elegance, still being finalized, but otherwise it was a stunning display of beauty and power, God’s bounty bequeathed to His servants.

It was early enough that the Giardini was not full, but a few lingered around the Fontana dell'Ombrello, the largest in the Palazzo and flanked by a quartet of its smaller fellows. Multi-leveled, water fell into a large bowl upheld by Romanesque statuary, overflowing to the basin below. Evidently, the men there enjoyed the brisk feeling of vapor in the air, conversations blanketed from afar by the sound of falling water. Above, the Palazzo Pontifico loomed, with the safety of his dicastery inside. Machete was just paces away.

That was, of course, why he was intercepted here.

“Ah, Eminence! It is good to see you!”

Of all the voices to hear this morning...! Thankfully, Machete was facing away, able to suppress the immediate glower that occupied his face. He turned to his colleague with an even expression, finding the smug face of Cardinal Alonso de Grado, Archbishop of Valencia, an elegant and sharp-featured man just a year older than Machete. His largely black fur contrasted the bright scarlet cassock, ferraiolo draped about his narrow shoulders.

“Eminence,” Machete acknowledged him evenly. By the way Alonso was approaching, this was not a courtesy. Machete’s hands tightly clasped one another.

“I am, of course, very saddened to hear of the… altercation yesterday,” the Spaniard spoke softly, inclining his head and very shallowly bowing in mock sympathy. “I am surprised to even see you. Surely you should be resting? We are all very concerned for your health.” He smiled broadly.

Machete did not return it. “I am uninjured. The works of God rest for no man,” he sharply replied. It was hard to ignore the crawling itch on his cheek, but he forced himself still.

“Of course, but one must be in good health to do His works, hm? But who am I to deter a tenacious servant of God! I am sure that that little ruffian was found quite wanting by the Machete; you must have slept soundly.”

Twin feelings of anxiety and anger coiled in his chest. Did he look as disheveled as he felt? And what right did this pompous ass have to comment on it? He caught the biting remark he wanted to say, simply saying: “It is not so easy to strike me down.” He smiled just enough to bare his teeth.

“Of course not,” Alonso returned tersely. His eyes flitted over to the Swiss Guard lingering by the fountain, realizing just why the mercenary was still here. “But I see His Holiness worries about you regardless. Your own Guard! They don’t come cheap, you know. Truly a sign of his esteem for you, don’t you think?”

Machete couldn’t stop the grimace that curled over his features. The Guard, for his part, simply stood there stoically.

“I have humbly received His Holiness’s protection, despite it being unnecessary. I am sure he would do it for any of our colleagues. Would that he didn’t have to.” Machete looked with intent back at the Spanish cardinal.

“Indeed,” Alonso casually replied, perhaps a touch amused.

Whatever else he intended to say, it was cut off by a cry: “My boy!” A small procession filtered into the fountain square, the white cassock of the Pope earning the eyes of everyone in it. The very elderly man was helped along by an aide, flanked by two armor-clad Guards. His brown, shaggy fur was longer than it usually was, dark eyes squinting at Machete with clear affection. He gestured to the edge of the fountain and was led to it, leaning against it as he looked between his two cardinals.

“I was so relieved to hear that you were unharmed, my boy. I could not bear to see you depart to God’s bosom before I,” the elderly man said, before looking at Alonso. “Ah, I see you are giving your well-wishes too. It is good to see my two youngest getting along, despite your disagreements in policies. You are both so bright.”

In near unison, Machete and Alonso responded: “Of course, thank you, Holy Father.”

The Pope evidently found this amusing from the hoarse peal of laughter. Smile mostly covered by his dappled fur, he looked between the two with satisfaction, before settling back on Machete. “I knew you wouldn’t take the day even after what happened, so I was looking for you. Had to see you were in good health with my own eyes. Come here, my boy.”

Machete did as he was bid, taking the older man’s hand in both of his, bristling a bit at the indignancy of this in public. He ignored whatever eyes he was sure Alonso was giving him. “Yes?”

“Stay safe, my son. You have been bid by God to do great things in this short life, I am sure of it.” He gestured to the Guard assigned to Machete, then continued: “I have assigned this one to keep you safe, since there are those who would have you die before your time. He has experience fighting the Turk and across Italy, so I am sure he will protect you if you let him. Continue your good works.” He smiled brightly at the young man before him.

All Machete could do was incline his head, both out of formality and because he couldn’t keep meeting those eyes. “Thank you, Holy Father. I will… heed your words and do my best in service to God.”

“I am glad to hear it, my boy. After you are finished with your work in the Secretariat today, come find me. There is this artist whose works you are sure to love...” After Machete’s nod, the pontiff looked to his aide, who helped him stand once more, steadying him as they returned to the palace.

Machete turned back to Alonso to glare before the Spaniard could even speak, ears just as pointed as his look. Alonso just looked amused, arms crossed, seemingly needing to say nothing to get his point across.

“If that is all, Eminence, I have work to attend to,” Machete sharply said. He could not tolerate any more snide taunts for the day.

“Attend away. Just keep what His Holiness said in mind: Stay protected.”

If Machete hadn’t seen the man scream in fury before, he would be certain that the smug expression was permanently affixed to the Spaniard’s face. His cheek and fists itched. And, unfortunately, judging by Alonso’s expression, some of his feelings leaked through to his expression. “I do not appreciate your veiled threats.”

Alonso’s face expression straightened, glancing between the other cardinal and the Guard, whose grip was tightening on his weapons. “Not a threat, Machete. I hope you don’t think that was me; if it was, we would not be speaking, and that is a truth I would swear to. Go back about your paper pushing, won’t you? The sun will tan your delicate hide soon if you don’t.”

Machete had to turn away, for he was no longer capable of masking his expression—and he wasn’t sure how long he could hold his fists, either. He stalked away down the paths, trying to not imagine the snide expression behind him, failing to not be angry at the footsteps following him and to not scratch at his face. He hated that man, hated the assassin for causing all this trouble, hated everything about this situation. He nearly reached the doors of the Palazzo before he managed to recompose himself, scaring away a few functionaries and deacons scurrying about the piazza.

Taking a deep breath, Machete steadied himself. His hands smoothed the fur about his face, fixing it where it had been displaced by his scratching. Still feeling the Guard’s eyes on him, he contained the instinct to lash out. He did not like to be seen losing control like that, and his new attendant saw all of that. Mustering the best smile he could, he turned to the other man:

“My apologies that you had to see that. The Cardinal de Grado and I have had… disagreements in the past. It is nothing, I simply lost my temper. My dicastery, the Secretariat of State, is this way.”

The other man simply nodded, relaxing visibly as Machete did. They went in.

Despite the interruption, his work and schedule from then on was largely the same. He received missives from other officials, answered questions sent from the church’s lands, consulted with His Holiness about what direction to take in diplomacy when he could get him to listen about it, directed his opposites in other Italian states to stand fast against Spanish encroachment, listened to updates about the various diplomatic tangles that gripped the states of Christendom tightly, and so forth. The presence of the Guard only rankled him for the first few days, after which his presence became expected. He really was rather good at just blending into the background.

Machete couldn’t afford to linger on the man forever anyway. The tensions about Europe always seemed to be growing, which created more work, which begat further near-sleepless nights spent at his desk. Spain never ceased its meddling in the states of Italy, especially as France was distracted by fighting its domestic Huguenot heretics; the United Provinces in the Low Countries showed no sign of stopping their decades-long revolt against the Habsburg crowns; the Archbishopric of Cologne was torn between a Catholic and Lutheran claimant; everything felt as if it was unraveling. It created scores of headaches for him.

He did his best to avoid his fellow cardinals so they did not add to that. Above all else, he was still furious at Alonso, not that he could do anything but impotently harbor a rage in his chest. Machete tried to take time to spend in prayer, to visit his tailor and doctor, to spend evenings with the Pope going through various artists and architects and their plans for how to finish the façade of the Palazzo or to rearrange the Giardini or paint new portraits. It still felt like a performance, still felt tiring, especially as he had to watch bishops and cardinals recommend nephews and brothers for positions around the church and the Pope accept them.

And so the world turned on. Eventually, Machete managed to take his old route back to his home, and he even had a mostly cordial work meeting with Alonso two weeks later. Things were settling back in; even if his fur still raised every time he turned that corner, he still made those steps. A few visits from his doctor ensured his health was secure, even if he insisted Machete be careful about what food he ate.

“The blade did not prosper, so they may try a more indirect way,” Doctor Matteo Frosini spoke to his patient in his rich Florentine tones, the beady little eyes peering at him magnified by his spectacles. “Consider carefully who may be preparing food for you. If you would be interested, I have concocted an antidote for common poisons. Perhaps His Eminence would like to keep some about his person…”

Machete supposed this was common for those in power and would have been visited upon him sooner or later. Still, even Vittorio eventually relaxed, but it was easy to tell that the presence of guards outside of the cardinal’s residence never quite sat right with him.

It had been a week and five days since the assassination attempt when Machete first received news of a new ambassador from Florence.

“Florence?” His brow crinkled. “That is… unusual. Have they provided a reason?”

The deacon that brought him the message, Machete's personal assistant, was a man named Piero Contarini that he knew from his days in Venice, shook his head. “No, Your Eminence. Just a sudden request that we host an ambassador that is on his way here.”

“Very well. Send him to me when he arrives, and ensure some accommodations near the Palazzo. Evidently, it is something urgent that they couldn’t entrust to a letter.”

The deacon nodded and went about those tasks, looking back to Machete before he left.

It was the next morning when Vittorio told the cardinal that a guest from Florence awaited him. Ensuring that the Guard was awake and ready, Machete bid Vittorio show the ambassador in. It was a rather nice morning after a spate of storms, and he had even managed to sleep a full night before, even if it was due to exhaustion.

The office in his home, a small but richly furnished villa in the hills orbiting the Quirinal Palace, was exactly to his taste and what he deserved for going through the hell of diplomatic work: Carved of old luxurious wood, his desk was intricately made to his specification with a series of small drawers for filing his correspondence and documents, spare papers and pens and inks, and anything else he could need. Filigree decorated the edges while elegantly made legs took the shape of pillars. A supple leather writing surface kept everything in place and nice to the touch. Bookshelves surrounded the desk, equally well-made, while everything was lit with a slight haze due to the thick glass of the window, specifically requested for his delicate eyes. A full body mirror hid amongst the shelves for quick moments of self-inspection, and in the rare moments he had guests here as opposed to his office in the palace, there were two chairs opposite his desk. A few paintings joined the window behind the desk to adorn the wall. His office was beautiful, it was practical, and it was his. He felt comfortable in it.

Machete hoped this meeting would be smooth, as he had spent all yesterday raging about his instructions to the Austrian Papal Legate being almost certainly intentionally misinterpreted, and his foul mood was only being allayed by the pleasant breeze coming through the partly opened window.

Handling the affairs of state for an absentee Pope was a mess, but he supposed he would rather take care of it than let Alonso or some other bad actor take the role. These ambassador meetings were often so tedious, negotiating fine points of detail on prior agreements or on tariff law or the location of the border between church land and crown lands… With the recent transition of Florence from a republic to a duchy, however, he wasn’t quite sure what the new administration would want.

Vittorio knocked on the door, breaking Machete from his thoughts. He seated himself, stepping away from the window, and the Guard at his side brought himself to a smart stance. Seeing everything was in its place, the cardinal turned towards the door.

“Admit him, Vittorio.”

The small man entered the room, holding the door open as he bowed deeply. “I present His Illustrious Highness, Count—”

“Vasco?!”

Machete bolted up from his desk in shock. Standing in the doorway was… him, Vasco, the one he had… The Florentine did not enter with a broad smile, however, instead marching in with a deeply concerned expression, eyeing Machete very intently. Everyone else stood still for the moment, surprised at Machete’s outburst and the Florentine ambassador’s decidedly unexpected behavior.

Breaking from his reverie first, the Guard immediately leapt to stand between the two men, drawing a sword from its sheath. “Halt!”

It was Machete that pushed him aside, however, earning a surprised look from the broader man. The cardinal turned aside the Guard, then turned back—And Vasco was there, right in his face.

The two stared at each other for a moment, before Vasco’s serious expression finally wavered, and he leapt forward to grab the cardinal in a deep hug, his face brushing against the other man’s cheek.

“You’re safe…” The relief in Vasco’s voice was palpable, as if he couldn’t believe it until he could finally hold Machete in his arms.

Confused, torn between indignance at the display in front of his two attendants and sheer heart-consuming happiness at seeing Vasco for the first time in over ten years, Machete could only wrap his arms around the other man’s back. They hugged, arms tight, as if they could make up for lost time by strength alone. “I am,” he responded.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

APPOGGIATURA

After that moment, silence reigned. Happiness, confusion, base relish at the sensation of touch, and discomfort at the presence of Vittorio and the guard warred with one another in Machete’s head. He truly was delighted at seeing Vasco again. The spike of elation he felt as the Florentine stood in the doorway was unlike anything he had felt in the past decade, but he wished Vasco had waited until they could dismiss the other two.

The sensation of arms tightly clenched around Machete’s back, as if he might slip away as a mirage, and face pressed against his neck, breath tickling as it shifted fur back and forth, soothed that affronted feeling in the moment.

Thankfully, either Vasco realized his surroundings or he felt that sense of tense discomfort in Machete. He finally pulled away and acknowledged the presence of Vittorio and the Guard. Vittorio was doing an awkward dance of half-steps towards the door, unsure if he should dismiss himself in the moment but unwilling to raise Machete’s ire, while the Guard merely stood watch with his blade still in hand, unsure of what to do and visibly ill at ease. Vasco approached him, smiling one of his grand smiles, and took off his glove to offer his hand to shake. After a moment’s hesitation, the Swiss returned his blade to its home and mirrored Vasco, gripping his hand tightly.

Vasco shook it, matching the tight grip. “Even after your charge recognized me, you didn’t relax. Great instinct in your line of work, my good man, great instinct.” He broke off the shake and replaced his glove. “Who do I have to thank for protecting my friend?”

“Maurice Rarogne, Your Highness.” Confusion lingered in his features, but Vasco put him at ease, as the Florentine often did to others. Machete realized in that moment that this was the first he had heard of Maurice’s name. The cardinal folded his arms over his chest, feeling awkward.

“Well, Signore Rarogne, continue your good work. I have to imagine your charge is troublesome at times, but he’s a good man at heart.” Vasco looked back to Machete with a sly little smile.

The cardinal huffed. “Vasco…”

“I am merely putting your man at ease! I acted without decorum and set him on edge. I apologize for the scare, signore,” he turned back to the other man.

Maurice seemed unaffected by the little verbal spat. He inclined his head graciously. “It is nothing, Highness, so long as you do not take offense at me drawing a weapon upon you.”

“Of course not! No worries at all.”

At that, Maurice finally relaxed, or at least looked less on alert. His grave manner was a sharp contrast to Vasco’s grand ebullience, but thankfully it seemed the two men were not as oil to water. Vasco then turned to Vittorio, offering the smaller man thanks for his work. All Vittorio could offer back was a sheepish smile and a raised ear. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, not used to being addressed by anyone but Machete, so Vasco held both with his as they spoke.

Machete finally stepped over, looking between Maurice and the now still Vittorio. “You two are dismissed. I trust his Highness with my life.” At that, Vasco gave a pleased look; Machete didn’t deign it with a look. “I will call upon you if you are needed.”

Relieved to be set free, Vittorio gave a bow and immediately darted from the room. Maurice took a moment, but followed suit, giving both men a nod before closing the door behind him.

Machete expected the kiss, but wasn’t, or could ever have been, prepared for it. The door was closed, the steps behind it faded away, and Vasco turned to face him. Dark eyes brimmed with feeling as he strode closer, the smile beneath them wide and genuine. The cardinal found himself in a similar position to his secretary just moments before, his entire body feeling awkward and out of place as he awaited Vasco’s touch, unable to restrain his tail from sheepishly wagging behind him. He gave the best smile he could muster back, which made the Florentine laugh. It was the only one in the world Machete could feel was genuine and not mocking. It made him feel both weightless and anchored at once. Then, at last, they stood across from one another. Vasco just took in the sight of the man before him, whispered his name, and then his hands were on Machete’s shoulder and neck, pulling him in until their faces met.

Vasco’s touch, even through fabric, sent ripples of excitement through Machete’s body and tingles up his spine. When their snouts brushed against one another, first in a gentle kiss and then in Vasco’s fevered need for Machete’s taste on his tongue, as if to refresh his memory. Machete cautiously opened his mouth as he felt Vasco’s hot breath against his face, alluring and intoxicating. He grabbed at the folds of Vasco’s clothes to steady himself as the Florentine’s tongue licked across teeth, then pressed against its opposite. They tangled and licked against each other, engaging in a brief duel not unlike those of bravos on streets across all Italy.

Machete only realized just how tightly his fingers were gripping Vasco as he broke the kiss. The Florentine rested his head on top of Machete’s when he found he couldn’t pull away, while Machete panted, having unwittingly held his breath. Vasco let out a happy little sigh, ruffling the other man’s fur as said man took moments to recover from the shock and feelings roiling through him.

Machete just didn’t know what it was about Vasco. Why did he have such an easy time following all of the church’s strictures about chastity and against lustful feelings except when he was around? No sinful thought of desire ever fleeted across his mind, but the second that smile brimmed down upon him, the second those fingers brushed against him, it was as if a long dead fire ignited in his chest. Before tonight, he had thought it was a fluke, simple folly of his younger self, and yet: Here it was again, just as fierce as he recalled it. He tried to compose himself, his grip lessening to a gentle hold, his breath slowing from desperate panting, but the effect Vasco had on him was obvious.

And yet Florentine was merciful. He didn’t comment. Instead he simply enjoyed being close, running hands down Machete’s back and playing with his pellegrina. “It’s so good to see you again,” Vasco mumbled into delicate white fur. “I thanked every saint I could name when the news reached Florence. Imagine that: the first time I hear that you’re a cardinal and it’s that you survived an assassination attempt.
”
“I… apologize that you had to find out that way.” Machete paused. “I am happy to see you as well.” A shaky little smile forced its way onto his face and wouldn’t leave, especially when Vasco pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

“When I heard about the commotion, when I learned it was you, I had to come over immediately,” Vasco affectionately thumbed Machete’s cheek as he spoke. “I used a few favors to get appointed as an ambassador for a few months to negotiate some trifle. I knew you would be handling it so it was as simple as that. I needed to see you again, especially after all these years.”

Resting his hands on Vasco’s chest, feeling the slight rise and falls of breaths and words, Machete enjoyed touching and being touched by him. However, the mention of a diplomatic matter made him frown, brow furrowing. “A trifle? What exactly is it? And why did you need an appointment as ambassador to visit me? There are protocols that have to be followed.” His head began to ache. It was nice to see Vasco again, yes, but was this just going to create more problems?

Vasco was taken aback by the immediate shift in tone, but only for a moment. He returned to working his wiles: “Of course there are, my good friend, but surely you have obligations that keep you from simply gallivanting about Italy, yes? It is the same for me. Listen,” he kissed Machete’s head before continuing, “It will be dealt with. For now, I just wanted to see you, ensure you were safe, maybe more than safe…”

The noise Machete made as Vasco grabbed him by the thighs and lifted him onto the desk was extraordinarily undignified. He clung to the Florentine’s chest as Vasco laughed gently at him. “You’re even more beautiful than I thought you’d be, do you know that?”

That alone caused twin feelings of prickly anxiety and burning desire to whip around his chest like unfurled sails in a storm. He remembered the feeling well from his time in Venice, dearly wanting what was happening while equally or more afraid of it for some reason he couldn’t name. His tail clung tightly to his body, his ears low.

Vasco rubbed Machete’s shoulders soothingly before kissing and licking at his neck. “You’re so stiff, darling,” he breathed, the warmth over damp neck sending a shiver up Machete’s back. “And not in a fun way. Are you okay?”

Machete hated feeling fear and he hated submitting to it even more. It filled him with a choking frustration to go through exactly what he went through in Venice again, but he couldn’t get through it. He frowned, shallowly shaking his head.

Wordlessly, the Florentine planted a kiss and pulled away from the desk, giving space. He adjusted his clothing and fur, looking away into the mirror while Machete collected himself. The cardinal dabbed at his eyes, wiped away a tear of frustration, and took a steadying breath.

After a few moments, Machete stood again. He did not feel steady, the whorl of feelings still raging within him, but he couldn’t just sit there cowering all day. “Has His Holiness received you yet?”

“Well… no.” Vasco returned from the mirror, taking the opportunity to seat himself. He looked a tad sheepish. “There’ll be a banquet; that’s where it will be done.”

Machete looked down at him with a thin little frown, crossing his arms. “We are not supposed to meet until that is done, you know.”

Vasco held up his arms in surrender, acknowledging his wrong-doing without a word.

The cardinal sighed, but then stepped over, grabbing one of those hands. Gently, he rested his head upon it. “I am very happy to see you again, Vasco. I am… sorry about just now,” he looked away, but kept the hand where it was, squeezing it gently. “It is too much too soon. But, perhaps…”

It was a lot to think about. For one, he was now officially ordained; he knew that many priests had illegitimate relationships despite that, but it would be his first step across that threshold as a man of the church and not a foundling. It was also prohibited for it to be another man, of course, but if Christ made him with the capacity to love a man, he was sure He could just as easily forgive it. Perhaps that was self-deception, but Machete did not care. There were risks beyond his immortal soul, too, threats to his position in the Church, especially because of his unpopularity, but…

Vasco interrupted Machete’s brooding by pulling his head low enough for a brief kiss. “I would wait until Heaven on Earth. It is as simple as that.” He gently petted the other man’s head. “We’ll take care of the banquet, have dinner after that, and see where things go, alright?”

Machete smiled.

Machete scowled.

He hated formal affairs and banquets. They created endless work: discussions on who should be seated where in accordance to what rank or who should enter in what order; catering to tastes spanning continents; ensuring all of those who needed to be present would actually be available; and on and on and on. Thankfully, he was not needed for some of these decisions, but an annoying amount required his input as the man in charge of the diplomatic affairs of the Holy See. Most of the work could be handled by his assistant Deacon Contarini, but not everything. This was a small and relatively simple affair, as it was just to mark the reception of an ambassador, so it was, at least, less trouble than it could have been. Vasco would enter, kneel before His Holiness, kiss his hand, and his credentials would be accepted. Then, it would just be wining and dining until Machete could secret Vasco off for the night.

Of course, Machete could not spend the whole evening with Vasco. It would be untoward to show such favoritism, putting his position at risk. There were conversations that needed to happen, connections to be forged, that sort of thing; it was the language of diplomacy in this age. Vasco was going into this forearmed with knowledge of players and movers in the space courtesy of Machete, so he was sure the Florentine would have no issues with his natural gregarity.

That would not save Machete.

He spent the evening mostly in the corners after the initial reception of Vasco, occasionally picking at a bit of food but mostly drinking watered down wine. He could, at least, admire the hall when he was here. It was a triumph of the era, vaulted ceilings over a grand room made to receive and hold a few scores of prominent guests from all of Christendom. Small tables held both full meals and small appetizers, all orbited by wine, wine, and more wine. Servants scurried between throngs of influential guests greeting one another, carrying messages and invitations and food and drink. Grand windows sat behind a raised dais where His Holiness’s throne stood, letting in the rays of afternoon sun. The Church’s wealth was on full display, classical statuary breaking up frescoes that illustrated various scenes from the Gospels in chronological order terminating at the dais end of the hall. It was beautiful and even though he hated the reasons he was often in here, he enjoyed the artistry displayed in the room itself, only recently finished; he had suggested some of the finishes himself.

Initially, Machete was mostly unbothered, staying far away from the initial scrum of people politely waiting to make their introductions to the new man at court, but it couldn’t last. Machete was moving to admire the frescoes for what must have been the hundredth time in his career when he was intercepted by a deep, familiar voice:

“Boy, come over here.”

It sent a deeply instilled flash of fear down his spine for just a blink. He took a breath to compose himself, before turning with the most polite affected smile he could manage.

“Your Excellency. I did not expect to see you come all the way from Naples,” Machete politely addressed his mentor, the man who apprenticed him for years, as said man stood next to another cardinal.

Giordano di Calabria, the Archbishop of Naples, was a stern man. He was not softened by his advanced age; it instead sharpened his features further, scowl lines getting deeper into his grayed face. He was a deeply intimidating presence in his prime, but now he was like charcoal, shrunken and used yet still angry, waiting for the next lick of flame to reach a higher, more intense heat.

Currently, he was doing his best imitation of a warm smile, as if he was happily greeting his old pupil. He addressed him properly, using Machete’s full name and title, before gruffly continuing: “I happened to be here for a different occasion. No matter. I’m sure you know His Eminence de Bailly?”

The other cardinal acknowledged his younger colleague. Hubert de Bailly, Suffragan Bishop of Paris, was older than Giordano; he did not wear his age as well as the archbishop, a tiny slip of a man wasting away with time, eyes milky with cataracts. He was short of snout and ear, dark frizzy fur having faded to a light gray. Few had expected Hubert to last much longer after Machete became a cardinal, and yet the Frenchman managed to linger despite his frail, shivering form. Machete suspected he had spent many years as the French presence in the Papal courts, but had recently been superseded in that role by the younger Archbishop of Avignon.

Machete greeted Hubert with a nod, before recalling to vocally acknowledge him. “Yes, I do. Eminence.”

Hardly waiting for the pleasantries to end, Giordano spoke up once more: “I was speaking with him about foreign interests in Italy; hardly anyone is satisfied by a peace enforced by thieves and whoremongers. Things are changing, boy, slowly but surely. It is your task to keep track of these things, but are you aware of the opportunity you have in these coming days?”

Machete nearly cracked the glass he was holding. He kept smiling. “You are speaking of the guest of honor.”

“Of course. Wasn’t he a friend of yours? Use that.”

“Valorous Florence recently made amends with the Emperor,” the wispy voice of Hubert sounded in his heavily accented Italian. “Italy is becoming an extension of Spain and Austria.”

Giordano nodded along. “Florence is a holdout, a very wealthy and influential holdout. It would do well to keep them away from the bosom of the Empire, despite the amends. With your friend here, it seems he has ears in high places. One can hope he has a tongue that reaches just as far.”

The effort of holding the smile was beginning to hurt Machete’s jaw. “I am aware of the opportunity, bishop. I am not blind to these things; I have learned well the necessities of this office after taking it. I do not require your counsel on this affair.”
A familiar, furious pallor came over Giordano’s face. He did not bother to hide the contemptuous glare he held, stepping closer to the much younger man. “Do not—”

“Do not speak with me as if I am still your apprentice,” Machete hissed, cutting him off. Then the cardinal turned to his colleague, back to smiles and soft words. “I appreciate your interest, Eminence, and I will be working keenly on this. If you two will excuse me.”

He didn’t bother looking back at the expression on Giordano’s face. He had seen his anger more than enough for a lifetime. A sick satisfaction trickled through him, making his smug little smile feel genuine for the first time tonight, soothing the coals of anger from being talked down to. It made it easier to ignore the eyes scanning for the commotion.

From then on, he had a blissful fifteen minutes free of further interaction. He finally forced himself to eat more than a bite, finding a nice cut of foie gras and savoring each taste. Just to be safe, after he finished eating he consumed one of the antidote pills Dr. Frosini had proscribed. From afar, he could see Vasco speaking and laughing along with the words of bishops and deacons. As the Florentine turned to address someone, however, Machete saw that Alonso was there as well. The Spaniard looked conspiratorial as he said something to Vasco, before both men laughed it off. Machete felt a vile kind of rage fill his chest, shaky hands holding up his glass of wine before he finished it and made himself turn away.

Pleasant but meaningless chatter occurred at him for a while after that. He spoke with the various other dignitaries in the court, offering assurances to some and substanceless statements to others. It was a fact of his position: The power was matched by the need to meet and greet others appointed to similar roles. It was tiring and it gave him a headache.

Unfortunately, it also exposed him to his enemies.

“Ah, if it isn’t the Machete himself! You’ve met, yes? I’ll be right back.” A familiar, cheery voice suddenly found itself in his ear, making him turn to see Alonso approaching, waving off Vasco behind him. Vasco gave Machete a warm smile before turning back to the others he was conversing with.

Machete had wanted to avoid Alonso if he could, hoping the Spanish ingrate would waste his time bowing and scraping to Vasco and others instead, but of course it seemed he sought Machete out. And, annoyingly, it seemed he had unwittingly been walking closer, gravitating to Vasco’s side.

“Eminence,” Machete acknowledged. “Why take time to speak with me? It seems your conversation with our guest was going well.”

“Oh, who would I be to not greet a good friend during festivities? Besides, I have to apologize for keeping him from you. After all, you two met the day he arrived, didn’t you?” He gave a devilish little smile. “It seems you were quite eager to speak with one another; I have to admit I’m curious as to what was so urgent. After all, it wouldn’t do for an ambassador to speak with you before being confirmed by His Holiness. One might think you were plotting.”

Machete flinched. How had Alonso found out about that? Vasco went alone straight to his home and then returned to his accommodations. It was late, so few should have seen it. And yet, it seemed he was found out. Denying it would be pointless and only make it more suspicious. “It was a personal matter. It holds no relevance to either of our offices.”

Alonso seemed to consider that for a moment, looking down into his glass as he swirled the wine inside of it. “Oh, well, if it was only a personal matter… I am sure that the ambassador of another nation and the head of the Secretariat of State trusting one another with personal affairs will not affect or bias things whatsoever.”

Suppressing a deep frown, Machete raged inwardly. Alonso had him here. He was anti-corruption, and yet here he was, dealing with a personal friend in matters of state. It wasn’t what it appeared to be, but he couldn’t exactly say the truth out loud, either. Not that Alonso would accept it if he did. He only had one tactic: “His Holiness trusts me to act with impartiality in matters of state. I would hope that is enough for you, along with my reassurance that it was nothing that involved our responsibilities.”

Alonso examined the nails on his free hand as Machete spoke, disinterested. “I see, I see. I will have to accept that. I will just have to keep an eye out for the Count; I had no idea you two were such close friends that you would disregard the rules so frivolously.” He looked back up, meeting Machete’s glare with a little smile. “Perhaps that nasty business with the attack two weeks ago has you both still shaken? I’ll have to console him, assure him you’ll be safe and that there’s certainly no danger to him.” He then stepped away without waiting for a further response.

This time, Machete did crack the wine glass.

Stalking away into the halls, abandoning the banquet early, Machete found himself in the offices of the Secretariat. Perhaps it was muscle memory that led him here, maybe the simple knowledge that they would be largely abandoned this afternoon, but it didn’t matter. All that did was that he had an office where he could safely collapse into a chair in private. Rarogne was off guarding the banquet hall with his fellows, assuming that his charge was still inside of it, so it was a rare moment where the mercenary wouldn’t be looking for him.

His work office in the Palazzo was much less grand than the one back home. The one at home was where he did the work of planning and writing correspondence, both personal and political, while the one here was for when he felt the need to personally attend matters for the purposes of proximity to the other arms of government, His Holiness himself, or the small army of men that was assigned beneath him, administrative functionaries that helped to manage and keep all details straight. According to its simple, functional nature, it was a much smaller and less grand space, with shelves of records rather than books and a desk more hewn than carved. Only a single painting adorned the walls, a scene of Saint Sebastian that Machete had particular fondness for. A memory tugged at the corner of his mind, of him and Vasco in Venice observing depictions of Sebastian, but he shook it off. Here, he could be comfortable and alone until he felt he could return to the banquet or, hopefully, Vasco discovered his hiding spot.

Of course, someone else found Machete first. When the door opened behind him, there was a moment of stabbing fear where he remembered he was unarmed and unguarded, with not a soul knowing where he was. He shot up to his feet only to see the concerned countenance of Deacon Piero Contarini.

“Your Eminence, are you alright? I saw you slip out after you spilled your wine…”

Machete did his best to hide the fear he had just felt, but still clearly looked shaken by the expression on the deacon’s face.

“Do not worry over me, I just needed to get away from the banquet for a few minutes,” Machete attempted to wave the concern away. “Just taking a moment to clean myself up.”

Piero nodded, but didn’t leave. The two men stared at each other for a few moments, before Piero broke the silence again: “Does it have to do with the Count? I have heard that you two met.”

Machete immediately glared at the deacon, advancing to his position, the sharp clack of heels filling the small room. “And just who did you hear that from, deacon?”

Piero raised his hands placatingly; the sheer venom in Machete’s voice surprised both of them. “It is just a rumor! I can investigate it for you if you would like, Eminence, but I suspect it first came from His Highness the Count’s entourage. The first men I heard speaking of this all dealt in catering and diplomatic travel accommodations.”

The cardinal’s harsh look did not waver. “Are you absolutely sure of this? Name names.”

“I could not right now, your Eminence, but with your leave to look into this…” He bowed.

Machete finally turned away, pacing back and forth about the room. Frustration reigned in him; if something like this leaked so quickly, what else could be getting out? If it was something from Vasco’s end it would be one thing, but if it was someone from his side telling of his comings and goings… If there was another assassin in the cards, he’d have a much easier time finding the cardinal with an inside source. Machete scratched at his face, unable to restrain the impulse, before turning eyes back to Piero in the dim light of dusk. The man had waited, still bowed.

“I will look into it myself, but if you could subtly find a source for these rumors…”

Piero nodded, straightening. “Understood, Your Eminence. I will endeavor to keep this as quiet as possible for you.”

Machete sank into a chair behind his desk, rubbing at his eyes. “You may go, then.” He heard the motion of Piero moving back and closing the door. After that, the cardinal gave up all pretense and sagged into the chair, cradling his head.

What in God’s name was happening? Who was telling everyone they could about Vasco? Did enemies of his or Florence exist here, or was it simple gossip? Worse than that was the thought that someone in Machete’s own household staff was telling someone else of his affairs. Perhaps it could only be about his visitors, but it could be much worse than that. He never noticed anything askance with his personal correspondences or his things, but that didn’t mean they weren’t being tampered with. If it was a person in his staff, they could let someone in past the guards, too. The idea was utterly confounding. He was sure he paid them well enough for their discretion; he didn’t even have that many, just enough to get by.

Then, he recalled the one person he hadn’t hired: Rarogne. Surely His Holiness didn’t have the time to personally select a mercenary, so who had selected him? Was it someone that had it out for him? Rarogne had tried to protect him from Vasco, but did that really mean anything if there is some sort of conspiracy afoot? After all, he had to maintain appearances in front of a guest that wasn’t in on it. On the other hand, if he wanted to kill Machete, they had been alone more than once. Perhaps he was there to only keep tabs, or to strike when the moment was right? Like after he had somehow implicated himself as being biased in political affairs. He shuddered with rage as he recalled Alonso’s taunting tone.

Whoever was involved in this must be paying extremely well to possibly tar the reputation of the Swiss Guards; they would torture Rarogne if he was guilty of this, rightfully so.

Machete would have to replace everyone. But what about poor Vittorio? That man would struggle to find work anywhere else, especially now that he had been tainted by association with Machete. Maybe he could pay to send him off for a few weeks, have him come back, see what happens? If he was betraying him, biting the hand that fed him, then he deserved much worse. But he had no proof! Nothing to go off of! And what if it was just gossip from Vasco or his men? That put him at risk, too, in this nest of vipers! There were too many vectors, too many unknowns, and he didn’t know who to trust. It could be almost anyone.

The taste of iron brought him from his reverie. His gloved hand was marked with rivulets of blood, nails having managed to claw through the thin supple leather and make a deep scratch in his cheek. Furious at this and the ruined glove, he yanked it off and tossed it into the corner of the room, leaving a trail of blood droplets trailing across the floor and down his face. He shot up from his desk and circled it a few times before he realized just how quickly he was breathing. He gripped the back of the chair, trying to steady himself, to calm down. He stood in the fading rays of twilight, glaring out at the world around him.

Machete would just have to wait and see what Piero found. Until then, he would have to be extremely careful. No words to his staff, no meetings with Vasco, just work and sleep. Perhaps he would personally hire a second guard to ensure his safety from the first. It was the only way to be safe.

“Good evening, Your Eminence, welcome h—Signore, your face!”

Vittorio was there first, of course, good man that he was. Supposedly. Machete just glanced down at him before he continued striding further into his home. “No need to worry, merely spilled a spot of good red. That will be all tonight, Vittorio.”

The other man fidgeted in place, clearly not believing that line about the wine. “If you say so, Eminence… But what about your meeting with His Highness the Count?”

“I said that would be all tonight. If he or a man of his comes, inform him that I will not be able to meet with him tonight.”

“Signore—”

Machete cut off Vittorio by sharply closing the bedroom door. He retrieved another pill of Dr. Frosini’s antidote and did his best to swallow it without drink before disrobing. He realized that he forgot his other glove at the Secretariat, but it was of no consequence. He would bathe, he would sleep, and tomorrow he would begin the work to keep Vasco safe.

None would touch him while Machete still drew breath.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

ANACRUSIS

“And it is through this obscurity that God challenges our minds. Reading Scripture is spiritually enlightening through one’s intellectual reasoning, as often meanings are obscured, and one has to interpret their meanings both literal and figurative. Take Matthew 10:16, talking about the wiseness of serpents; taken literally…” A sigh, before he trailed off. “Are you even listening, Vasco?”

The other student jumped. He had been slowly slouching further and further backwards in his seat, the flickering candlelight obscured just how open his eyes were. He yawned, adjusting his long ears. “Oh, definitely. You know how much I love the sound of your voice.” The smile was audible.

They sat across from one another in the attic of a small building in the Dorsoduro sestiere of Venice, rented from a mason while his sons were off in Verona. It was a small room with only a table, two chairs, and a bed with hardly enough room to stand between them, but it was theirs. Since they had met, since Vasco made the effort of reaching out to the bookish hound across from him, they had been living and working together since, with Machete helping him catch up as he had started his studies earlier. The waning moon shone through the lone open window they had, with only a single thin candle allowing them to read, both in their nightshirts as they cooled off from the hot summer’s day before.

Huffing, the target of Vasco’s flattery closed the book in his lap and tossed it onto the table. “This is basic stuff, you know. De doctrina Christiana is expected reading for an educated man, even if you’re not going into the church. I know it’s late—”

“Then let it be late. We have spent all day on this and my head is too full. As much as I enjoy hearing it, your voice is going through me like the breeze through our window.”

Machete tried to maintain his best stern look, tried to challenge the other man to rise to the task, but he could never say no to Vasco. He relented. “Alright, then, we can continue tomorrow. Don’t blame me if you cannot follow the lecture in the Scuola, though.”

Vasco sat up, leaning into the candlelight, dark eyes filled with as much mischief as light. “How about I educate you for a change, then? I know you are oh so disappointed you won’t teach your delinquent student a few more boring doctrines tonight,” he clutched at his heart dramatically, before turning back to looking conspiratorial: “But I can make up for it, tell you a few things about the world. What do you think?” Again, that grin! His voice! One hardly needed to look at Vasco to know how he felt, as every drop of emotion was conveyed through his words, but his smile must have been an infernal gift.

Resisting the urge to pull away and the instinctual feeling he was about to be mocked, Machete cautiously leaned in as well, until they were almost nose to nose. “What is it?” He was trying, making an earnest effort, to ‘enjoy the springtime of youth’ as Vasco put it.

“Have you heard of the Ufficiali di notte?”

Machete furrowed his brow in concentration. The Office of the Night sounded… euphemistic. Perhaps something to do with Augustus and his morality reforms?

“No, I haven’t,” he admitted before he spent far too long in thought.

“It was an arm of the government in Florence, abolished a while ago now. Their purpose? To root out the worst of all vices.” Vasco was now so close as to be almost whispering in Machete’s ears, the two men looking deep in one another’s eyes as the Florentine leaned over the table. He spoke conspiratorially, as if telling of a great and dangerous secret, but then stopped, prompting with a hand gesture.

“...Heresy?”

“No! It is something more wicked than that, more base, more… fun.” He then stood, and before Machete could protest, he circled the table, then pressed into and straddled his lap. His body obscured the light of the candle and moon, leaving Machete with only a silhouette. It leaned in, and Machete felt a kiss on his cheek, and then a hand raising his chin for a proper, deep kiss. A few moments later, Vasco pulled back, finishing with flourish: “Sodomy,” he breathed. “The love between man and man.”

Machete felt light, as if the only thing holding him to the chair was Vasco’s weight on his lap. His face was red, and he was glad Vasco couldn’t see it at that moment. “You’re just making this up to tease me,” he mumbled in protest.

“This grave sin is no joking matter, my friend. Do you have a suspect to report?” Vasco’s hands found Machete’s, interlacing their fingers before Vasco lightly pinned them to the wall behind him. “Perhaps we can make him repent. Or is he too far gone?” He paused, then laughed a little, a beautiful sound, so silky and rich and filled with simple delight that it made Machete shiver. Then, Vasco’s head glanced down. “It feels like you’re sinning right now.”

“V-Vasco!” Machete tried to stand, pressing up against Vasco, but the other man rooted himself in place. It only made the situation pressed between them all the more worse.

The Florentine leaned in, teeth lightly nibbling on an ear, before he pressed his head against Machete’s neck. “You’re so cute when you’re flustered.” Teeth met neck now, which urged a sharp gasp from Machete. “I would break that law a thousand times. Nothing could stop me from wanting this, from wanting you.”

“Vasco,” Machete repeated. His heart was in his throat now, his body running hot. He felt so nervous, so fearful, but he wanted Vasco in that moment more than he had ever wanted anything.

Biting again, hot breath over the other man’s neck, their bodies pressed tightly together. Vasco’s ears brushed over Machete’s shoulder as he leaned in close, his tail thumping against the table as Machete’s was pinned against the wall. They could easily feel each other’s arousal now through the thin layer of their nightshirts. It made Machete squirm, but the motion sent a little wave of pleasure through him, making the poor man gasp again. Vasco laughed, then pressed in again, letting go of Machete’s hands to grope along his body, to bite again, to press and grind their hips together. He tried and succeeded in getting Machete to moan. They were close now, a tangle of limbs, as intertwined as their fingers. Vasco shifted to whisper in Machete’s ear. His voice was deep, husky, sexy, as he asked:

“Do we still have any olive oil?”

The atmosphere of the moment broke, like a bubble of soap popping, in a way that made Machete laugh. First a giggle, then a full on laugh, in a way that made Vasco clearly very self conscious for a moment before he joined in. Then, they kissed again.
Machete smiled, then finally responded: “I think we do. Under the bed.”

“Good, good. But no more laughing at that, it’s a deadly serious matter, I tell you. You wouldn’t want to try this without it, I very well assure you.”

“From experience?”

“From experience, yes. Very painful experience.”

They giggled together again before disentangling from one another. They stood, stepping over towards the bed, Machete’s nervousness clearly growing by the moment. In reassurance, Vasco rested his head on Machete’s and sighed.

“I love you.”

Machete gave a nervous little smile before pulling Vasco down to the bed on top of him, hugging him close. “I love you, too. Forever and always, Vasco, I will love you.”

“I am sorry, Your Highness, but His Eminence is not taking any visitors right now,” Vittorio regretfully told Vasco, setting aside the Florentine’s mantle and brushing it off.

Together they stood in the foyer of Machete’s little villa, tantalizingly close to the study Vasco had been in just four days ago on the morning of the banquet. It was a beautifully decorated room, he could have commented about the interior design and the theming of the artwork all day, but he was very much not in the mood or mindset for that right now. Instead, Vasco glared down at the little man before him, restraining the urge to yell, as that would only make Vittorio clam up and be intimidated. Vasco took a deep breath and planted a hand on his shoulder.

“Vittorio—I may call you that, yes, my friend?” He smiled.

Vittorio nodded hesitantly, perhaps sensing what was ahead.

“Vittorio, what is going on? I spoke with—His Eminence,” Vasco caught himself, “and we agreed to meet after the banquet. That was days ago, and now I cannot find hide nor hair of him, either in a personal capacity or in my role as ambassador. I would go so far as to say he is avoiding me. So, that is why I ask: What the hell is going on?”

Those last words came out sharper than he intended. Vittorio flinched and wilted a little in Vasco’s gaze, so the Florentine turned away, stepping off to do a little pace about the room and give Vittorio the space to compose himself.

But the smaller man surprised him with sudden steel. Vittorio reached out, grabbing his shoulder and turning him back to face him again. The secretary gritted his teeth, forcing himself to look Vasco in the eye. He spoke softly, conspiratorially, as if he was saying something he shouldn’t:

“He trusts you, so I will tell you this: His Eminence is… not well. After he came back from the banquet, his face was bloodied, and he was cold, so very cold. He has barely spoken to any of us and only comes back here to sleep, if he even returns at all. Something happened, something that made him suspicious and…” He looked away. “Cruel, signore. I do not like to see him like this.” He finally stopped the spew of words, letting them loose as a broken dam its contents. He had clearly been holding them back for a while now, a clear pain evident in his face. His determination faltered a little, but he still shakily asked: “Can you speak to him? Please, signore. I saw the way he looked at you; he trusts you like no other.”

Stunned by the outburst, the usually timid man practically clawing at his shirt, Vasco held onto Vittorio’s shoulders to try and reassure him. “Calm down, good man, calm down. You have no reason to worry: I came here to see him, already unwilling to take no for an answer. If something is upsetting him, I will find out what it is and put an end to it. Understand?”

At that, Vittorio lost whatever infernal energy that animated him. Meekly nodding, he held onto Vasco’s hands for a moment, as if trying to borrow that strength and certainty. He was clearly very upset by whatever was happening with Machete, his brow furrowed in worry.

“Thank you, signore. I… I do not…” He trailed off, unable to vocalize the feeling he had.

Vasco gave him the same reassuring smile he had the day they met, slipping loose a hand to gently pat him on the cheek. “You’re a good man, Vittorio. You care a great deal about him, I can tell. Kings and lords would kill for a man so devoted to his master. Where is he now?”

Vittorio leaned into the hand for just a moment, listening to Vasco’s praise, before willing himself to pull away from Vasco’s grasp, looking a tad sheepish. His hands clutched each other as his tail swayed behind him. “Well. Not here, signore. As I said, His Eminence has been scarce here. I have heard from Deacon Contarini, who has come here a few times to retrieve documents for His Eminence, that he is spending his time at the Palazzo working.”

That name made Vasco immediately perk up. “Contarini? Piero Contarini?”

Vittorio nodded, then tilted his head, curious. “Yes, Piero Contarini. Have you met him?”

It was Vasco’s turn to furrow his brow, stepping away to think. There was a mirror near the door, perhaps to do one last self-examination before leaving, so Vasco looked over his own appearance as he reached deep into memory. “Yes, I have, before he became a man of the cloth. I was not even aware he had; last I spoke with him, he was studying to become a clerk and lamenting that he could not learn from the Fuggers in Augsburg. He’s a deacon and assistant to a cardinal now?”

“Deacon Contarini is His Eminence’s subordinate in their work at the Secretariat of State, yes. I cannot say I am aware of when his change in calling happened, just that he began working with His Eminence two years ago.” Hesitantly, he added: “I am unaware of His Eminence ever mentioning that he knew Deacon Contarini in his youth, signore.”

All Vasco could give was a hum of acknowledgement as he adjusted his outfit, straightening out a sleeve. Curious that Piero would end up here. Oddly enough, Machete seemed to trust him, at least enough to send him to retrieve documents. Vasco didn’t recall the two getting along in Venice; he doubted Machete would forget Piero entirely. Vasco would have to see what was happening himself. He pulled his mantle over his shoulders, fastening it about his neck. “Where is the Secretariat?”

Vasco cared little for the church, but he had to admit it spent its money well. The Palazzo del Quirinale was truly sublime. He envied Machete for a moment, getting to walk through the Giardini on the way to his work. The interior rooms were all gorgeous as well: some held large, grand carpets from abroad, others marble flooring, below walls that alternated between elaborate columned doorways and paintings by various masters. Above that were frescoes and portraits, presumably of saints or previous church fathers which Vasco did not care to recall. The ceiling did not disappoint either: Elaborate designs of gilded wood, depicting angels and crests between geometric coffered panels. Sometimes, these angels were small reliefs, embedded into the ceiling above as if in flight. It reminded him of the Sala dell'Udienza in the Vecchio in Florence, but on a much grander scale.

Vasco shouldn’t have been admiring artwork, but he had to walk past it either way, and it soothed his soul. He needed that in this moment, a small bit of tranquility before he tried to fix what had happened.

The Secretariat, or at least where Machete himself worked, was in a much less elaborate part of the Palazzo. Grand rooms turned into corridors, still finely carved in rich wood, with large windows into the Giardini on one end and various rooms on the other. One led to Machete’s office. He was concerned for a few moments that he’d be lost in a sea of doors before he saw Maurice Rarogne standing in front of one.

The Swiss looked utterly exhausted, unsteady on his feet even as he leaned on his halberd. Unlike before he wore full armor, only adding to his weighed down look. It seemed as if it took every iota of his will to stay standing. Despite that, he still managed a sloppy salute as Vasco approached.

“Good morning, Your Highness the Ambassador,” he mumbled.

“Good morning? Doesn’t seem the case for you, my friend.” Vasco moved closer to the Swiss, slipping under and supporting his free arm. “What has gotten you so tired?”

“I don't need your assistance, Highness,” Maurice tried to maneuver out of the Florentine’s grasp, but he quickly saw Vasco wouldn’t be so easily dissuaded. He sighed and let himself sag a little. Vasco could see Maurice’s knees buckle for just a moment before he forced himself to stand again. “I have been at my post guarding His Eminence’s office for…” Maurice trailed off, eyes screwing tight in concentration. He thought for a concerningly long time. “Since some time yesterday, Highness.”

“What?” Vasco was so shocked he couldn’t contain that immediate outburst. “By his orders?”

The Swiss didn’t respond, but that was answer enough.

What in hell had gotten into Machete? This was torture. Vittorio was right; something was wrong, something bad enough to make him petty and cruel. Vasco could recall the first time they met, when he had tried to comfort that poor boy that had just had a stone thrown at him: There was a deep, animal fear in those eyes, the type that would lash out and hurt others and himself if he thought it would keep him safe. Now, it was even worse that he had absolute power over someone like Maurice or Vittorio. Something had scared Machete deeply. Vasco had to find out what the source of that fear was and why he was being pushed away so suddenly and completely.

First things first, though. He patted the Swiss sympathetically on the back, trying to lower him: “Here, good man, sit down. This is cruel treatment to you; I will speak to him about it. And call me Vasco,” he interrupted Maurice.

“Vasco,” Maurice grunted, pulling away sharply from the Florentine. “If I sit, Vasco, I will pass out. Leave me be. He has been a reasonable man these past few weeks, reason will return to him.”

By the sudden frown on Maurice’s face, Vasco didn’t hide his reaction to that well enough. He shook his head. “Then I will speak with him and get him to let you go. Stand aside, good man.”

Maurice did not budge. “I apologize, Signore Vasco, but I have been specifically told not to allow you in.”

“What?” Again, Vasco couldn’t contain himself, a flush of anger rising with his features. “I don’t care what your orders are, man, you are being tortured. Let me talk some damn sense into him!” He raised his voice, which was a definite violation of decorum, but he didn’t care. Something was happening, and he would find and kill the little weasel responsible for it.

When Maurice did not respond or move, just held tight onto his halberd, Vasco stood back just enough to draw his blade without bothering with a flourish. “I am serious. Stand aside.”

The door opening behind Maurice interrupted whatever was about to happen. Vasco’s heart soared for a moment, hoping this was the end of the entire farce—only to see the visage of Piero Contarini, now a full man, smiling at him as he slipped out from behind the Swiss. “Your Illustrious Highness, we weren’t expecting you today! I was just coming out to send Signore Rarogne on his way. And may I say, Vasco, it is very good to see you again after so long?”

Vasco did not humor the Venetian’s compliment. “Piero, let me speak with him,” he pivoted, pointing the blade at the other man. Piero raised his hands slightly. “Something is wrong.”

“His Eminence the Secretary? He is not here right now; he is meeting with His Holiness, briefing him on some affair of state, I believe. So, please put that away?”

Machete wasn’t here? He glanced over at Rarogne, who was stone faced, unsuccessfully trying to see if that was new information for him as well. Then, reluctantly, Vasco complied, trying to ignore the few heads that began to poke out of doorways or from further down the corridor. He sheathed the blade but kept his hand on the hilt. “Very well. But you will escort me there; I must speak with him as soon as he is done.”

Piero grimaced. “I am… unsure of how long that will be, as that meeting has already gone on longer than expected. I can tell him that you were here and he can catch up with you?”

“No, Piero,” Vasco grit his teeth, insistent. “I must speak with him immediately.”

The deacon gave a bureaucrat’s frustrated little sigh, then nodded along. “Fine, fine. I will take you to a room outside of His Holiness’s apartments and you can try to intercept him there. Follow me.” He paused, and then looked to Maurice. “You’re free to go, Signore Rarogne.”

Maurice nearly collapsed right then and there. He tried to keep a brave face, even giving a shaky little bow. It seemed he might topple over any moment. “Thank you, Father.”

Vasco couldn’t help himself. Turning away from Piero for just a moment, he put his hands on the Swiss’s shoulders, holding him steady. “You’re a good, dutiful man, Maurice Rarogne. Don’t worry about formalities; get some rest. I will take care of whatever is going wrong, okay?”

Leaning in to the touch to take the weight off of his feet for just a moment, Maurice gave a deeply exhausted nod. “Please do, si—Vasco. Now… Please excuse me.” He pulled himself away, then stumbled off as Vasco gave him a concerned look.

Piero waited for him, hands politely crossed at his front. He strode off as Vasco followed. “Like I said, it is genuinely good to see you again, Vasco. What has it been, twelve years? More?”

“Something like that.” He wasn’t in a particular mood for small talk or credentials building, but it seemed the Venetian would not be letting him go without taking his pound of flesh.

“Yes, indeed, something like that,” Piero let the dismissal flow over him like water, humming before turning back to him with a sheepish little smile that belied his serious features. “While you are here in Rome, would you like to spend some time catching up? I know of some great places to go, good establishments away from the stink of the Tiber.”

Vasco gave Piero a look. A date? If anyone in Rome knew of his relationship with Machete, it’d be Piero. The two didn’t exactly advertise, but he didn’t remember being particularly subtle either, canoodling the moment they were out of class to Machete’s frustration and delight. Was Piero hoping that it was a total coincidence that Vasco was here to meet with Machete? Or did he sincerely think he could sweep Vasco off his feet just like that?

Still, best not to create any further trouble. Vasco could let him down easy after this entire mess was solved; he flashed the other man a little smile. “I’ll have to take you up on that at some point.”

That seemed to mollify the Venetian. He returned the smile, then continued to lead Vasco about, passing through halls of beauty with a casualness bred of familiarity.

“It has been odd,” Piero mused, breaking the silence again. “His Eminence has been…” he trailed off.

Vasco restrained the urge to sigh with annoyance. “Has been what, Piero?”

“Well, I cannot entirely say what. Not his usual self, certainly. I had no idea how long he intended to keep poor Signore Rarogne out there. I took the opportunity to send the poor man home, as it seems he’s just as prideful as our mutual friend. Perhaps Machete thinks Rarogne slighted him in some way?”

“Machete? Is that what you call His Eminence behind his back, deacon?” Vasco stopped, making Piero turn around and look him in the eye.

He shifted uncomfortably. “No, not usually,” he insisted. “I am sorry, it is just… a nickname he has acquired here. It simply came to mind with all of the things happening. Surely you understand,” he tried to laugh it off.

Vasco stared. “Do I?”

Piero saw he wouldn’t win here. He gave a placating and nervous smile before beginning to step forward again awkwardly. “Let us move on.”

“Hm.” Vasco had heard the name before and he didn’t like it. It seemed cruel to compare the man to such an instrument of base work, useful for little beyond hacking through a thicket. It showed both a sneering derision for his origin and how he worked.

“Regardless of all that, I think something happened after the banquet. His Eminence was different after that night. Did you see him speaking with anyone?”

Vasco hummed again noncommittally. They moved the rest of the way in silence.

Before long they went up the Scala d'Onore, a grand and carpeted staircase that turns part way through to allow views of both the Cortile and the Giardini. Above were the reception rooms and the Papal Apartments. Vasco had yet to go to this floor; his reception was in the throne room, which was on the opposite end of the Scala. When they reached the apex, crowned by a fresco of the Holy Spirit, there were two armored guards who stood in front of the doors until Vasco set aside his blade and demonstrated he had no hidden stilettos or other weapons.

There, Piero finally brought him to a small room overlooking the Giardini with large windows, open to allow the breeze in and a vaulted ceiling, with the coat of arms of the Pope surrounded by depictions of figures that Vasco didn’t recognize and stucco lining with eagles in the corner. A couch sat opposite the windows, flanked by vases of porcelain on elaborately carved bases depicting another coat of arms. He recognized, with just a touch of homesick delight, a marble table in front of the couch in the octagonal Florentine style. There was also a masterful painting of a beautiful young man which he immediately recognized as John the Baptist by the nude form given dignity only by furs.

He was not alone there: a woman and an elderly man waited as well. Vasco glanced aside to Piero.

“You are not the only one waiting for the presence of His Eminence,” the deacon responded apologetically. “It seems his work has been piling up. I have been helping him catch up all day. Speaking of, I must return to work. I hope you get your conversation with him.” He moved to leave, then lingered, looking back at Vasco. “Consider that offer, please. I am not sure how long you will be here.”

Vasco gave him a polite nod and then waved him off, turning into the room and looking at his fellow supplicants. The woman wore her wealth well, a voluminous formal dress adorned with jewelry. She was also surprisingly tall, just a handbreadth shorter than Vasco, if that. Her stocky frame and white fur reminded him of Rarogne, though she was a bit softer around the eyes, adorned with dark liner and shadow. Perhaps she was from the Maremma? She didn’t strike him as a buttero. She stood at the window, leaning out, examining the Giardini with a well-practiced, theatrical sigh after she glanced at him.

The other occupant was an old man who marched towards him as soon as he noticed Vasco.

“You! What did you do to him?” The old man’s voice was gruff.

“Pardon?” Vasco was taken aback; he certainly didn’t recognize the old man, though he could tell he was a priest of some sort by the cassock. Dark of fur, now getting lighter with age, he clearly used to be a large man and still walked as if he was one.

“You know damn well who I’m talking about, you prancing finocchio.” Both Vasco and the woman started at that. “First you infected him with your Florentine ‘virtues’ in Venice, and after years of setting him back into place, you show up again for one night in Rome and he becomes a little demon. He shirks his work, he disrespects his elders, he spends all day slinking about the palazzo like a common thief! So, I’ll ask again: What did you do to him?”

The control that Vasco showed in that moment should have been grounds for a beatitude on its own. Alas, the Pope was a few rooms away.

Vasco did his best to smile at the onslaught, putting on his most polite and understanding look. “Ah, so you must be His Eminence’s mentor that he spoke of so fondly. I am afraid I do not know what you are referring to, Father, as he and I have hardly had contact since arriving. I could not have inflicted him with more Florentine virtues any more than you could have taught him proper manners.”

A flash of anger went through the old man’s eyes as his fists tightened. After a few moments of tense silence, however, he did nothing. Either he realized assaulting an ambassador was a step too far or he did not enjoy the prospects of what came after slapping a man forty years his junior. So, he glared pointedly, still disbelieving.

“Whatever you did to him, whatever happened to him, is making his standing even worse. The little fool is so caught up in whatever tizzy he is in that he does not realize other people are watching him. Waiting to strike in a moment of weakness. And let me tell you, he looks very weak right now; he is chasing shadows.” He prodded Vasco sharply in the chest. “Either leave him alone or clean whatever mess you made with him. I know you met with him before the banquet; your impropriety kn—”

“What? You know what?” Vasco cut off the older man, taking advantage of his height to loom over him, holding his shoulder to keep him in place. “Where did you hear that?” he demanded.

Now it was the old man’s time to smile, a devious and ugly expression that could only come from a place of enjoying power over others. “Everyone has heard it. Couldn’t contain yourselves, could you?” His voice was taunting now.

Vasco’s grip tightened. “Who did you hear it from, old man?” He yanked him closer to the window by a step, which both amused and concerned the woman who had been watching this entire exchange.

“Is that meant to be a threat? Hah. Calm down, boy, before the Guards see you and kick you crying from Rome. Wouldn’t want to see you exiled from your den of iniquity in Tuscany.”

Vasco glared, then let go, stepping away to adjust his ears with a flourish of his hands. “If you speak ill of him again, then I do not mind the exile, you old devil. I would be honored as a great knight for slaying a beast like you.” He tilted his head back, giving a hard stare. “I swear whatever is causing this behavior is not me. I am trying to help him.”

The old man still looked at him with derision. He relented with a grunt. “See that you do. He’ll listen to you, the little fool.” He stomped out of the room and returned the way Vasco had come.

The silence in the room was now palpable. Vasco tried not to look back at the woman, regaining his composure as he examined the painting further. The old man had heard of Vasco and Machete’s meeting? Even Vasco’s own staff had no idea; he had left them in the dark about this for this very reason. Someone in Machete’s household was leaking information; either that, or someone had seen him leaving, which he just couldn’t believe. Vasco was an expert at leaving the households of other men unseen, after all.

Perhaps this was what had Machete so upset? Someone was spying on him and he found out about it somehow, leading him to cut everyone else away. Perhaps he was angling to avoid another assassin, like the one that came a few weeks before?

“So, do you always enter a room that bombastically, signore?”

Vasco jumped, before turning to the woman with a sheepish little look. “Only when demons lurk in them, signora. Who do I have the honor of addressing?”

The woman gave a brief curtsy. “The Countess Madalena de Cavalcante, visiting from her holdings further afield in Lazio.”

Vasco bowed in return, before kissing her offered hand as is customary. He then gave her his own name and titles, stepping away with the proper flourish. “It is a shame my good wife isn’t here, she would have loved to meet you,” Vasco offered with a gentlemanly smile.

Madalena took the hint with a theatrical huff, fanning her face. “I am sure I would have loved her as well,” she demurred, before looking back at him. “Well, it seems you already know His Eminence the Secretary. I would ask why you had to wait, but…”

Vasco sighed, letting the façade crack. “Yes, some people are very indiscreet,” he stated, annoyed. “I am supposed to be meeting him, much like you are I imagine, but something has… happened to him. I aim to solve it tonight, so perhaps you will have your meeting soon.”

“One can hope. A cardinal was admitted into there earlier, so perhaps it will be tonight.”
“A cardinal? One that isn’t His Eminence the Secretary?”

She nodded. “I didn’t get to speak with him, so I am not sure why. It was when I first arrived, Lord knows how long ago.”

“Hm. Curious.”

“Why? Two cardinals meeting with His Holiness seems wholly normal to me. Perhaps related to your friend’s… unwellness?”

“Oh, who can say? We will just have to wait, won’t we, signora?”

She hummed in acknowledgment.

They waited, alternating between further small talk and silence while examining the art and craftwork of the room. It turned out that she was in vassalage to the Pope in his role as a secular prince and had been arguing back and forth with Machete about some trouble with the city of Castro when the missives suddenly stopped. She was here to plead her case, evidently, perhaps taking advantage of the trouble to petition His Holiness directly for assistance.

After what felt like ages, the grand doors finally opened, a procession spilling out and heading towards the Scala. A good few cardinals were first, some of which Vasco had met at the banquet. They murmured conspiratorially to one another. Two servants helped a very elderly cardinal down the stairs after them. Vasco quickly stood, rushing to be amongst the crowd, scanning it, but he did not see Machete among their number.

Until he strode out on his own, last and alone, clearly furious as the doors to the apartments proper were closed behind him. Today, he fully looked the part of his office, in a formal look with cassock, fascia, and ferraiolo. The only thing that distracted from the stately image was his clearly evident anger, though he was trying to compose himself, adjusting his fur.

And then he saw Vasco nearly running toward him, and the little amount of color he had on his face drained.

Vasco frowned as he reached him, the two men standing close again. Despite their years of intimacy, Vasco could feel something between them now in a way he hadn’t a few days before. “Eminence.”

“Your Highness,” Machete responded tersely, his eyes darting to the departing cardinals before looking back. Some had noticed Vasco’s presence.

“What are you doing, my friend?” Vasco pleaded, taking a step closer and reaching for Machete’s hand, which immediately retreated and went to his face. “You have been avoiding me and your work for days now. Tell me, what happened? I am sure I can help, I just need to know what is wrong!”

Machete took a step back, looking as if he wanted to simply run away. “It is dangerous here, Vasco. Could you not have taken the hint and stayed out of this nest of vipers? I am trying to ensure your safety—”

“My safety? You’re endangering everything you’ve built for my safety? Did you forget that you were the one who was nearly killed not even a month ago?”

“Yes, and they would kill you to get to me. There are spies, Vasco, and they are little snakes looking for any advantage they can get. I have to clear them out, what do you not get about this? That is why you must go—”

“I am not going anywhere until we can speak of this in private.” Vasco folded his arms over his chest, looking his most stubborn.

In response, Machete glared, then faltered for a moment, looking confused and unsure and panicked. He nearly said something several times, opening his closing his mouth, before he decided on something. With a look of steely determination, he marched past Vasco.

“Countess Cavalcante? I will be able to speak with you now, my deepest apologies for the delay.”

Madalena emerged from the room they had waited in, looking between the two men as she took a place walking next to the cardinal.

Confused, Vasco began to follow, before Machete turned to the two Swiss Guards at the top of the stairs. “Will you two please escort the Count out of the Palazzo? He seems lost.” Escorting the countess, he continued down the stairs in a hurried pace.

Running forward, all the Florentine could do was yell after Machete. “What are you doing? Wait! Wait, come back!” Vasco glared at the two Guards as they grabbed at his arms, holding him.

Machete did not look back, though he looked agonized by it. Madalena did, before turning back to Machete and saying something before they vanished around a corner.

Vasco tried to wrench his arms free of the two Guards, but quickly found he could not escape their grasp. He stopped his struggle with a sigh of deep emotion, a mix of both indignant fury and despair, his eyes stinging as he looked at the floor. He couldn’t wipe the frustrated tears from his eyes as they held his arms, beginning to manhandle him down the stairs and out of the Palazzo.

“Oh, dear. Let that man go, you two,” a soft, elderly voice called from behind, as the Pope emerged from his chambers. The Guards glanced at each other before they relented and let Vasco go, the elderly man placing his hands on Vasco’s face. “What was that commotion with my cardinal, my son?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

OBBLIGATO

The meeting with the countess went well. Machete apologized for his delay in seeing her, as there had been some trouble around the palazzo he had been attending to, and then addressed each and every one of her questions about the affair with the city of Castro. He informed her of what she should be aware of going forward with His Holiness’s policy intentions, and also updated her on his health and the goings on in Rome. Alas, a meeting this simple could not go as perfectly and smoothly as he’d like.

The two of them were in his office in the Secretariat, seated across from one another. The retreating sun’s light fell across his back, hopefully adding to his stately image to contrast to his very frantic morning. He could tell she was just a bit disappointed that her grand look was confined to this very practical and very private room, but still worked with him in these matters of state. He appreciated her ability to get down to business; after all, she could always reuse it in a gala or reception before she left. Most of His Holiness’s subjects require delicate handling and perform a lot of preening before they are willing to do the business of administering a state. All in all, it was a pleasant and efficient meeting. Then, she brought up the one question he hoped she wouldn’t ask:

“Your Eminence, there is one last thing I must ask of you. While waiting for you and that little conclave upstairs, I spoke with Count—”

“That is a personal matter.” Machete’s interjection was sharper than he had intended, as Madalena was visibly taken aback. He restrained the urge to frown, speaking evenly and flatly while trying to keep himself composed. “The good ambassador from Florence was a personal friend when we were both students. He believes that grants him influence over how I comport myself in matters of security. Please forgive him for his outburst, as he is a good man, but perhaps overly concerned over others.”

Machete did not have Vasco’s easy charisma, the unerring way he found the exact expression or idiom or little joke that would comfort or assure or do whatever the situation called for, but the cardinal had worked in politics in general and diplomacy in particular long enough to add on a reassuring smile when it was needed. It indicated the sort of warmth and fondness that made the entire disagreement less fraught than it may have appeared from the outside. Machete just tried not to think of practicing looks in the mirror in Venice while Vasco laughed at him.

Countess de Cavalcante considered Machete for a moment. Her dark eyes were piercing and intense, as if she could glare at him hard enough to pierce a veil of deceit. Then, she relented. “Well, I suppose it’s none of my concern. I happened to speak with the Count while waiting; he seemed very concerned for you, Your Eminence.” She shifted, her hands crossing over one another in her lap, her long and open cut sleeves overflowing to her sides, looking past him to something else. “That kind of devotion is rare, you know. I am sure you know to cultivate it where you find it.”

His affected smile bled away into a deep frown. Calmly, carefully, his hands smoothed back some of his errant fur while she looked away, not at all quivering with the growing fury he felt at her repeated prying into his personal affairs, he hoped. When her gaze returned to his when he didn’t reply, he smiled again, baring his teeth. “Is there anything else I could help you with, Your Illustrious Highness? Or are your instructions understood?”

Sensing the dismissal, the countess stood and gave him a brief curtsy. “Completely, Eminence. Good day and good health to you.” Piero opened the door from the outside and bowed to her as she left, her dark dress flowing elegantly behind her.

Machete managed to maintain his composure for about half a minute after the door closed, before his forced smile turned into an open, furious snarl. He resisted the urge to slam his fists on his desk, standing to pace and glare at every little odd and end of the room that offended him.

How dare she? Impertinent little country countess, only here because her father had a heart attack before he could have more than a daughter. She couldn’t just stick to her affairs? She just had to stick her nose where it was wanted least, picking right at the scab that bothered him most in the moment. It made him remember trying not to look Vasco in the eye as he walked away. Shame and fury came to him in equal measure, no matter how hard he tried to tamp it down. The effort only made the anger burn all the hotter.

Unable to stop himself from doing something with his hands, he began to pull his various books of records and throw them not at all gently to his desk. The covers clacked against the desk and one another as they fell, some opening and spilling loose contents, letters and records and treaties once organized mixing in with one another. Emptying his meticulously organized shelves one by one, Machete grit his teeth. He refused to entertain the thoughts of regret and worry and anger at himself for pushing away Vasco. No, it was everyone prying into his affairs that caused this. They put Vasco into danger in the first place, ensuring that they would aim at him instead of their true target. If only he could find out who it really was. If only Vasco would listen and just stay safe.

He just needed a little longer to find out who was behind this. Then everything would be alright and he could spend time with Vasco once more. Once he removed every threat, every viper sneaking around Rome that wanted to kill or hurt Vasco, Machete could relax. It was just that simple. Why didn’t Vasco understand? Danger lingered in these halls that he so casually strutted about.

Before long, a pile of sensitive materials splayed out across his desk and scattered about the floor, leaving him hunched over the empty shelves. He took deep, wracking breaths as he attempted to calm down and banish the swirling cavalcade of fears and furies.

Everything seized up at once as he heard the gentle rapping at the door as Piero let himself in. Illuminated by the setting sun, his vision focused on the silhouette of the cardinal and pointedly did not look at the mess. He gave a shallow bow.

The cardinal glared at the deacon for entering unbidden and finding his superior in such a compromised state. Not only was it personally embarrassing, it could feed the rumors. If Machete heard anything about this after tonight, he would personally attend the man’s stake.

“What is it?” The cardinal hissed.

“I only wished to remind Your Eminence that it is late and that he should head home before it is too dark.” He then paused, steeling himself before giving the bad news: “Your attendant guard has gone home and I am not sure if I could find another on such short notice.”

Now that Piero said it, that Swiss was nowhere to be seen when Machete returned to his office with the countess. Another little rush of anger at being abandoned surged, but he firmly stamped it down, refusing to further break his composure in front of Piero. Machete sighed, running his hands over his face, enjoying the supple feeling of the leather over his fur.

“Just who saw fit to dismiss my only guard, deacon?”

Piero clasped his hands over one another. “Well, when Your Eminence was in the audience with His Holiness, we here received a visit from the ambassador from Florence—”

“Vasco?” Machete cut Piero off, marching across the office, looming over to look him in the eyes. “Are you implying Vasco came here and sent my guard away, and the fool obeyed?”

Piero met the cardinal’s eye with the same unflappable nature that made Machete recruit him in the first place. “Not implying, Eminence.”

A thousand conflicting feelings blossomed at once. Machete held the gaze despite that, managing a sharp “What happened?”

“The count was already speaking to Signore Rarogne when I noticed and left the office to investigate. Something about you inflicting cruel and unreasonable treatment upon him, I believe. The count urged him to go home; I said that you were busy in the audience, that this could wait, but His Highness insisted.” He paused, sharply breathing in. “Then, after Rarogne left, the count bade me bring him to you, again not accepting that you were busy. I did not wish to cause any more of a scene than the count already had, as this all took place outside of your offices in the hallways, so I agreed. I apologize on behalf of Signore Rarogne and myself for accepting his orders, Eminence.”

Machete stared, unsure at how to feel about any of this. Vasco was certainly forceful about getting to him, which was nice in its own way, but everything else… Dismissing his guard and dragging his subordinate away from his work? A tinge of fear touched his heart with icy long fingers, caressing him with a thought of Vasco being involved. That was impossible, so impossible to even conceive of that he couldn’t accept it. The Lord could not be so cruel as to inflict that test upon him. No, Vasco was just overzealous about sticking his snout where it didn’t belong. He can’t entertain suspicion of him. Simply cannot.

Machete shook his head, realizing just how long he had let that silence linger. He ignored the itch on his cheek as he spoke: “I see. Nothing to be done about it now. I will be heading home, then; I need time to think.” He couldn’t help but curse how much more frail he sounded then.

Piero perked up. “Would you like me to walk with you, Eminence?”

Machete waved him away, turning back to collect himself and trying to ignore the mess much as Piero had. “You are dismissed.”

From behind, he could hear the other man step away and gently close the door behind him. Returning to his desk, he felt weary instead of angry, confusion instead of clarity. The mess made that even worse, a sharp sense of self loathing manifesting for losing control like that. It was juvenile and it only created more work for himself. Foolish behavior for an utter fool like himself, unable to find and root out the source of his problems. For all his efforts, was he just a boy play-acting at power, a fragile little thing that would wilt on the first day of cold? When he finally managed to pull himself away, Machete saw what caught the countess’s eye earlier: The painting of Saint Sebastian. Even this which he had adored now inspired complicated feelings.

Machete brushed his fingers over its surface, feeling the irregular peaks and valleys, the weight of dried oils on canvas. He thought of the hours it took to paint even this small work, the time spent carefully maneuvering brushes to carve detail from blobs and lumps of color, the ages spent learning to reproduce this image. And yet, despite all that effort, the fruit of ten thousand hours was fragile canvas on wood.

The night cooled the world around him. For years he had returned home in these twilight hours, but this was the first time he had done so in a month. Before today, he returned earlier in the day with Maurice, feeling safe and protected as the crowd split around him. Now he was alone and in the dark again. What used to be a reprieve from painfully bright light now felt unsafe. Every soul that ambled past could be someone that wanted to harm him, the final actor in a drama that had been unfolding for weeks. He had been lucky with the first assailant; the first and only slash he made just tore at Machete’s vestments before the cardinal managed to turn the tide with his own stiletto. He did not dare assume that the next assailant would be so feeble.

Fear kept his eyes constantly moving, scanning over anyone that got too close and some that stayed far for good measure. It occupied almost every thought, which was both a blessing and a curse. Every time a thought of Vasco drifted past, it filled him with equal parts anger and shame. Now, though, Machete didn’t have time for self-pity: He had to be careful, had to keep himself alive.

The city in the evening wasn’t a pleasant place at the best of times. Rome was thought of across Europe as the Eternal City, visited by tourists coming to see the best works of classical antiquity besides the greatest works of the modern age, but they rarely put a thought to the sea of the mundane between monuments. Machete forded those turbulent waters every day, only taking carriage when his constitution was at its worst; he regretted not doing it this morning. Now, he had to cut through narrow streets, past and with the average citizens of this ancient city. The crowded buildings seemed to loom and lean over him, leering down as they blocked the last remaining dim light of the evening.

All manner of men walked all ways: patricians and masons, functionaries and builders, priests and paupers. It did not bring him any comfort seeing the variety of costume and wealth on display. Machete couldn’t keep his distance from everyone, as there were no islands in this river of flesh, and every brush of a body against his made him jump. He fell down a deep well of fear that seemed like it would never end, swallowing his whole person. His hand itched to rest on the stiletto he kept on him, itched nearly as bad as his cheek, but he ignored both.

By the time he neared his home, the night had truly set in. The street was still crowded with others returning home, but not as choked as it had been when he left, which was a small relief. Candles burned in windows and a crescent moon hung in the sky, only barely illuminating the buildings around him. Thankfully, he knew his route well, and Vittorio always kept a candle burning in the front-facing windows of his home when Machete came in late. He was getting close now, so he straightened out of his slouch, trying to spot his candle.

It saved his life.

The sudden stab from his right side tore through his cassock and pierced his torso, just under his ribs. The sudden spray of blood ejected by the tip of the blade hit an older woman, who screamed as she was covered in spatter. The first thing Machete saw was his blood on a shocked face; the second, after looking down, was the tip of a blade poking out of him, just above his stomach. Then, all at once, the pain hit him and made him collapse to his knees as he joined the woman in crying out.

Machete could just barely feel the blade being jostled beneath the pain, the assailant seemingly trying to pull it back and get in a better thrust before Machete fell, but he let go before he got enough purchase as the cardinal collapsed. There was commotion all around him and people running away from and towards him. Machete had no idea what was happening; it was all he could do to hold himself up on his hands and knees, one hand reaching to his side and feeling a sickeningly hot dampness.

Being battered by the crowd as they tried to scamper away from the sudden burst of violence didn’t help, nor did the sight of his own blood dripping down onto the paving stones. He tried to stand, but fell back to his knees, as chattering voices surrounded him, a few calling out “Oh Father, oh Father,” as they must have seen his cassock. Or were they just praying?

Machete tried to look back, to see where his assailant was, but he couldn’t even do that. He waited anywhere between an instant and ten thousand lifetimes, his voice already hoarse from crying out in shock and pain as he clutched at his side.

Oh, Vasco. Their last words were so ugly. That, more than the sheer shocking white pain, veiled his eyes in tears.

Someone parted the crowd and laid hands on him, trying to pull him to his feet. Leaning on this other person, clutching at their clothing to stay upright, Machete’s vision swam too much to see who it was just yet. He could hear a familiar voice but not recognize it or its words. He realized he was still yelling too.

Another set of arms helped him steady, and Machete was urged forward. He dragged his feet along as he was moved, only barely standing. Looking down again, he could see that it was Vittorio making a valiant effort to pull him along, moving him into his house, seemingly talking to someone else.

The last thing he recalled was being deposited on a couch in his foyer and worrying about it staining from the blood.

“You’re very lucky, Eminence. Your attacker missed stabbing this into your intestines and stomach by a flick of the wrist. From what I can tell, it pierced your flesh, scraped your rib, and then exited. The blade itself did no significant damage to your organs or you would be dead by now, most likely. I believe it missed a kidney by about two or three fingerbreadths.”

Dr. Matteo Frosini set aside the would-be murder weapon as he peered down at the cardinal through his glasses. He examined the wound again, perhaps ensuring he had not missed some other sign of possible ill health. He then rewrapped the cardinal’s midsection in bandages, white that would be lost in white fur if it weren’t for the slight spots of red.

For his part, Machete had spent every waking moment in sharp pain. He had passed out from exemia, he had been told, and stayed that way when he was initially attended to by a nearby surgeon to stop the worst of his bleeding via suture. By then, however, it was the dead of night, and it would take until morning to get further treatment for the cardinal. He was awake, left suffering in the foyer from the wound itself and the rough, quick treatment to keep him from exsanguinating. He endured that for what felt like the longest night in his life.

Thankfully, Frosini, his personal physician, happened to be in Rome, caught just before a trip back to his native Florence. He came with a coterie of other physicians in the morning. He worked with them in examining Machete, keeping them informed of his regular treatment regimen. The cardinal had been going through his regular bloodletting in the past few weeks, so even the relatively small amount of blood loss from a stabbing wound that missed major arteries could be life threatening.

Machete absorbed what he could of this, but was very much focused on the rippling pain from even the tiniest motion of breathing. From the scraped bone, Frosini so calmly explained.

Back in the moment, under the morning sun, Machete had woken from a short sleep from sheer exhaustion to Frosini examining him for necrosis of the flesh, whereupon he had explained his patient’s condition to him.

“I am hoping there will be no need for debridement; it is a relatively clean and neat wound. Your would-be assassin was very considerate, all things considered,” Frosini laughed.

If Machete were not already gritting his teeth and glaring, he would make his displeasure known.

“No concerns?” Machete was reduced to shallow breaths and clipped speech for now, a frustrating limitation.

“Well, while there are certainly negative developments that could happen from here, Eminence, I’d say this is about the best case scenario for being stabbed. Narrowly missing organs, no major internal bleeding, and small entry and exit wounds. I suspect your assassin was incompetent or you shifted in some way that made him miss. Protection from our Lord and Savior, perhaps.”

“Forgive me for not feeling the same enthusiasm,” Machete managed between sharp hisses of pain.

“It is the patient’s lot in life to feel concern where the physician finds joy,” Frosini smiled as he adjusted his spectacles. “Not that I am joyful at this happening, of course, merely your prognosis. I think you will recover from this, though we will still have to treat your wounds to prevent infection. We’ll have you saying your hosannas yet.” Frosini gave a reassuring pat to his patient’s shoulder.

Machete remained in the company of doctors for the rest of the day. Moved to his bed, he was given undiluted wine to help dull his senses enough for sleep. Later in the day, he was visited by men sent by the Pope and learned from the texts of Paracelsus and Paré, leaving him the subject of medical debate over the next step of treatment. It was frustrating even while inhibited, as it kept him from truly resting, creating new anxieties over possible complications from treatments. A Paracelsian suggested the famed physician’s concoction of laudanum, while others suggested limited leeching at the wound sites for their numbing properties and to ensure the blood did not pool. After what felt like hours of discussion on this topic, Machete managed to gather what strength he had to tell them to debate the topic in his office instead of his bedroom. Eventually, the treatment course was decided: very limited leeching followed by application of wine-soaked bandages, along with a prescription of brandy to aid with pain and sleep.

Machete spent the entire day as a subject of debate. It made him recall his own education in medicine, as minor as it was, but his thoughts drifted to the humiliating experience of being whispered about and ridiculed behind his back. He always hated when people talked about him, and being reduced to an object to be fixed like this made him feel the same way if not worse. Treatments, reduction, exemia, sepsis, necrosis, trauma, patient, all words used to the point they became meaningless to him, besotted with drink and left to stew, hardly able to move without sharp pain and a fresh seep of blood.

Left alone after the first round of leeching and a strong shot of brandy to aid him, he stared up at a dark ceiling. He was unsure if the small amount he could see via dim moonlight was shifting because of the brandy he drank or the unsteadiness he always felt after being plied with leeches, made worse by the stabbing. After his treatment for the night, he could certainly feel less, but he was always aware of the wounds and how odd his body felt where they were. It reminded him of vague childhood memories of losing teeth, the strange absences where his body recalled presence.

Thoughts now came unbidden, filtered through the regretful haze of drunkenness. Vittorio helped him, but all he could think of was the confusion and sadness and tinge of fear the man had looked upon Machete with the last time he had seen him prior. Vittorio’s face changed to Vasco’s in the slow blurry shift of the mind where a figure is transformed part by part until you realize, all at once, that it is different. Vasco… His expression was of frustrated anguish and deep concern as he was being held back. Maybe Machete did deserve to die after all for causing that twisted look to appear on such perfect features. He had created ugliness out of beauty. A rose wilted, not by nature’s march but by his intercession. It was far from the first time he had hurt something he loved, but this truly had to be the worst. All of that ado and he still ended up bedridden and hurt. He couldn’t even protect himself, let alone Vasco.

But what if this wasn’t the only attack? What if the two of them were attacked simultaneously, what if that was the objective? Machete had separated the two of them and ensured Vasco would be removed from a guarded palazzo. No one had said anything about it, but why would they? They didn’t know that it was Machete’s fault. They didn’t know a murderer laid in this sickbed. He would have to demand news tomorrow. Perhaps Vittorio or Piero could find out. They would have to.

If Vasco was harmed, was dead, Machete would undo the surgeon’s work and finish the assassin’s. He would be damned either way, so why delay it? It would be the one courageous thing he could ever do in his life. He doubted he could manage it, however. No, his cowardice would damn him on Earth and in Hell. Purgatory could not purify him. For marring true beauty, a gift from on high to this wretched Earth, he was as the Deceiver in the Garden. Of that, and little else, he was certain.

Machete wasn’t sure when he drifted off to sleep, but his eyes still stung and his face was raw where he had been scratching at his cheek when he woke to another round of treatments. The leeching would have to be sparing while his body adjusted the levels of his humors, so his wounds ached and then seared as the bandages were changed for those freshly wine-soaked. He could do little but endure it, not willing to spend another day as besotted as he was yesterday. Frosini returned to keep watch, as he as the personal physician was the most familiar with the day-to-day conditions of the cardinal.

“Doctor, I have to ask,” Machete spoke softly, trying to keep his breaths shallow, “Was I the only one to be attacked?”

“Hm?” Frosini looked up from some text he was refamiliarizing himself with. “Why, yes, as far as I know. Did you expect another?”

“Perhaps. I had reason to believe,” Machete took another shallow breath, “the Florentine ambassador was targeted,” another breath, “as well as I.”

“Well, unless he’s dead and no one’s found the corpse yet, he’s fine. I haven’t heard anything.” Upon seeing Machete’s reaction to that first sentence, Frosini quickly added: “He’s almost certainly fine. I could go send one of your men to check?” He paused, then added “Eminence?” as if the style would reassure Machete more.

“Yes, if you would.” Machete hated talking like this. It made him feel even more feeble, taking these tiny little breaths. If the rib pain weren’t so bad he would simply ignore it. “Send Vittorio.”

Frosini nodded along, setting aside whatever book he was reviewing. He stood up, but before he could make it to the door, Machete caught him with a few words:

“And can you tell him…” He trailed off, both out of breath and unsure if he could finish that sentence to Frosini. Asking a stranger to apologize for him, to either Vittorio or Vasco, would be a slap in their face. They both deserved better.

“Tell who what, Your Eminence?” Frosini stood, peering down at his patient through thick lenses.

“Never mind that. I will say my own piece.”

Frosini nodded, and then left, leaving Machete alone again.

He felt so tired, so deeply tired in a way he hadn’t since the time he displeased Bishop Giordano and was made to clean the entire Chapel of San Gennaro in Naples by himself with no breaks or sleep. It’s a bone-deep weariness that suffuses one’s entire being so thoroughly that he believes he cannot ever be restored from it, that this exhaustion is the only thing left for them. A belief like that is expected in boyhood when one has experienced so little, but it is truly a deep, body-draining feeling in adulthood, where every iota of energy is directed at repairing itself and where one is tired but he cannot sleep.

Left to stare at the ceiling and experience his drained and wounded body, his thoughts wandered as always. He remembered the last time he saw Vasco’s face, twisted in its agonies. If that was the last he’d see of it in life, it would be a worse punishment than the Lake of Fire.

When he shifted his head to the side at the sound of footsteps, his eyes met Vasco’s.

Oddly enough, he then woke up, wracked with pain and staring at the ceiling again. He questioned if he had hallucinated, or—

A hand was laid on his, squeezing it tightly. “Are you alright?”

There he was again. Sitting on his bed, at his side. Vasco, with a tender if slightly concerned look, dressed down to simple clothes, long ears and beauty mark and radiant and, and, and—

His other hand reached out, tightly grasping the hand on his, as if it would slip away as mist. “Yes! Well, no, but…” He remembered the hard way why he cannot exclaim or breathe deeply, wincing, which made Vasco frown, which made him feel worse. “What happened? Why are you here?”

“Well, I entered the room, which caused you to sit up, scream, and then collapse. You were out for a minute.” Vasco smiled as Machete's face turned red, suddenly feeling very hot.

“I… see.”

“It was quite the shock for all of us.”

Machete finally tore his eyes away, noticing that both Vittorio and Frosini were in the room. Vittorio stood a respectful distance away, trying not to look but smiling his nervous little smile regardless, while Frosini stood a few paces behind Vasco, adjusting his spectacles as he tried to pretend he wasn’t listening.

His face only burned hotter.

“Well!” Machete exclaimed. “Thank you, the both of you. I am fine, doctor, merely in a bit of pain.” He paused to breathe, considering what he would say. “And Vittorio… thank you,” he repeated again, unable to bring himself to vocalize the apology he felt, at least right now. “May I speak with the Count in private?”

“Of course, of course. I will be waiting outside, please call upon me if you need anything, Your Eminence,” Frosini gave a courteous little bow before exiting the room, Vittorio holding the door open for him.

But Vittorio lingered for just a moment, looking upon the two on the bed. “He waited here for you, you know, Eminence. Since yesterday.” He then gently closed the door.

It left the two alone, and Machete very suddenly felt the weight of that. In that moment of lingering silence, listening to the footsteps fading away, their last encounter in his head for the hundredth time in the past day. He struggled with what to say, but before Vasco could fix everything again on his own, Machete was determined to take the first step. So, he said what he wanted, despite how awkward and boyish it made him feel:

“Darling, please—Kiss me. Let me kiss you.”

Vasco was already leaning in as Machete said that. His face lingered over Machete’s, and he laughed as his ears brushed against Machete’s cheek. Leaning in, he teased the poor injured man, giving him a line of little kisses from his collarbone, up to his neck, his cheek, before Machete finally reached up to pull him in for a long, deep kiss, tongues tasting one another again.

“I am so happy you are safe—”

“You are going to be okay—”

They spoke at the same time, both stopping for the other, which just left them both smiling. Vasco turned his head, hearing the thumping of Machete’s tail hitting the blanket, which left him laughing again as he rested his hand on the cardinal’s cheek. He laughed until he cried, wiping at his eyes as his voice wavered a little.

“I love you, you know that. I told you that you were the one in danger. And you—you pushed me away. Tried to have me escorted out.”

Machete desperately wanted to look away, to not see Vasco, cheerful and ebullient Vasco, emotionally intelligent and strong Vasco, reduced to tears. But Machete did this. It was his fault. All he could do was witness the result of his own actions, and his heart ached worse than the wound ever did.

“I did.” Machete took his shallow breath, wondering how to express the tangle of feelings building in his chest. “I was so—so scared. For you, of you getting hurt.” His hands feebly took one of Vasco’s between them, squeezing it tenderly. “I was convinced someone was after you, maybe to get to me,” he paused to breathe again, “That I couldn’t even think of myself. I’m so sorry.” He closed his eyes, his own tears welling now. When he opened them again, seeing Vasco’s sad face made him wish he kept them closed. “I don’t know if I can ever make up for doing that to you.”

Vasco responded by lying down next to Machete, gently draping an arm over his chest. He pressed his face against the other man’s, nuzzling it gently, before leaning in and resting his head on top of his.

“I would be lying if I told you I was not still hurt or upset by that… but the relief that you are going to be okay is saving you for the moment. You will have to treat me many times to make up for it when you are better.”

Machete smiled, but it did not settle the deep, heaving sea of guilt inside of him. “Vasco… I was so cruel.”

“You were.”

“I shunned you and everyone else.”

“You did.”

“Shush!”

Vasco gave an impish little laugh, kissing Machete’s head.

The cardinal gave his best theatrical huff, only wincing for a moment. “Seriously. I couldn’t handle the thought of… losing you, after seeing you again for the first time in so long.” He wiped away a tear, surely looking as pathetic as he felt, all puffy and red. “I missed you so much. I love you. I did not care about a threat to myself compared to you.”

“I know. Did you consider that I feel the same way about you?”

Machete didn’t reply. Vasco just sighed his name in admonition.

Before he could speak further, Machete interrupted. “You are radiance itself, Vasco. You are so good, in all the ways that matter, and you make me happy. You are beautiful by the grace of God, and I am just… me. An unlovable little imp, despised wherever he goes.” His chest ached from speaking so much, but he had to say his piece. His body would not hold him back.

Vasco hummed a little, propping himself up on an elbow to run his fingers through Machete’s fur. “If that were true, how could I love you? For being the smartest man I know, you are such a fool sometimes. And Lord, radiance itself? What poetry are you reading? I am handsome, but I’m not Adonis.”

“No, you are not. You are better.”

Vasco laughed again. “When did you become such a charmer?”

“I am trying to take after someone I admire a lot.”

They both gave a little chuckle at that, like they were both boys in Venice again. They had spent hours just talking to each other in bed like this…

“Then I wish you would take after me in how I care for you. I would be just as devastated if you were gone, you know.”

“How could you?” Machete couldn’t help himself from spurting out. “Only you could love me. So many could love you. A lot do already, I would guess.”

Vasco sighed in frustration. He pulled back, shifting to just sitting back at Machete’s side again so they could look each other in the eyes again.

“Understand me when I say this: I love you. You are more clever, more intelligent, more learned than I could ever be; you are cute, and the look you make every time I kiss you or say I love you makes me fall in love with you again; and most of all, you are you: The man that tutored me in Venice, the one that laughed when I brought up the olive oil, the one who tripped on his own two feet and got so mad at me for seeing it, the one whose heartbeat I felt against mine on those warm summer nights. I could no more stop loving you than the sun could stop rising in the morning. And I need you to understand that. Truly, truly understand that, hold it in your heart, that you are not unworthy of me loving you, that I am not superior to you because I am more social or more beautiful or whatever other reasoning you have.” He rested a hand on Machete’s shoulder, squeezing it. “Do you understand that? Tell me.”

Machete could only watch, entirely enraptured by the conviction with which Vasco spoke. Part of him wanted to deny it, deny everything, to cry and rage and revel in the little pit he spent all of last night in. He decided to ignore that part of him, and so all he could do was nod.

“No. Say it.”

“...I understand it.”

“Understand what?”

“You are just teasing me again.”

Vasco’s gaze did not waver, staying fixed. “No, I mean it. Repeat it.”

Machete sighed. “I understand that you love me, and that I am not inferior to you. That… that I need to hold that in my heart and remember that I am not unlovable. That I do not need to protect you. That I should not push you away.”

“Well, I didn’t say those parts. You failed at repeating.”

Machete groaned in only slightly exaggerated frustration. It was a happy, affectionate noise. Before the cardinal could say whatever rebuttal he was going to say, Vasco leaned in to kiss him again. Again and again.

When they finally broke apart, Vasco let out a hum of satisfaction, carefully laying his head on Machete’s bare chest. “Promise me that you won’t forget that.”

Machete smiled. “I promise.”

“Good. Then consider yourself forgiven, until you are well enough to take me somewhere nice.” He then lounged like that for a while, enjoying being half-sprawled out on the bed, both just enjoying the other’s presence.

Idly, Vasco’s hand wandered over the covers, feeling Machete’s body underneath. He reached the cardinal’s waist and settled there, before very intently pushing just a little harder to feel what exactly was under the blanket, which made Machete’s thighs twitch. Vasco sighed deeply.

“Oh, if only you weren’t hurt… It’s been a while.”

“V-Vasco!”

Machete was suddenly extremely aware of just how naked he was under the blankets and how warm Vasco’s hand was through them as Vasco laughed and laughed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

NIENTE

Cecilio rarely prayed. He was busy doing God’s work on Earth, he reasoned, and had little to ask for. Deeper down, he was also frustrated with the concept of prayer, as it seemed God rarely answered him. Many years were spent suffering at the hand of Giordano of Naples or Cecilio’s peers in Venice or in the church, all entirely unabated by Him. It left the cardinal bitter and suspicious about prayer; he only did it in the most extraordinary circumstances.

These past few weeks of recovery, he prayed every night, giving every word of adulation and praise that came to mind.

His wound was still healing. He was still regularly in intense pain, though it was slowly diminishing. He was still argued over by the cadre of doctors tending to him. He still occasionally took meetings for his work in the Secretariat. And despite that, every night, he was thankful, praying more than he had in over a decade, for one simple reason: Every day, he woke with Vasco next to him.

Some mornings, he stirred first, availing him a view of a gently resting Vasco. Him lying there, gently breathing, his big ears spread across the pillows in a jumbled mess, was a sight so endearing it made him want to cry tears of joy that he could see its like again. Other mornings, Cecilio awoke to affectionate petting from Vasco, who then smiled one of his big earnest smiles as he greeted the cardinal.

Of course, Cecilio couldn’t just ignore what he had done in those few days his paranoia got the better of him. He would have to apologize. He hated to admit that, to admit fault or weakness at all, but Vasco encouraged him; after all, these were his friends, the ones close to him, that he had hurt. They would not mock him, would not despise him and plot his downfall behind his back, for it. “Well, I hope so, anyway. Hard to tell with these Roman types,” Vasco joked after that, as if it helped.

The first in line was the one closest at hand: Vittorio. A few days in, Cecilio could sit up without being in total agony, so he dressed himself the best he could (he felt embarrassed when only in loose robes, but it was all he could manage right now) and called Vittorio to his bedroom as Vasco sat at the foot of the bed.

The little man gave his customary little bow as he entered. “Yes, Your Eminence?”

“Good morning, Vittorio.” Cecilio paused, and the silence lingered for a good few moments as the cardinal figured out how he wanted to formulate this. Both of them looked at him, which made it harder. “Well…”

“He would like to make an apology to you, Vittorio,” Vasco spoke up, turning his gaze to the Roman to make it easier on Cecilio.

“Yes, true. I would. Like to apologize, that is.” The cardinal took a breath, steadying himself, more aware of his wound and rib than he would like.

Vittorio, for his part, was patient. He stood there, with hands clasped, eyes uncharacteristically focused on Cecilio instead of the floor. He was well groomed and smartly dressed as always, curly tawny fur kept trimmed short and clad in the black clothing Cecilio preferred for his household. It brought to mind the much shaggier appearance he had when he met the cardinal, while the little Roman was working as an accountant, assisting with the construction of the Palazzo Quirinale…

Cecilio stopped himself from retreating into reverie. He met Vittorio’s eyes again and began to speak: “Well, I would specifically like to apologize for my behavior earlier. I was… Well, if I told you I was not myself I would be lying.” Cecilio sat up straighter, finding his confidence like a man lost at sea spotting shore. “I was being viciously paranoid and it made me cruel. I suspected everyone, even you, who has been my friend for so long now. You are a good man, Vittorio, and you did not deserve that treatment. That is why I say I apologize.” He put his hand over his heart, casting down his eyes, contrite.

Vittorio had broken eye contact as soon as Cecilio began to compliment him. His tail swayed behind him before he took a moment to compose himself. When the cardinal finished speaking, his servant bowed again. “There is nothing to forgive, Eminence. You did not raise your hand to me and you did not remove me from your side; any cruelty you formed against me was in your thoughts alone. I knew you were unwell, spending so little time home, saying so few words. That is why I sent your friend to you when he appeared at your doorstep. The important thing is that you are well now.”

Cecilio smiled. It was a small thing, but it was genuine. The last time he genuinely smiled at anyone besides Vasco was at his Milanese tailor after buying clothes with his first disbursement as the Pope’s assistant. That moment was pure euphoria, excitement to run along home and wear the very best clothing scudi could buy; this was a rising warmth, like the first rays of sunlight falling on his body after a cold morning. He realized, again, that a person cared for him.

“Thank you, Vittorio,” was all Cecilio managed. He didn’t know what else to say. What was sufficient for years of devotion and care? Neither man could meet each other’s eyes now.

That state of affairs made Vasco laugh softly to himself. “No wonder you two get along so well. You are both most comfortable when expressing yourself as eloquently as you can, huh?”

Cecilio huffed. “Vasco, that’s rude.”

“Oh, a thousand pardons, Your Eminence. You are far too kind to tolerate this behavior from me, I was terribly vicious, and you do not deserve this treatment,” Vasco theatrically spoke.

Vittorio laughed, a rare occurrence. “You have to admit that he is not wrong, Eminence.”

Cecilio folded his arms over his chest in a manner that even he had to admit was petulant. “I will not concede defeat so easily.”

Laughing again, Vasco stood and moved to Vittorio, clasping a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder and holding his joined hands with the other. “Thank you from me, too. It is easy to tell you care for him a lot, enough to know when something is wrong. If it weren’t for you, I would have had a much more difficult time bringing him back.”

The smaller man was surprised by Vasco’s sudden presence, but did not shrink away, taking Vasco’s hand between his. His eyes were still on the floor, but he kept smiling. “Of course, Highness. It is my duty.”

“You went above and beyond, I assure you. Keep up the good work, Signore Vittorio.” The Florentine squeezed the hand in his grasp, then pulled away, returning to Cecilio’s side.

For all of his joking about grand language, Vasco seemed to love grand gestures. Cecilio gave him an exasperated look as he returned, which Vasco only shrugged off, as if he had done nothing worthy of such scorn in his entire life, before taking one of Cecilio’s hands in his own. The cardinal tolerated this, but refused to reward such brazen behavior by enjoying it. He mostly successfully willed his tail to stay still.

“Vittorio,” Cecilio turned away from the smirking Vasco. “Has Maurice Rarogne come over? Is he here?”

“He visited the morning after you were hurt, inquiring as to your condition, Eminence. Since then, he has spent all waking hours escorting Deacon Contarini.”

Vasco frowned a little at that. “Contarini? Why defend him? Rarogne could keep watch here.”

“I am unsure, Highness. I could ask him to report here?”

“No, that is fine, leave him,” Cecilio said. “There are already guards here, and I would rather the deacon be defended while he assists in my duties. The one behind the assassins could turn to him, after all.”

Vittorio nodded. “Very well. Is there anything else you need, Eminence?”

“No. You may go, Vittorio. Thank you.”

Bowing again, he retreated from Cecilio’s bedroom, perhaps getting a tad overwhelmed by the intense feelings abound. He did excellent in handling day to day affairs, but every man had limits that were unique to him.

From there on, Cecilio rested, exhausted from sitting up during that conversation. After waking up and eating what little he could, the cardinal was subjected to another round of treatment by doctors. Today was the last day as a subject of debate, however, as he had recovered enough that only Frosini was necessary to keep an eye on his stab wounds and ensure that no infection developed. No more bleeding, no more arguments over soporific stones or laudanum, it was all done. By the evening, after all of the cadre besides Frosini said their goodbyes and ensured that the cardinal knew their names, Cecilio was left exhausted once again.

Vasco had left for this entire process, taking care of what responsibilities he couldn’t dodge as ambassador from Florence. When the doctors had departed and Frosini had done the usual changing of the bandages and other maintenance tasks, Vasco returned to spend the rest of the night with the supine cardinal.

“You know, I was surprised to see you working with Piero. I recall you two not getting along in the scuola,” Vasco spoke as he undressed, back turned to Cecilio. It was always wonderful to see his bare back and the flex of his shoulders as he lifted shirts on or off. The cardinal stared for a moment too long; Vasco turned back to look at him with a little knowing smirk.

Attempting to save face, Cecilio cleared his throat. “Yes, well, he made an apology to me for his actions in youth. There were others far worse than him, either way. He is also good at what he does; it is a great help to have Vittorio here and Piero there, both experts in their own fields.”

Vasco hummed in acknowledgment, too distracted by his thoughts to make the rest of his preparations for bed a show. Before long, he was extinguishing most of the candles about the room, leaving one at the nightstand and the waxing moon for light. He slipped into the bed, carefully shifting closer until they were side by side.

“Is something on your mind? Something about Piero?”

Vasco hummed again, observing the ceiling for a few moments before turning to Cecilio, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “I suppose so. I think he hasn’t gotten over his infatuation with me. He lays it on thick when it is just the two of us, and I met with him again today, talking about that border dispute business that I am supposed to be here for.”

Frowning, Cecilio did his best to smother the tangled mess of jealousy and fear he felt in that moment. “He was infatuated with you back in Venice?” Realizing just how sharply he spoke, he added in a softer tone: “How did it go, then?”

Those feelings clearly did not escape Vasco’s notice. The Florentine gave him a look, then another squeeze of the hand. “Yes, before you and I really spent much time together, I suppose. Just a boyhood interest, I thought, but evidently not.” He sighed. “As for the meeting… I would be lying if I said it wasn’t strange, as he was hardly speaking in poetic metaphor. I kept having to return us to the topic at hand. He seemed very disappointed, but we discussed enough that I could send another proposal back to the Consiglieri. Now to wait for another rejection letter and another round of talks, hopefully with you this time.” He laughed a little, clearly trying to ease away any tension. Then he leaned closer, resting his head on Cecilio’s shoulder.

Reaching up, one hand stroked Vasco’s face tenderly, nails gliding through his short, pleasingly soft fur. Cecilio was surprised by his little outburst of emotion, but was doing better to recognize it and try to quell it, he supposed. If he wanted to keep Vasco at his side, to not cause him harm ever again, he would have to do better about being conscious of his paranoia. Realizing he was lost in thought, he spoke up: “Well, I am glad you were able to get work done, at least. A tiny bit. I will be upset if this is the one proposal they accept, however. I may have to create a fuss about improper procedures if it goes through.”

“Everyone is very aware of how much of a stickler you are for procedure. Nothing atypical here.”

Cecilio wasn’t looking at Vasco’s face, but he could hear the smile. It brought one to his face, too, and he sighed in contentment. They lay together like that for a good few moments, basking in each other's warmth and presence. He nearly fell asleep there.

Vasco, however, spoke up again. “You know, on that day you tried to have me removed… His Holiness stopped it.”

Guilt was suddenly joined by surprise. “His Holiness?”

“Mmhm. He took me aside, said he knew you and I were friends. Think he could tell something was wrong; perhaps he overheard the end of our… discussion.” The word hung over the two of them for a moment. “So, we sat together in his apartments for a while. He told me stories about you, of things you did after becoming his protégé. Just, well… you being you.” Vasco’s words dripped with such affection that it brought Cecilio to tears. “I was angry and frustrated and concerned about you before that. I remained so after, but it reminded me of why. Why I still cared, and why I could not stop chasing after you.”

Cecilio didn’t know what to say. He was awestruck with emotion, tenderness and affection flooding his heart, even enough to ignore the constant nagging feeling of being unworthy of this.

And then Vasco spoke again. Mischief crept into his voice. “...And, of course, he also told me about the time with that sculptor from Siena—”

“Vasco!” The tide of love was swept away by immediate, total embarrassment, Cecilio immediately sitting up and just as quickly regretting it. “You have to understand—It was an accident—I did not know—”

Vasco just laughed over the rapid sputtering, before wrapping his arms around Cecilio’s shoulders, pulling him back down to the pillows and planting kisses on him. The Florentine couldn’t stop himself from giggling the entire time, as if Cecilio’s protests were the funniest things ever uttered. It made him groan in protest, but Vasco could not be stopped by such a feeble attempt, of course.

Eventually, the two settled down again. Vasco ended up wrapped around his side, having slipped his leg between Cecilio’s. Only a nightgown separated them now. Very aware of this fact, Vasco’s free hand found itself reaching over Cecilio’s stomach to his side, dragging fingers up and down the other man’s chest.

Vasco’s breath was doing more than tickling at Cecilio’s throat now. It insinuated, in its slowness and warmth. With such minor gestures, desires that had been foreign to him for quite some time returned all at once. His face burned. Vasco laughed again in a much slower, deeper way, now right into the cardinal’s neck.

“You are an utter fiend,” Cecilio feebly protested.

Vasco said “In what way, darling?” in a manner that suggested he knew exactly in what way.

His hand moved from the cardinal’s side to his front, lightly drumming fingers over stomach, then chest, smoothing over soft white fur as they went. In protest, Cecilio grabbed at the wrist of the offending hand with his own, but did not actually hold it in place. Every touch sent little waves of warmth through him, aided by the pleasant heat of Vasco’s breath against his throat. It was almost overwhelming in a pleasant way, a hair's breadth away from being too much.

At once, he was conscious of the feeling of his legs, entangled with one of Vasco’s, shifting up and down, thigh pressed between Cecilio’s; his chest, touched in waves of fingers, each one leaving a spreading tingling like a droplet falling into water; and his neck and shoulders, which were kissed or nibbled between waves of heavy breaths that left his fur standing on end. All Cecilio could do was come along for the ride, his breath hitching with every feeling of teeth and the shifting of thighs.

“You are incorrigible. You just told me of meeting with His Holiness and this—” Cecilio was cut off as he moaned; his throat had been bitten, teeth pressed into sensitive, soft flesh. Vasco shifted his body over and onto the other man’s, leaning his weight on the intertwined thigh. The bite turned into a trail of kisses until their faces met one another, tongues becoming as intertwined together as their thighs were. Cecilio gave as eagerly as he got, nearly causing Vasco to fall with the sudden wrap of arms around his shoulders pulling him closer. The cardinal ignored the pain from his still-recovering wound in the heat of the moment.

Eventually, Vasco pulled away and settled to the side again, catching his breath. He rested his head on Cecilio’s shoulder, his hand idly circling the other man’s chest and stomach. “You are right. I am both incorrigible and a regular devil, bewitching a celibate man,” he teased.

Even after that brief exchange, it took a force of will usually reserved for conversations with Alonso to compose himself. He lay there, reaching over to pet Vasco’s head, running fingers down his cheek and ear, all while attempting to not be too distracted by their equal excitement below. “You drag him kicking and screaming into sin, I assure you. His very body protests. What would the world be coming to otherwise?”

“Jokes!” Vasco laughed. “You truly are in better spirits, aren’t you? I am happy to hear it.” The two lingered in the moment, touching one another, before Vasco riposted: “You know, you are getting better at this. In Venice, you would still be squirming and moaning—”

“Vasco!”

It was one thing to feel like a young man again; it was another to run off, giggling, sneaking around in the night. And yet, there Vasco went, candle illuminating his little smirk and pleased as could be.

Left alone, it took little time for Cecilio’s anxieties to return. For one, it was easy to feel nervous about doing anything particularly strenuous while still recovering from an injury. What occupied his thoughts the most, however, was the thought of being so intimate with someone else again. He didn’t know that he would do so with anyone but Vasco now; he was so scared of this even now, and there was only one man he trusted with such vulnerability. The thoughts came unbidden: Was this a good idea? What if he embarrassed himself? Did he really want this?

Oh, Lord.

He had to banish his fears. He knew everything would be alright. He could not allow himself to succumb to fear, to turn away from something he knew he truly did want. It just would be nice if it was easier to ignore the icy feeling in his chest and the upset churning in his stomach.

When the door creaked open, Cecilio nearly jumped out of his skin. He instinctively covered himself up to the snout with his blankets, turning to look towards his door in his nearly pitch black bedroom.

“Vasco? Are you back?”

Nothing. Then, another creak, this time from a floorboard as someone stepped closer.

“I am going to be very upset with you if you scare me.” Cecilio tried his hardest to sound stern, but his voice wavered.

“Oh, fine,” the shape in the darkness replied. “I suppose I will be nice to you this one time, since you are hurt.”

Cecilio huffed. The shape approached, walking around the end of the bed until it became outlined in golden fur in the moonlight. Vasco set something aside, then sat on the edge of the bed. He seemed to have lost his nightgown in the intervening time.

“I cannot believe you. You would have given me a heart attack!”

The Florentine laughed. “Oh, it was going to be great. I was going to slip under the bed and appear right next to you; you would have woken the entire house.”

Cecilio responded by throwing a pillow at his face.

“Oh, he’s become violent! Forsaken all of his beliefs for revenge against me!”

“Get over here already, or I will actually become violent.”

“Well, who better than me to tame your foulest impulses?”

Cecilio nearly fired off another joking threat, but then Vasco was crawling over him. He could feel the weight of the other man on either side of him, hands and knees depressing the bed, as Vasco shifted closer. They were face to face again, illuminated by moonlight. Cecilio could see one rich brown eye, the other in shadow, bearing into his, above the most satisfied, loving expression he had ever seen. He was struck by the beauty, then by Vasco as he leaned in for the kiss.

Tangled tongues, hot breath, the weight of Vasco leaning forward onto Cecilio… That fear still spiked within him, but it was eclipsed by this warmth, the tingling need for more, for more touch and contact and proximity and intimacy. He was reminded just why he wanted this.

Vasco pressed his weight down on Cecilio’s lower torso and began to grind on him through the blanket. The sudden pressure and heat, the knowledge of just what was touching him, and the clear evidence that Vasco was enjoying himself, all made Cecilio moan into the kiss, squirming underneath with a sudden burst of aimless energy and desire.

Pulling away from the kiss, Vasco kept going, shifting himself back and forth over Cecilio’s lower stomach. His head lingered over, the heat of his breath still making Cecilio’s flesh tingle.

“Cecilio…”

Hearing his name breathed out by Vasco was worth every iota of hardship of the past few weeks, Cecilio decided in that instant. He was thinking that because he did not want to think about the various noises and motions his body was doing under Vasco’s touch.

They kissed again. Vasco nibbled on Cecilio’s neck and shoulder. He kept grinding the entire way through, sometimes faster, sometimes slower. As he moved down to Cecilio’s shoulder, however, he made sure to align his hips to Cecilio’s, leaving him pressing down against his opposite through the sheet, flesh gliding over flesh separated only by fabric.

Cecilio moaned Vasco’s name more times than he would admit in any circumstance.

Everything was now covered in a haze of lust, of warmth and love and pleasure, all mired and tangled and inseparable. The blanket was tossed aside, their bare bodies together again for another few moments of kissing and grinding.

Vasco retreated. He pulled himself back up to his arms and knees, then went down Cecilio’s body, planting a few kisses as he went, until he sat himself on his knees between Cecilio’s legs. His hands roamed the cardinal’s thighs, feeling them up and down, squeezing at the muscles and feeling how poor Cecilio quivered and twitched even from that alone.

Vasco then stopped, pulling back. Cecilio was confused, but then he realized just how heavily he was panting, failing to catch his breath with the shallow gulps of air he was taking. So the two of them sat for a few moments, Vasco idly touching Cecilio’s legs as he waited. Cecilio couldn’t see his face, but he could imagine the warm smile on it as he looked down upon Cecilio’s supine form.

“You are lovely, Cecilio. Beautiful. Just to remind you,” Vasco spoke.

Cecilio’s body was partly illuminated by the moonlight from the window now, white fur in a mess as some still stood on end, others all tousled up and mussed out of place. His slim torso, leading down to his hips, was on perfect display. It made him self-conscious, but Vasco’s words and his incessant touching was reassuring.

“And I remind you,” Cecilio breathed, “That your touch could drive any man to ecstasy. Goodness…”

“Only to ecstasy? Surely I could take you further than that…”

Vasco shifted forward. He rested his head on Cecilio’s thigh, curling his body around his leg. One hand reached between the legs, fingers teasingly gliding over Cecilio’s excitement. Then, without warning, Vasco’s head followed, and he took Cecilio into his mouth.

Cecilio nearly finished then and there.

The sudden rush of heat, pressure, slickness, it sent waves of bliss up his spine and left him writhing and gasping. The sight of Vasco’s face, touched by the edge of moonlight, peering up at him while buried between his thighs was the stuff of his messiest dreams.

Reaching down with both hands, Cecilio pet and rubbed Vasco’s face, thighs quivering on either side with every motion of tongue. Vasco laughed, the little vibrations of his throat heavenly, at the moaning of his name. Then, the motion began, his head slipping back until he was obscured by shadow, then he was very suddenly taking Cecilio to the throat. He did it again, then again, then again.

Cecilio had to clamp his snout shut to keep himself from waking the entire house (and possibly the neighbors, too). His hips instinctively shot up, his thighs tightening around Vasco’s face, as he finished for the first time in a very long time. His legs wobbled with every pulse, urged on further by the sensation of Vasco swallowing around him. Bliss, utter heavenly bliss, overwhelming in its all-encompassing grasp, spread to every corner of his body. He drained it all into Vasco’s mouth. It left him gasping desperately for breath, his chest sharply pained around his wound from how tightly he had curled his chest forward. A light, heady sensation, trickling through him, like an angel brushing fingers across his body, was all that joined it.

In any normal circumstance, Vasco lying between Cecilio’s legs with those big ears spread across his lap would be funny and cute. Now, he felt too weak to do anything but breathe.

Vasco, dutifully finishing what Cecilio had gifted him, then shifted up to lie down next to him, wrapping an arm around him and pulling close.

“You know, you’re becoming a true Roman, Cecilio.”

Cecilio’s mind was still blank. He had no idea what Vasco could mean by that. “What?”

“Irrumābō ego vōs, wasn’t it?”

Cecilio laid there for a moment, processing just exactly what was said. Then, with the little might he could muster, he tried to shove Vasco away. “How come the only thing you can remember from our poetry readings is Catullus?”

Vasco laughed even as Cecilio’s hand was on his face and pushing him away.

Cecilio huffed. “Besides, it’s pēdīcābō ego vōs et irrumābō.”

Vasco gave him a meaningful look, then a smirk. “Maybe later tonight?”

The cardinal pulled his pillow over his face.

Positioning was awkward.

Cecilio couldn’t bend very well currently, so most things they simply couldn’t do. They experimented with a few things, but eventually found the best setup had him dangling his legs off of the bed.

Vasco wasn’t sure if it was the best idea, as Cecilio wasn’t as practiced as he had been back in Venice, but he insisted that he wanted to try it at least. That’s why they spent twenty minutes trying to figure out a configuration that worked for them without hurting his chest too badly.

Then came the copious application of oil, surreptitiously retrieved by Vasco earlier. Cecilio had forgotten how little he enjoyed this part. He also had the first inkling of trouble when even Vasco’s fingers stretched him to the point of mild discomfort. Perhaps Vasco was right after all, but Cecilio still wanted to try.

“I think I am ready,” he shakily told Vasco, holding his hand and squeezing it tightly. “I will tell you to stop if—if I need you to.”

Vasco was an outline now, blocking the moonlight. He loomed over Cecilio, lifting up his legs. The Florentine ran his hands over the other man, trying to reassure him. “Alright. If you are sure, Cecilio…”

With no response, Vasco began to move. He let go of Cecilio’s legs then stroked himself for a moment.

The entire time, Cecilio’s heart beat in his throat. He did want this. He wanted to satisfy as much as he had been satisfied. To make Vasco happy like he made him happy. But he’d be lying through his teeth if he wasn’t scared. It would hurt, yes, but the pain wasn’t what he felt that fear over (well, mostly); it was not being able to reciprocate. In sex in particular, but in general too. If he couldn’t get through this, then he was a failure, wasn’t he? No, no, calm down, Vasco loved him, it wasn’t such a shallow thing.

“Well, this will be a little bit easier than the first time we tried this, huh? I still remember the face you made when I spit in my hand.”

Cecilio was unsure if he was annoyed at Vasco for making him remember that or thankful for breaking that chain of thought. So, he just groaned. “The only things you remember from then are the things I didn’t want you to, I swear.”

Vasco laughed. Then, he repositioned himself, leaning down and holding up Cecilio’s thighs again. “I will take it slowly, alright?”

The prodding sent a surge of nervousness through him. When it actually went in, after a quick adjustment by Vasco’s hand, it was… strange. Hot, big, but tempered by the sensation of the oil. The gradual motion of Vasco’s hips, however, had Cecilio gritting his teeth, then hands tightly gripping his blankets. When Vasco pushed further, Cecilio hissed.

“Are you alright? You sound like a kettle.”

“Just—give me a moment, please.”

Vasco did. He also rolled his hip a little, to keep stretching presumably, which did not help Cecilio recover.

“Alright, alright… Are you almost done?”

“...Not quite halfway there?”

Cecilio blasphemed. It surprised Vasco and made him laugh hard enough that he almost dropped Cecilio’s legs, which would have been a problem. A couple minutes passed, of moving and then stopping and adjusting, inching forward quite literally.

He probably should have stopped and admitted defeat. He knew that. Yet, at this point, it was a matter of pride. Even if they couldn’t do a thing after, he had to make it.

Then, without warning, Vasco pulled out.

The sensation of the sudden void, the motion in the way Cecilio didn’t expect, made him jump. Then, suddenly, Vasco was on top of him, hugging him tightly.

“I’m not going to let you hurt yourself out of pride, Cecilio. We have time, we can do more later, alright? I do not want to see you bleed again.”

“Vasco!” A dozen different arguments tried to exit his mouth at once. “I just want to—You should—It’s because—Ugh!”

Vasco released one hand from the hug to lightly pet Cecilio.

“You’re getting olive oil on my face!”

“Whoops.” He laughed. It made Cecilio less mad.

He conceded, hugging Vasco back. “Fine. We can try again later.”

“Good. You are too stubborn, darling.”

“Stubborn?”

“If you walked into a wall, you would throw yourself into it until it broke. Because it challenges you by blocking you.”

“So you admit I would win, then.”

Vasco gave a theatrical sigh. Then, he tousled Cecilio’s fur further with oil.

“Ugh! Stop that! Get off of me!”

“Hmm… No. I am comfortable, I think.”

“You are hurting my chest.”

“Oh? Now, all of a sudden, I am hurting you and you want it to stop?”

They bickered good-naturedly for a bit longer, until Vasco finally sat up, straddling Cecilio’s hips, preparing to pull away. Cecilio then reached up, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I feel… guilty, that you satisfied me but not the other way around. Can I do something for you? Please?”

Vasco smiled down at him, visible again. “You don’t have to. There’s no quota to be met, you know.”

“I know. But… I would like to. I want to make you happy, Vasco. I love you.”

“You make me happy just by being there, you know. Because I love you, too.”

“I know. I do not need to be reassured. I just want to, anyway.”

Vasco thought for a moment, then nodded with a smile on his face and love in his eyes. He leaned back, then forward, placing his hand on Cecilio’s stomach to steady himself. The sight of Vasco straddling him, of that tawny, toned body in pale light and strong shadow looming over him, filled him with need again despite how sore he felt. Vasco was golden and handsome, broad-shouldered and trim-waisted, carefree and happy and smiling. Lit from the side, his features were in strong contrast: Clavicles, neck, pectorals, stomach, and thighs all blocked the light, perfectly illuminating how they curved. One of his long ears hung around his face as he leaned forward, then he pushed it back in a delicate little motion that made Cecilio’s heart overflow with affection in that moment. He basked in the glory of God’s creation.

“Well,” Vasco said. “I’m sure we can figure something out. I have a few ideas.”

With fresh application of oil and of their hips to one another, they did figure it out. Positioning himself above his lover once again, Vasco’s tender hands held the two of them together. He then began to move his hips, thrusting down onto Cecilio. They grinded and basked in each other’s touch and warmth, eventually abandoning Vasco’s hands and shifting to between Cecilio’s thighs. Flesh glided over flesh, held tight together. Before long, with the bouncing of hips and the clap of thighs, with moans and groans and gasps, the two of them managed to find mutual satisfaction. Poor Cecilio’s fur ended up with a layer of white, but he didn’t mind much in the moment. He drifted off to sleep with Vasco clutching at his side.

Piero awaited nightfall like the headsman's axe.

The day was pleasant, ideal even. Getting to work without the Machete looming over him like a gargoyle and getting to spend time with Vasco was what he would have given anything for just a few years ago… Even if the meeting with Vasco was through the veneer of debating over where the border extended and the existence of the so-called Republic of Cospaia. They drafted an agreement together and their hands brushed when reaching for a bottle of ink. It was invigorating.

Through all of that, however, the thought of night lingered. Piero had received a note bound in scarlet and knew, before reading it, that it would be another meeting. It was no surprise after another failure. He had ideas on how to continue, of course, but having to pitch them to his benefactor was never easy.

Once Vasco left, the deacon spent the time cleaning, reciting to himself how he would continue from there, that he would not fail again. The Machete had left the office a mess after his little tantrum a few days prior, and it had taken him most of the time of the cardinal’s convalescence reorganizing the meticulous arrangement of letters, maps, and various other documents in their record books. Occupying his mind and hands like this helped to keep him calm while the hours passed. If he kept still for too long, his hands shook.

He had to stop being such a coward. People here could detect it, feel out the weakness of such uncertainty. Piero was not weak. His actions proved that, even if they weren’t, strictly speaking, successful yet. Having the will to do them alone was a measure of character; the rest was a mere measure of ability, and he did not have the experience in these matters, he would be the first to admit.

After things were rearranged to his pleasure, Piero checked the note for its meeting time and place. The Machete’s vanity was useful for once: The mirror in the office was perfect for ensuring he was in good order before he left for the meeting. His stole and alb were in perfect order, of course. Brown and tan fur over serious, sharp features suited his similarly austere personality well, he thought. He was handsome and in his prime, and he wasn’t a lanky, albino creature of a man. Vasco would eventually see reason.

When he faced the door to the corridor, he hesitated, taking a full breath. Then exhaled. Then another breath. A pause, then a sharper exhale, before he opened the door.

Rarogne was there, of course, still trying his best to not look upset and still utterly failing at it. The poor Guard was too good for his master; a man’s sense of duty meant nothing to a gargoyle, for they were not men, standing for centuries as evil as they were on the day they were made.

“You are dismissed for today, my good man,” Piero said, not expressing the pity he felt.

Rarogne furrowed his brow. “Am I not to escort you home, Deacon?”

“Not tonight. I have private business; I will not involve you in it. Rest assured, I am not so targeted as our good friend.” He smiled, then gave the Swiss a pat on the shoulder. “Off you go. Pray for me if your doubt lingers.”

The Guard was clearly not entirely comfortable with leaving his charge alone after another attack. He considered ignoring the order, but that concept was evidently still anathema to him, for he did eventually turn to leave.

“Have a good night, Father. Stay safe.”

“You as well, my diligent friend.”

Rarogne would be useful when the Machete was dead, so it was worth it to keep cordial with him. After watching him leave, Piero then adjusted his sleeves before striding off towards his meeting.

The walk home was brisk and pleasant, a breeze running downwind the alley where Piero resided. It wasn’t the first time they had met here, but it was the first time in a while. If he had known, he would have cleaned more ahead of time.

Usually, they met in public places and spoke obliquely; they only met in homes when the need for direct speech was paramount. Of course, being observed near each other’s houses was a possibility, so it was very rarely done. Tonight was truly critical, it seemed.

Opening the door, the deacon went through the motions of removing his outerwear, stole and alb set aside so he could freely wear his cassock alone. Even that was a massive relief in summer, though it was not quite so miserable this time of year, thankfully.

“So quick to remove the vestments of the Holy Church! One could come to think you’ve a guilty conscious.”

Piero froze in place. He hadn’t noticed he wasn’t alone. The meeting time wasn’t until sunset and yet there he was. Cardinal Alonso de Grado sat with his legs crossed, cheery and casual as ever, across the room.

“Your Eminence! You are here early.”

“Oh, hardly, dear Piero. I set the time, after all, and you listen. Something it seems you only choose to do when it benefits you, it seems!”

Piero was taken aback. Of course, Alonso was always smiles and affectionate tones, but the cunning creature that dwelled beneath but never surfaced was lurking quite close now.

“I beg your pardon, Eminence?”

“You shall beg indeed,” Alonso smiled. “Though it won't help.” He stood, adjusting the drape of his ferraiolo, then stepped over to the deacon. Affectionately, brotherly, he placed his hands on the other man’s shoulders. “Dear Piero, do you recall why we began meeting?”

The deacon frowned. Something was wrong, very wrong. His neck fur stood on end, sensing danger, but he could hardly run from his own home. “To deal with the Machete, Eminence.”

“Oh, ‘deal with’! Quite the little euphemism with range for interpretation, hm?” Alonso stepped back, raising his hands in an exaggerated thinking pose. “If you think back, do you remember my exact words, my exact desires?”

Piero resisted the urge to glare for this infantilizing treatment. “Please, Eminence, speak your piece directly instead of leading me about by the snout like a child.”

He dropped the pose with a little sigh. “But you are acting like a child, Piero. You intentionally misinterpreted my orders to try and actually kill Machete instead of leaving him to discredit himself with his paranoid spiraling. Things were going quite well until your stunt, you know!” Alonso never quite yelled, but his cheery little statements could become louder when he was displeased, veiled displeasure expressing itself through his affect.

“Now, Your Eminence—” Piero tried to defend himself, but the cardinal did not allow him a word in.

“He had humiliated himself in front of the other cardinals and His Holiness, speaking so frantically about security one would walk away thinking he was mad and unfit for his position. And then someone tried to have him killed that night, quite publicly validating his concerns.” Then Alonso frowned, openly glaring at Piero. He spoke slowly and deliberately: “What utter fool did that, I wonder?”

It was the first time the deacon had seen the cardinal so openly express his true feelings. It was unnerving, more so than the constant cheer. Piero realized then just how precarious his situation truly was in that moment. “It was working, Eminence, so I thought it would be prudent to have him killed now, while he had no one around him—”

“Are you lying just to me, or to yourself too, I wonder? No, Piero. You did not think it prudent. You did not think at all. Your only preoccupation was with your loins, you fucking sodomite. Did you think I wouldn’t know of your little meeting with the Florentine? Or of your base lust for him?”

Piero felt a spectrum of emotion. Indignance, fury, and fear battled through him, leaving him speechless and gaping at Alonso.

He seemed to take pleasure in that; the smile returned to his face, but the warmth did not. “Yes, I know. I am very aware of your true motives in this. Have you never realized how pathetic you have been, dear Piero? Envy is very unbecoming, but you have let it dominate your entire life. So thoroughly in love with a man that you would follow your rival in his affections into service to the church?”

Piero did not hold back his glare now. The morass of emotion clarified into anger at being so openly denigrated. His fists itched to grace Alonso’s perfect face. “Is there a reason behind your implications and insults, Eminence?” He managed through grit teeth.

“Implication? No, no, this is no mere implication, Piero, I am directly saying it! You have failed because you are no better than a boy on the cusp of manhood. Are you not ashamed of this, or are you so self-delusioned you do not realize it?” His cheery affect returned like a storm surge. He gave his best smile, adjusting his ferraiolo as he spoke. “Regardless, I came by to tell you what’s next, my oh so faithful servant! And this time, there will be no room for your interpretations.”

The deacon’s hands clenched at the sides of his cassock. He had to stay calm. His fate and fortune was tied to Alonso’s now. He couldn’t punch the man, as desperately as he might wish to at the moment. So, Piero relaxed his jaw, nodded, and said: “What shall I do for you, Eminence?”

“Oh, it’s simple, really. Nothing you’ll have trouble with.” Alonso’s gaze was unwavering, bearing down into Piero’s eyes with intensity: “Kill yourself.”

What? It was all Piero could think, all other possible thoughts obliterated in that instant. What?

The shock must have been evident on his face, as Alonso’s smile just became a tad more genuine. “It is no joke, dear Piero. You will write a letter about your envy of the Machete and the stresses of being under him or some such. The method is up to you, just as long as this letter is on your person and your lifeless body in the Quirinale. Do you understand? Is that a set of instructions easy enough for you to follow?”

Piero couldn’t believe what he was hearing. A thousand questions ran through his mind, mingling with the sudden tendrils of fear crawling over his body. His jaw just hung open uselessly as he tried and failed to say or do anything.

“Oh? Too difficult for you after all? I will help you out: You will do this or the Florentine shall die. Perhaps afterward some information will come to light about your affections for him and this torrid affair will be all anyone will speak of for weeks. Either way, your life is ruined. It is your choice of whether you will bring him down with you, hm?” Alonso patted the deacon on the cheek a few times. “Cheer up. Should be an easy choice when you’re in love.” The cardinal then walked past him, towards the door.

Piero finally regained some barest amount of sense, turning around as tears of frustration and fear began to well in his stinging eyes. “Do you truly expect this of me? That I would damn my soul for this? Why do you demand this of me? Speak! Please!” Desperation strained his voice.

Alonso did not bother turning around. “You are already damned, you fool. You sought to murder out of petty envy.” He reached for the door with a flourish of his ferraiolo. “Like I said, go yourself or take the Florentine with you. Either way, your loose end will be tied; it is just a matter of whether the knot is by your hands.” Then, he left.

Piero collapsed to the floor.

What could he do? Maybe he could warn Vasco and they could flee… But Vasco wouldn’t leave that terrible Machete’s side! And the damn Habsburgs’ reach extended everywhere. Where would he go? What could he do?

His thoughts kept flashing back to the conversation he had this morning with Vasco. The awkwardness when Piero tried to flirt, the polite but feigned interest in his invitations to go out… Has Vasco’s heart been so truly captured? Has his own?

Oh, Lord, what to do? Please help. Please, somebody, save him.

The sun set. Darkness fell on the city and found Piero curled into a ball.

It would be difficult to find the strength to stand again, to march toward his fate and take it into his hands. When no savior showed, he had to get up on his own. With the weight of the damned on his shoulders, he trudged forward to find pen and paper.

Piero was thankful for the moonlight. It would be easier to do this at night.

Navigating to the Quirinale would be easy, he could do that from anywhere in Rome, but he didn’t have the first place he was visiting memorized quite yet. A few wrong turns and reorientations later, he stood before it: the Palazzo Firenze, a residence owned by the Medicis and, more importantly, where Vasco was staying on his trip to Rome.

After creating a ruckus outside, banging on doors and windows, a very tired-looking servant finally received him, carrying a candle.

“Where is the Count della Gherardesca? It is an emergency; I am from the Secretariat, I must speak with him!”

The man gave Piero an odd look. “He is not here, Signore. He has not been for days. He is with the secretary, I believe.”

That immediately deflated all sense of purpose in Piero. All-consuming despair fell upon him like a cloak. Of course Vasco was with that gargoyle. Even now. Especially now, he supposed.

“I—I see. Thank you. I will go there, then, I suppose…” Piero turned around and stalked back into the night, feeling the man’s eyes on his back until the loud slam of a door.

What on Earth could he do? Vasco was gripped tightly in those talons seemingly of his own volition. Even if Piero went up to him on his hands and knees, it wouldn’t change anything. Vasco wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t help him. He wanted to just lie on the cobbles and die then and there. But that would be too easy, wouldn’t it? Perhaps in some ways, that villain Alonso was doing him a favor. If he was to be denied what he needed most, it would be better to be dead.

He feared for his soul. He feared the act itself. And yet, after hearing that Vasco had been at the Machete’s for days emptied Piero out like a boot and just replaced everything with dread and despondence. Nervous energy filled him before, some slim possibility that he could run off with the Florentine, evading the steel kiss of the Spaniards before living some life happily ever after. Of course it was a fantasy. He was a childish fool for even considering it a possibility; he knew that Vasco had been captured by the Machete.

He unsteadily marched on towards the Quirinale.

He contemplated the method. When he was a youth in Venice, he practiced with the stiletto, as every young man of means did. It did not seem the best to give him a quick death, at least by his own hand; it would be hard to direct the force necessary towards one’s self, he figured. A slash to the throat was his best bet, from what he recalled of the anatomy lesson he attended in the Anatomical Theater in Padua. He had brought a kitchen knife with him for the deed.

Part of him still wanted to turn around and run. Perhaps he could simply warn Vasco and run, returning home to Venice? Go further than that? But the Machete would never run, and he would never release Vasco. Or, perhaps more accurately, Vasco would never release him, Piero reflected bitterly.

Tears welled up in his eyes again. Perhaps he could write a second letter to his family, so they would know why he did this? He wanted so desperately to tell them what was happening, to tell anyone what was happening, to receive some comfort or any acknowledgement of what he was doing. He wanted to scream and cry. But there was no one here for him. And he knew that Alonso would be prepared to destroy any letter besides the one he wanted to be there.

He reached into his pocket and fingered the Contarini family seal. Maybe he should destroy it and deny Alonso his evidence. Would he retaliate for that?

Nothing besides his death was certain anymore. It made him want to scream again. He just didn’t know what to do. He regretted everything. He recalled being a young boy, sick with smallpox and only barely surviving; would everyone have been better off if he had died then?

Finally, he was at the Quirinale. He had to stand in the piazza for a few minutes to compose himself, to wipe away the tears, to force himself to stop crying, before he could step towards the entrance. It was still guarded, even at this hour, but he was known as enough of an overnighter to be let in without hassle. He then looked down at the letter he held. He had quickly written it, blaming the abuses of the Machete for his suicide, with little substance beyond that. But… If Vasco was truly in love with the Machete, as much as he felt revolted at the idea… Perhaps it would be best to let him be that way? Maybe he was just hesitating, putting his death off, but it didn’t matter.

He burned his letter. Returning to his office for one last time, he quickly wrote up a new one. He didn’t want to implicate Alonso, as he felt it would definitely put Vasco in harm’s way, but perhaps he didn’t have to drag the Machete down with him. Perhaps he could make it up, just a little, for the harm he caused the man. Perhaps it would save his soul.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take long to write a letter. Piero left his office and began to make his way out. His steps got shakier, his eyes watered again, as he made his way towards the Giardini.

He picked a fountain at random. Then, he pinned his letter under a stone and sat on the lip. He pulled out the knife, then set it in his lap.

He stared at it for some time. He hesitated. But he had to do it. Everything was his fault. He put the one he loved the most in danger and called him to a den of vipers. He lived his life with little but envy and violence, even if indirectly. Perhaps he had already damned himself, as Alonso had said. He made his own bed and now he had to lie in it. He prayed for forgiveness. Then, he took it into his hand, shakily gripping it. He brought it to his throat. He hesitated again. He couldn’t stop the tears this time.

No one heard the sound of his body falling into the fountain. No one saw the red bloom in the waters illuminated by pale moonlight. No one knew how badly it hurt. No one heard his last word.

No one was with Piero Contarini when he died.

Cecilio clung to Vasco as the Florentine groggily came to awareness.

“Vasco,” he whined, “I am disgusting, please get Vittorio to draw us a bath!”

“Uh?” Vasco blinked at the filtered sun through the thick glass of Cecilio’s bedroom window. “Right, uh, yes, darling…” he mumbled, before tumbling out of bed.

Cecilio was very tender from last night, yes, but his sticky fur and the heady scent of sex was much more bothersome in the moment. He even shakily stood to get into the bath himself, submerging himself in the water while it was still warm.

It was worth Frosini’s scolding afterwards about exposing wounds to standing water.

All in all, it was a pleasant morning, even if Cecilio was increasingly sore. His only regret was that he and Vasco had to keep up appearances and bathe separately, with Vasco soon leaving for the day to take care of his ongoing business. The cardinal desired to cling to the man for the rest of the day, but alas, they are not totally free of obligation.

Any pleasant lingering feelings popped like suds when Vasco suddenly returned with Maurice in tow.

When Cecilio received them, he was propped up in his bed by putting a chair on its side and covering it with pillows. He needed solid support to stay upright that pillows alone wouldn’t provide. It was not as dignified as he would like, but it was the best Frosini could manage on short notice. The cardinal was also only clad in a loose robe, as he had been forbidden from his usual wardrobe for fear of it restricting the flow and balancing of his humors while he was recovering.

In other words, he looked ridiculous.

And yet, it didn’t occupy his thoughts: Before him, Maurice Rarogne was weeping.

It was a terrible thing to see a strong man cry. It was made worse by how poorly Cecilio had treated him recently, and how he had yet to apologize for it, and yet, there he was, on his hands and knees in Cecilio’s bedroom, crying as Vasco kneeled and patted his back solemnly.

“Signore Rarogne,” Cecilio said. “Maurice. Please, can you tell me what happened?”

“I failed in my duty,” he managed after taking a few moments to try and compose himself. “I failed in it for the second time in less than a week!”

Cecilio furrowed his brow. He was still fine. “How?”

Vasco looked up. “It’s Piero. Something happened to him.”

A chill ran down Cecilio’s spine. “What? What happened to him? Is he alright?”

“There was a body,” Vasco said, frowning. “I didn’t see it, but…”

That broke whatever composure Maurice had managed to claw back. Vasco managed to eventually get him up again, coaxing him into a chair. The Swiss Guard sat there, despondent, but managed to stop the flow of tears for a moment.

Cecilio felt like he just bathed in ice water. Was it the same culprit that targeted him? It had to be. Cecilio had assumed it was someone after his person, but now Piero? What did they want? It didn’t make sense if it was someone trying to destabilize the governance of the Church, either temporally or spiritually. Was there some message being sent? The pieces, as he could see them, made no sense.

And… Poor Piero. The man was very competent at their work and a good assistant. Not unbearable company, either. It was a genuine shame to see him caught up in this, but it just made matters more confused. There was also a part of him, very far back, that recalled what Vasco said about Piero still being in love with Vasco and was happy for the loss. Cecilio pushed that back.

Back in the moment, Maurice recovered a modicum of sense. Sitting on a chair a bit small for his broad frame, Vasco at his side giving reassuring pats on the shoulder, he finally looked up to Cecilio.

“Your Eminence… I have failed you twice now. I despair from the very bottom of my being. I may have been the last one to speak with Deacon Contarini. With him gone to his great reward, and you still so hurt you can hardly sit up, I have been utterly derelict in my duty. I—”

“Maurice,” Vasco interrupted. He started to speak smoothly, soothingly: “What happened to the cardinal was not your fault; you weren’t even there. And it seems like you weren’t present for Contarini, either, because I earnestly think you would have given your life for his. Am I wrong?”

Maurice shook his head. Vasco then looked up to Cecilio with a little smile and a nod, encouraging him to follow up.

“What the ambassador says is correct, Signore Rarogne. You were not at fault,” Cecilio said. “You will make up for it by further service.”

Vasco frowned at that last sentence, but Maurice looked up from his lap, nodding.

Cecilio returned it. “Then I pledge to not mistreat you further, as I had in the days before the attempt on my life. That way you will be at the top of your form, protecting me, and nothing else will happen. Does that satisfy your honor?”

Shakily, Maurice nodded again. “Yes, Eminence. It will have to.”

“Good. Now, since I became indisposed, can you tell us what happened?”

“I was upset that, after I was dismissed, you ended up being attacked, of course. I wouldn’t have been very effective in my state then, but perhaps I could have prevented any injury or at least caught your attacker—”

Vasco spoke up. “I think he meant with Piero, Maurice.”

“Ah. Yes, you are right, Highness. Well, after that attack, I considered guarding your home here, but His Holiness had already assigned heavier guard and I didn’t want to disturb your rest by being at your side at all times. So, I decided to protect the Deacon since he would be doing your duties until you were healed. There were no issues at all, really. It was all average days, standing in the corridor, seeing His Highness here and a few other officials… Even last night wasn’t unusual until the Deacon dismissed me.” Maurice swallowed, still upset. “He said he had private business and that he wouldn’t be targeted like you. I didn’t want to leave him alone, but he ordered me home, and I complied. Then, in the morning, I went to his home to escort him to the Quirinale, but he wasn’t there. I went to the Palazzo and found his body had already been discovered, dead in a fountain.” He seemed to recall the image and it returned him to the brink of tears.

Vasco took over, again giving the Swiss a pat on the shoulder. “It is strange, though. When I returned to the Palazzo Firenze, I was told that someone had come in the middle of the night looking for me. From the description, it sounded like Piero. One of the night guards at the Palazzo mentioned seeing him return at night, too.”

Cecilio furrowed his brow, resting his face on steepled fingers. Piero had private business, left, returned, and was murdered afterwards? It made little sense.

“Didn’t you mention something being found near him, Maurice?” Vasco probed.

“Oh, yes,” the Swiss wiped at his eyes. “There was a letter, apparently. I didn’t get a chance to read it before it was taken by one of the other Guards.”

“A letter? Left by the murderer?”

“I don't rightly know, Highness. I will go and see if I can find out its contents.”

“No, no, my good man, you are still distraught. I will take care of that; you stay here.”

“Vasco,” Cecilio spoke up. “He wants to feel useful. Let him be. Besides…” I want you here with me, he left unspoken.

Vasco frowned, but let Maurice go. The Guard stood up and marched off, looking determined, leaving Vasco and Cecilio alone. The two of them sat together once again, reminiscing about Piero.

“He was good at what he did, even if he was not exactly kind to me in our youth,” Cecilio offered. “It was pleasant working with him. He did not pry as often as some of my other assistants have.”

“I was friends with him before I met you. I think he was there when that great big bully Alessandro threw that stone at you,” Vasco said, looking off into the distance. “As odd as it seems to say, I don’t think I ever would have tried to get closer to you if it weren’t for that.”

“I suppose I was… prickly.”

“Was?”

Cecilio glared, but broke down into smiling when Vasco did. They sat there together, Cecilio in Vasco’s arms.

A few hours later, Maurice returned, bearing the letter itself.

“Taken by some overzealous man to the Commander of the Guard, evidently,” Maurice dutifully reported, back in good form. He stood at attention.

“An overzealous Swiss Guard? Perish the thought,” Vasco joked.

“Highness?”

“Forget it, Maurice. Thank you for this.”

“Yes, thank you, Signore Rarogne,” Cecilio said. “Why don’t you return home and get some rest? You are dismi—”

Vasco held up his hands. “It seems dismissing Maurice is a bit of bad luck, hm? Why don’t you go assist the guards outside?”

Maurice had begun to frown, but quickly nodded when Vasco began to speak. “Very well, Highness. I will protect the cardinal without fail this time.”

Cecilio nodded along. “Good, then. You can guard here until I return to the Palazzo.”

Maurice gave a salute and a bow, leaving the bedroom behind. Alone, Cecilio immediately began to open the clearly already opened letter. The two began to read it:

And that was it. A tear-stained letter that was covered in errant marks of ink, as if the writer wanted to say more, but did not. It was definitely in Piero’s hand as well. And yet… To Cecilio, it did not give a satisfying answer as to why Piero was taking his life. What sin was so grave that he could not confess it? He did not even elucidate to what he did that was so bad within the letter itself. And why the sudden change of heart?

Vasco, for his part, was tearing up at the letter.

“Oh, Piero… You little fool.”

“Vasco…”

“What? Look, he was crying. He apologized to his family. It is sad; I am sad.”

Cecilio opened his mouth, then closed it. Perhaps he should be less focused on those details in the moment. Piero was a friend. Even if it turned out that he ‘envied’ something of Cecilio’s. Even if he was in love with Vasco.

Vasco sniffed, setting aside the letter as he brushed a tear away. “It just makes me want to return to my family and remind them that I do love them, despite everything. What about y—”

The cardinal gave Vasco a look. He sheepishly looked down.

“I’m sorry.”

“It is alright.”

They spent the night together again, emotional from the experience. Cecilio still didn’t know quite what to do with the letter; he didn’t know what the contents really meant. He supposed he wouldn’t. Piero wouldn’t hire killers and then immediately kill himself for it, right? A man capable of doing that in the first place wouldn’t retreat so easily. It was another layer of complexity in the events of the past month.

He would just have to be careful and conscious.

Two weeks passed. Piero’s suicide lowered the mood around the house for a few days, but life moved on, as Cecilio and Vasco were determined to make the most of their time together. Unfortunately, they could hardly travel with Cecilio’s recovering wound, so they were stuck inside together for most of this time, having to make their own fun.

Once Cecilio was well enough to move around, however, they managed to squeeze in a few days going about the city, with Maurice trailing behind them. They saw the old wonders of ancient Rome and the new wonders of the modern era, they saw the old city and the new, but mostly they saw each other, and were happy for that.

This blissful time could not last forever. The consiglieri of Florence approved of Vasco’s work and recalled him to the city.

They were to be separated once more.

Vasco read the letter again and sighed, tossing it to the bedroom floor. “I can linger on for a few days, but I am expected. I will have to return.”

“I know.” Cecilio smiled sadly. “You couldn’t stay here forever. We both have obligations. But… We could write.”

Vasco nodded. “We will write. You have not even begun to receive letters, darling. Mine will redefine the art of correspondence.”

They laughed, lingering in this moment that suddenly felt so fleeting. Another two days were all that Vasco managed to take before he had to leave.

Cecilio returned to his own duties in this time. Without Piero around, work began to pile up; the cardinal would have to find a new assistant soon. He wasn’t sure he would find someone so able again.

As he prepared to go home again for his last night with Vasco, Cecilio was intercepted. Cardinal Alonso de Grado, Archbishop of Valencia, stepped foot into his office. When he saw Cecilio, he clapped his hands together and gave a broad smile.

“Oh, I am so pleased you are back in good health, Eminence! I am so pleased to see you again.”

Cecilio frowned. Of all the people to seek him out first, it’s Alonso? To do some gloating, he had to guess. This was either going to be annoying or have some deadly implication… Or both, he supposed.

What he actually said was: “Eminence.”

“Oh, so cold. So cruel. Are we not colleagues? Friends?”

Cecilio fixed him with a flat look. “Get to your point. I have more important matters to attend to than wasting time exchanging barbs with you.”

Alonso shook his head with a theatrical sigh. “A shame! I do enjoy running rhetorical circles around you. But alas, since you are so busy, I shall be crass with you.” He adjusted his fur, then folded his arms over his chest. “I simply wanted to give you my condolences for your poor deacon’s suicide. I happened to speak with him the night he died; he truly had me fooled, I had no idea of his inner turmoil. He and I were such good friends, too…”

Of course. Either he had something to do with what happened with Piero or he knew who did. It was maddening to be led around by the nose by the Spaniard’s double speak; a little coal of searing anger came to life. He stood, which earned a scandalous little “Ooh,” from Alonso.

“Eminence. Cardinal de Grado. I have had enough of your veiled threats and statements for several lifetimes. You had something to do with Piero. Very well. What do you want? Just to flaunt that in my face? As I said, do not waste my time. I have very little patience for this today.”

Alonso acted taken aback, holding a hand to his face before he smirked back at Cecilio, planting hands on hips. “Oh, I see how it is. It makes sense, I suppose, as you do so desperately want to run off to the one you love, hm? Getting the most out of your last day together? Have one last little date in mind?”

Cecilio frowned, the heat of his anger mixing in with a sudden, sharp fear, like ice in his veins. “What are you accusing me of, Eminence?”

Alonso laughed. He then closed the distance, stepping up to Cecilio before reaching up and draping arms over his shoulders. The two were face to face now. Cecilio was genuinely shocked into silence by the sudden intimate gesture. “I know about you and Vasco, darling Cecilio.”

Cecilio shoved the other man away, retreating a few steps away as panic set in. What?

Alonso laughed as he stumbled from the sudden shove. He followed, stepping forward, cornering the other cardinal. “It’s true. You know I’m right. Of course, from me, it would just be slander… but you two have been spending an awful lot of time together, haven’t you? He runs over from Florence to here when you are hurt, he runs across the Palazzo when you become a paranoid mess, and poor Piero asks after him in the night only for him to have been in your home for days, now weeks… You were not discreet, just like the machete you are. Sharp, but obvious, lacking in refinement. Useless in a true fight.”

“Stop with the taunts. You have no proof. It would just be slander. He is just a good friend of mine.” Machete grit his teeth. This couldn’t be happening. Why? After finally recovering from his wounds, after the happiest few days of his life, after even starting to pray…

Alonso smiled. No warmth reached his eyes, peering sharply at Machete. “Oh, alright. So, you would consent to a full investigation from the Inquisition, then? The questioning of your servants and doctor? Would they all maintain that there was absolutely nothing untoward going on, that his regular habitation in your home and bedroom was purely a sign of your intense friendship?”

Machete’s heart pounded in his chest. That feeling of ice worsened, suffusing his person, as if he were suddenly swimming through it. “You would use the Inquisition to settle a personal vendetta? They investigate matters of heresy—”

“And what is a cardinal knowingly committing a grave sin if not an act of heresy? Of apostasy, even? Such acts harm and debase the church and could be grounds for execution. This is within the purview of the Congregation, my foolish Machete.”

“But you can’t launch an inquest by an accusation! You need—”

“Proof? A reason for investigation? There is plenty to go on. Piero’s death alone is very suspicious, isn’t it? Perhaps a look into that would find threads, curious little things that bring them to look into your life. You are intimately tied to the matter, after all. He addresses you in his little letter.”

Machete pushed past the other man as he realized he was right, nearly tripping over himself. It was too much. He was panicking. Some animal part of him wanted to pull out his stiletto and take care of Alonso then and there, but it would end everything here and now. It would confine him, get him killed, and he’d never see Vasco again. How could this be? Why was this happening?

Of course, Alonso did not stay away. It was his time to shove Machete, holding the taller cardinal to his desk, stopping the pacing before it began. His intense eyes bored into Machete’s. “Stop panicking. Listen to me, fool. It doesn’t have to come to that.”

“What?” Machete swallowed, turning his head away. Fear and anger battled in his heart, but fear won. “What do you want?

Alonso clasped his hands together, beaming radiantly. “It’s simple, really. Just listen to what I say. Keep me apprised of the affairs of your office. Do things when I tell you to do them.” Alonso reached out, pulling Machete’s face to look toward him once more. “Are you listening? Do you understand me?”

Machete would normally be so furious about being touched like this, but he felt the most scared he ever had in this moment. His position in life hung on a precipice and could easily topple either way. So… he nodded.

Alonso smiled, releasing him and then patting him on the head condescendingly. “When His Holiness passes, sure to be soon, you’ll resign from this position and be put somewhere more fitting to your talents. As long as you are smart about this and follow my orders, there doesn’t have to be any trouble, hm? You can sin all you want with dear Vasco. And if you start to ignore me, start getting ideas about how you could wiggle and scheme your way out of this…” He steepled his fingers together near his neck, slowly pulling them apart with a show of violent effort. “I have friends in Florence.”

Clutching at his face, Machete pulled away, pacing near the sole painting in his office. “Oh, Lord,” he muttered to himself.

“The Lord is with us now, my friend,” Alonso called, sitting on Machete’s desk. “You were living in sin, but now you work with the Kingdom of God on Earth. I am sure He will forgive you for your transgressions. Even, perhaps, your sodomy.”

Being called friend by Alonso again, being trapped in his web of intrigue, the implicit threats against Vasco, it was all too much. Machete ran out of the office. Hyperventilating, stumbling through the corridor, vaguely aware that he was being followed by Maurice. He lost track of how long it took, but Maurice caught him by the arm, talked at him, but Machete didn’t really comprehend. He looked past Maurice to Alonso smiling at him from down the corridor.

When Maurice shook Machete bodily, the cardinal regained his senses, blinking.

“Are you alright, your Eminence? What is the matter? Why did you run?”

Machete gently pulled away, standing on his own and catching his breath. “I am well. I apologize for that. I just heard… very surprising news. It was overwhelming. I had a dizzy spell.”

Even Machete could hear how unconvincing he sounded. Maurice stared at him, concerned.

The Guard took a step away. “Are you sure? It did not seem—”

“Yes. Yes, I am fine now. Let’s go home, Maurice.”

The use of his name had the Guard even more concerned, but he could hardly question the cardinal any further. With the sun setting, light threatening to vanish beyond the horizon, the two returned. Machete felt the concerned look on his back the entire way home.

Returning home, Machete could not help but feel extremely aware of everyone around him. The guards, the staff, were they in league with Alonso? Was the Spanish cardinal simply assuming that they would tell damning details when questioned? He supposed it was moot at this point. He could not let another fit of paranoia consume him. It would ruin his last day with Vasco. So, even though Machete wanted to just return to his bedroom and cry in isolation, he was smiling when he saw Vasco again.

Being in Vasco’s arms made feel safe again, even if he knew that he truly wasn’t.

“Are you alright, Cecilio? Maurice said you suddenly burst out of your office earlier.” Vasco pet Machete’s head as he spoke, finally breaking the hug and looking at him with those loving dark eyes.

Machete placed his arms on Vasco’s arms, nodding. He rubbed at the Florentine’s biceps and shoulders, happy to feel a comforting warmth instead of the heat of Hell. “I just had to get home to you, of course. I needed to witness your last night at home, as much of it as I could.”

Vasco smiled at that, taking one of Machete’s hands and kissing it. “When did you become such a flatterer?” Then, he pulled Machete down by that hand until they sat next to each other on the bed.

Machete allowed this, resting his head on Vasco’s shoulder. “Well…” He trailed off, considering. Should he mention this? It would almost certainly just worry Vasco. There was nothing he could do right now. His next moves would have to be very carefully considered if he was going to maneuver his way out of it. So… he lied again. A lie of omission, but a lie nonetheless. “Things are being put in perspective to me. With you leaving again, I suppose. I love you, Vasco, and do not ever want to hesitate in saying that I do.”

“You’ve hardly hesitated before now.” Vasco petted Machete, fingers playing with his fur. “Or are you just a little sad that I’m leaving now and don’t want to say it?” He teased with a little laugh.

“Of course I am sad! I just…” He sighed. “I don’t want the words to lose their meaning. To be things that you have heard me say over and over until they are just another noise.”

“Darling, I love to hear all of your noises.” Vasco then leaned in. “Especially the ones where you—”

Machete tried to shove Vasco’s face away, but the Florentine did not relent. The two men playfully pushed against one another for a bit, Machete trying to wrestle himself away from Vasco’s grip, but of course the spindly cardinal lost. He kissed the top of Machete’s head as they laughed, all while Vasco had him pinned to the bed.

For the moment, though, they settled down. Vasco pulled away enough for the two of them to just lie down with each other.

“You don’t have to worry about it becoming noise, my love. Every time you say something like that… I am so happy.” Vasco found and squeezed Machete’s hand with his own.

“Well, if you say so…”

“I do, indeed, say so.”

It felt so cruel, keeping Vasco out of it. A lead weight laid on his heart. If Alonso was right, however, it would only make Vasco worry about leaving Machete with a nest of vipers. There was nothing the two of them could do at the moment. Anything to extricate Machete from this problem would require careful, considered actions and allies. Perhaps he was underestimating Vasco, assuming that he was merely dancing through life in Florence, but there was too much at stake to risk telling him until he was absolutely sure.

“How are we going to endure it?”

Machete’s head snapped to Vasco, broken out of his reverie. “What?”

The Florentine gave him a look. “The separation.”

Machete leaned on him again. “We managed for years. I am sure we will be fine.”

“I didn’t expect to see you again. That was how I managed. But knowing that you are here, just a few days’ travel away, and I just can’t stay with you… That’s much more difficult.”

Looking up, Machete gave a shaky smile. “The letters will help. And you will be able to visit, I hope.”

Vasco sighed, then kissed Machete, running fingers through the fur around his neck and further mussing up all the careful grooming that he applied this morning. “We’ll manage, I suppose. We have to.”

Sighing, Machete nodded, letting Vasco mess up his orderly fur. “Yes. We have to endure. For each other’s sake.”

The two lay there, enjoying the touch of the other for the last time in who knows how long. Eventually, Vasco said: “You know, I guess it’s not the separation that’s bad. It’s the anticipation of seeing each other again, I think. When I was coming here, knowing that you were around again, that you had maybe been hurt… That’s what hurt me. Not being apart, but knowing that I would be close again soon and that it wasn’t quite time yet.”

“I suppose neither of us are particularly patient men,” Machete said ruefully.

“Mmhm. To be fair, though, there’s a lot to look forward to.”

“I am glad you think so, Vasco.”

The Florentine patted the cardinal on the head. “Of course I think so. I love you.”

Machete smiled again. Despite everything, it was the broadest, brightest smile he had managed in their time together. “I love you, too.”

Vasco then barraged him with kisses, leaning in to get every part of Machete’s face that he could. “Cecilio, Cecilio, Cecilio.” His ears battered at Machete as well, seemingly joining in on the fun.

Machete tolerated this for the moment. “What? What?”

“I’m saying your name again. Because I enjoy it.” When Machete finally pushed him away, Vasco rested his head on Machete’s chest. “It is a lovely name. Beautiful and elegant like the man it belongs to.”

“Getting in enough that you will feel satiated for our time apart?”

“Hopefully.”

“Oh, Vasco…”

The Florentine laughed at the seeming admonishment, but Machete nearly cried then and there. His heart overflowed. How could he do anything but love his fellow man? Machete had to protect him. To protect this tender love, the most beautiful thing on this foul Earth, until they could meet together again in Heaven. This perfect moment could not have been a mistake.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms. Tomorrow morning, Vasco left, returning to Florence.

Machete was left alone with Alonso. It turned out the Spaniard had a lot of things that he wanted his Machete to do. In the first few weeks, they saw each other every day, discussing every aspect of state policy and how exactly Machete should handle them. He even had to support Alonso in unofficial matters, maneuvering behind the scenes to root out recalcitrant, problematic elements of the church. He lived up to his name. He made enemies he wouldn’t have without this gun to his head. Every moment was misery, infuriating miserable drudgery.

But it kept Vasco safe. It allowed them to be together in the fleeting moments they could spend with one another.

Machete eventually decided that Vasco was right: Being apart in and of itself wasn’t terrible. It was nice to have a routine that he could just work at on his own. Separation wasn’t the end. No, it was everything that followed: The worry, the fear, the desperate desire to see him again. Then, when they decided they could finally meet again on some trip, the waiting for him to arrive was the worst torture of all. Every little delay spawned a new fear of something terrible befalling the Florentine along the way. After that, when they were together again, a new cycle began: Worrying over when he would leave.

Perhaps all that did mean that being apart was the worst? He doesn’t know. He just wished he could spend his days without worries. Alas, it seemed he never would. He made a deal with the devil by working with Alonso.

And so, that was how Cardinal Cecilio Chiarini lived. He looked forward to when Vasco could visit. Otherwise, he did his work, being the Machete. He spent a lot more time as Machete than as Cecilio. He tried to find ways out of the trap he was caught in, but he was caught tight. After all, he had to protect Vasco. He loved him. What other reason was there to exist beyond that?

Pope John XX died. His protégé went on to head the very Inquisition that trapped him, sidelined by Alonso. Stuck further in the jaws that held him there. Both Machete and Vasco’s obligations grew, and visits became sporadic. Machete was now infamous, the hardline inquisitor, the villain of the Papal government who secretly had his strings pulled by the hero, a dynamic, young, and charismatic Spanish cardinal. It was not an easy life.

Piero died years ago. Maurice Rarogne died protecting Machete from another assassination attempt, one that would have definitely succeeded if he were not there. Vittorio died in a plague outbreak that destroyed his small body. Machete was utterly alone.

The last time they met, Vasco found Machete standing on a balcony, looking down over the countryside. Vasco knew it was in the direction of Rome. They stood together, hugged one another, but Vasco could tell that some part of his beloved never left that city. There was a sadness in the air between them that neither could express. Both had been changed by their lives again. Vasco was a father and heavily involved in Florence’s government, a favorite of the Medici court, which kept him busy; Machete ran the Roman Inquisition, sending instructions to local tribunals to keep virulent Protestantism from spreading into Italy. Their constant correspondence from years ago had dwindled as their responsibilities increased. They loved each other, but circumstances strove to tear them further apart every day.

It was after that meeting where Machete executed his plans for revenge against Alonso. Like that one night so many years ago, Alonso turned the corner in Rome to find himself skewered on a stiletto. Unlike that attempt on Machete’s life, the hitman was well chosen and well paid, and he ensured it was a mortal wound. The bright reds that Alonso cherished so much were overcome by a dark crimson, then crusted brown when the blood dried.

When the Spaniard died, Machete followed soon after. He would never know if it was some contingent plan for Alonso’s death or just happened from some unrelated deed; it didn’t matter either way. He didn’t see it coming; it was a pistol that blew his guts from his body, leaving him to die in shock on the pavestones. Some would say it was fitting that the creature of such a medieval institution was killed by a tool of the modern age.

When he lay dying, Machete thought he saw Vasco walking towards him. He reached out to him, called his name, then collapsed. He was not even fifty years old when he died. Vasco learned about Machete’s death one month and one week later. He arrived in Rome only to find a tombstone; he was the only one that ever laid flowers at the grave.

Using his wealth as a patrician of Florence, Vasco spent the rest of his life commissioning artwork of the dead cardinal. He died, decades later, surrounded by his family.

In Vasco’s study, there was a grand portrait of a cardinal that took years to complete. It was no impressive scene, no classical representation, it was just of this cardinal standing in his cassock in a garden. He was looking at something off canvas, hand outstretched towards whatever mysterious subject grabbed his attention, clearly an object of yearning and affection for him.

A century and a half later, Vasco’s descendants found another portrait in storage, this time of Vasco himself. He mirrored the pose but from the opposite side, even matching the expression. The scene was the same, as if they were in the same location.

The della Gherardesca didn’t know that the cardinal painting had a pair in the diptych. They displayed the two paintings on opposite ends of a hall until they sold their house and most of its furnishings in the 18th century. They narrowly avoided being burned during a fire while on display in a gallery in the 1880’s. Now, the two portraits hang side by side in the Uffizi in Florence. During a restoration, it was found that the two were once one, clearly sawed apart at some point.

Modern art historians know the subjects of the painting, but are unsure of why the singular canvas was cut apart and displayed apart. No one knows how Count Vasco della Gherardesca and Cardinal Cecilio Chiarini knew one another, as there are no private records of the two that survived them to the 21st century, but one thing is obvious: There is meaning in their separation.

Some argued that they should be kept apart; they had been turned into two separate art pieces in a conscious effort and reuniting the canvases could damage them and change the intent. Others argued for them to be kept in separate frames but put together, reuniting them after they had spent centuries apart, yearning to be together. This line won out. Now, thousands of people wandering through halls displaying masterful works of art can see Cecilio and Vasco standing together, as they couldn’t publicly do in life. There is meaning in their separation, but there is meaning in them being together, too.

Chapter Text

Coda

PENSATO

“...And the statuary in the Loggiato was commissioned in the 1840’s by the Grand Duchy because the foreign Habsburgs wanted to ingratiate themselves to the local Italians and create a sense of autochthony—”

Vasco laughed, brushing his ear out of the way as he turned to look at Cecilio. “You remember that I grew up here, right?”

Cecilio compulsively adjusted his Armani coat, looking away. He had been talking about the history of the Uffizi for almost their entire walk so far. “Well, of course, I… I just wasn’t sure if it was your area of interest, is all.”

“I just wanted to let you know that it’s cute. And you’re cute when you give your little lectures.”

“Lectures? Are they lectures? I don’t want them to be so one-sided—”

Vasco shook his head with a smile, hugging the other man to his side for a moment. “Relax, Cecilio. You are good.” He paused, then looked back over. “My professore d’arte.”

It was moments like these that Cecilio wished his fur concealed his blush. At least a little bit would be nice. Vasco’s smile turned into an amused grin, which only made the rush of heat to his face worse. Cecilio pulled away, looking to his side of the street and clearing his throat.

Thankfully, Vasco decided to give him mercy. “We’re almost at the Signoria. We can walk into the Loggiato from there.”

Cecilio glanced down at his phone. He trusted Vasco, of course, but it felt comforting to know where they were and ensure they didn’t get lost. “I’m glad I was too busy to go until now. Having someone to discuss the art with brings out the best of it, I think. Little things you didn’t notice, or… new perspectives.”

“Oh? Think I have anything new to contribute?”

“I think everyone does. Or… has the possibility to, I suppose. Not biased by things that people like me have been told.”

The two of them shifted with the surrounding foot traffic, moving out of the way of a large construction site occupying most of the street. Cecilio frowned as a bit of dust languished in the air as some pave stones were lifted, brushing himself off several times.

Vasco gave him a look.

In response, Cecilio held his head up high. “What? I don’t want to get dust on a work by Caravaggio or da Vinci. Do you?”

Vasco laughed. It was a beautiful laugh, Cecilio thought. As carefree and joyful as could be, as if from a passing angel, gracing the world with his presence for a fleeting moment; a glimpse of true beauty. Just as in the first time he heard it in the little café where the native Florentine worked, his heart ached to hear another.

The Piazza della Signoria loomed in front of them now, the sun casting long rays into the via. The two passed by a pharmacy and a caffetteria before they were plunged into the piazza and its light.

Cecilio covered his eyes, taking the opportunity to turn away from the sun and look at Vasco. He was smiling, looking up at the Palazzo Vechio, his golden fur saturated with equally golden light. His white dress shirt and dark slacks were simple and untailored, sure, but were chosen well and elegant in their own way. His broad shoulders and the hint of collarbone from the first few buttonholes being unfilled and collar being slightly askew filled Cecilio with a hunger not born from lack of food. And then, that delicate motion of adjusting his ears, sweeping them over his shoulders…

“Cecilio?”

He straightened out. “Uh, yes?”

Vasco smiled. “You know, if you took a picture, you could stare at it all you wanted.”

Cecilio returned the smile shakily, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… True,” he fumbled. “But a photo could hardly contain your vivacity, the truth of your form, the—”

“The way I love it when you talk like this? Or get lost in thought while you stare at me and think of how handsome I am.”

“Well—Yes. If you want to put it in layman’s terms.”

The two laughed. Vasco pulled Cecilio closer to give him a little kiss on the forehead. He strained to contain his tail and failed.

In the shadow of the Vecchio, Cecilio could finally admire the palazzo. He always adored a clock tower, of course, but the little gallery with the various coats of arms was just as lovely. And, of course, the replica of Michelangelo’s David where the original had stood for so many centuries… The façade itself wasn’t as impressive as later palazzi, but it was medieval, so that wasn’t surprising. The marble frontispiece adorning it with the field of fleur-de-lys was beautiful in person. Dozens of people streamed by, heading into their destination, chattering all the while.

And then, next door, the Loggia dei Lanzi! Cecilio nearly bodily dragged a surprised Vasco past the pilasters and their wide arches, bringing the two over to a particular spot and only narrowly avoiding another couple. Vasco tilted his head, amused at the sudden outburst of energy, while Cecilio held out his hands and framed the view.

“This is where Carlo Canella painted the piazza in 1830,” Cecilio announced, stepping this way and that to try and match the view as perfectly as he could. When he did, he snapped a photo, then compared the two for Vasco, swiping between them with a little smile. Now it had a few more bikes and electronic scooters, but the fundamentals were still the same.

“I can’t say I’ve heard of him, but I like the view.”

“Well, his brother was the better of the two, but there are one or two of Carlo’s that I like.” Cecilio realized that they were getting a few looks for their rush in, so he turned back to Vasco. “Well, uh, let’s go into the Uffizi, shall we?”

Vasco nodded along, giving his boyfriend a reassuring pat on the back.

The two circled the Loggiato degli Uffizi, admiring every sculpture of famous Italians along the way (aside from one or two that were blocked by construction work, frustratingly for Cecilio). Along with the usual flow of tourists, many Florentines stood among the steps, some local artists either admiring the architecture and sculpture work or offering their own art, either done on the spot or already completed. From the Vecchio end of the Loggiato, it stretched out before you, an elegant colonnade below regular coffering and rows of windows, broken up by the sculptures. Of course, the illusion was broken a bit by the aforementioned construction zone there, but Cecilio did not begrudge it. Much. At the end was a famed Doric screen, capped by a grand arch and the Medici coat of arms, looking out over the Arno.

Completing the circuit the two finally prepared to enter the gallery itself. Of course, Cecilio had prepared ahead by buying his ticket online, while Vasco fished through his pockets for the euros to buy one now. It meant they had to wait a bit longer to get in, but Cecilio didn’t mind the extra time to admire the cortile.

Finally, they began their trek through the gallery itself, trekking through the long corridors and following in the footsteps of the thousands of Europeans who had embarked through here on their Grand Tour. Cecilio was truly ecstatic, with Vasco smiling all the while even though he had been through several times before. From there, they dipped into a few of the halls Cecilio had chosen beforehand; the first was of his eternal favorite, Caravaggio. He lingered perhaps a bit longer than he should have, soaking up every little detail, before Vasco reminded him of their limited time.

They darted around from there, taking in the sights through the crowds. Of course, Cecilio had to visit the famous collection of self-portraits, whereon he pointed out the Rembrandts.

Cecilio then gestured to one in particular of a younger man. “And that one there is the Self-portrait as a young man, which—”

“Is now known as the Tronie of a Young Man with Gorget and Beret,” an unfamiliar voice called out next to them in slightly accented Italian. “Because it’s not a Rembrandt self-portrait, as it was thought for centuries.”

Next to them, a finely black-furred man with sharp features and a broad smile stood, wearing bright scarlet designer clothing. Cecilio wasn’t sure of the brand at a glance, but knew it was expensive. He furrowed his brow at the stranger.

“As I was going to say before you interrupted me, yes.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” He held his hands up to his face in seeming apology. “Didn’t want to let an old misconception linger, is all.”

Cecilio frowned, still annoyed at being interrupted, but let the slight go, conscious of Vasco’s presence. The man was another enthusiast, clearly. “Well… Good.” The two turned back, looking at the erroneously-assumed portrait. “I hear it’s possible that it was a Rembrandt portrait that was taken over by another artist partway through.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that theory too! It definitely has a hallmark of his self-portraiture, what with the elaborate clothing from the prior century. Perhaps it was one taken over by a student, or just someone attempting to copy his style. Whoever the artist was, he certainly had everyone fooled for quite some time, hm?”

Vasco looked between the two men as they went on about the painting for a few minutes, discussing Rembrandt’s self portraiture. All he could do was give a little smile, shaking his head. Oh, how Cecilio could lose track of time with his favorite topics! It was adorable. His face lit up so rarely, it was always a gift to see.

When Cecilio noticed Vasco checking his phone, he realized just how absorbed he was in the conversation. “Oh, I’m sorry, we do have a few more things I want to see. It was nice to talk to you, though.”

“And you too! Oh, I simply must ask for your number or a social. I’d love to hear your opinions on some other favorite pieces of mine.” The stranger retrieved his phone, holding his hands up pleadingly at the fellow art lover.

Cecilio glanced over at Vasco, who nodded enthusiastically. “Go on! You’ll be fast friends, like you told me with Vittorio, I’m sure.”

The two did exchange numbers, though the other man tried to offer a few social media accounts as well, with Cecilio shaking his head at each one. It turned out he was visiting from Valencia, though he had been to the Uffizi a few times before. The pair waved as they walked away.

“Do I look like I have an Instagram, Vasco?”

“Well…” Vasco looked down at Cecilio’s Armani-clad figure, all carefully tailored and kept as clean as could be from shed fur and other particulates. “I wouldn’t be too surprised.”

Cecilio looked at him with betrayed agony. “What? Really? But I’m not an influencer!”

“You look good, darling, that’s all. I swear it,” Vasco grinned.

They finished Cecilio’s planned itinerary with a bit of time to spare, surprisingly. Perhaps they had gone through it a bit too quickly. Oh, well, it wasn’t as if the Uffizi would disappear; they would have time to go, again and again. Cecilio wanted to see every hall; he wanted to devote an entire visit to the Tribuna, even.

With a bit of free time, Vasco brought Cecilio to a random hall they hadn’t visited before. It was mostly unthemed, containing a rather random assortment from across Europe, but it seemed to largely be diptychs and triptychs.

In the opposite corner of the room, nestled behind the pilaster with a famed masterwork of the early Renaissance, was a paired piece that immediately caught Vasco’s attention. Cecilio followed as the Florentine stepped over, curious, until he noticed just exactly what he was staring at.

Two portraits were positioned next to one another, their frames almost touching. The golden frames were mostly covered in natural elements, twisting vines and such, matching the garden background of the paintings. However, on the center of the side where the two met, an outstretched hand reached from the frame, slightly overlapping its opposite, clearly custom made for this pair in particular. The garden behind them was almost dreamlike, out of focus, fading into the distance like da Vinci’s atmospheric perspective. Perhaps it was Edenic?

The subjects of the portrait were what caught Vasco’s eye. One had sharp, albinistic features and was standing in the shade, clad in black with red piping; he appeared tired, utterly exhausted, and his arm that reached to the edge of the painting looked faltering, as if it were moments from drooping down to his side. The other was golden and softer-featured, suffused in the bright light of the midday sun and wearing elaborate, bright blue and golden clothes; just as he was opposite in other ways, this second figure was reaching out more energetically, more insistently, as if trying to call out to the other.

What was notable was how the figures, at a glance, resembled Cecilio and Vasco. Greatly.

“Huh.”

“Huh,” Vasco agreed.

“I’m not imagining that, am I?”

Vasco shook his head, then pulled Cecilio to his side, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. He held up his phone, taking a picture of the two with the portraits to their backs to compare.

Cecilio hummed. “Right next to it, it’s not quite so similar.”

Indeed, the one that resembled Cecilio was older, thinner furred; it had a droopy ear and more angular, sunken features. It looked like he had given up. The other was a bit rounder, with the beginnings of faded fur, and almost reeked of desperation. The resemblance was passing, but the placement of them next to each other was the shocking part.

“They look so… unhappy,” Vasco sadly mused.

Cecilio peered over the little plaque next to it. “Apparently, they were part of the same canvas originally; it was sawed apart, then the two were displayed across a hall from each other.”

“Any reason why?”

Narrowed eyes scanned the little lines of text further. “Uh… They’re not sure, it seems. Not even sure of the artist, but they think it’s from here, from Florence, at least.”

“Huh. Surprised they know so little about it, then.”

Cecilio nodded along, then turned back to the paintings. Literally torn apart, kept in private ownership for a few centuries, then displayed among the masterworks of Florence, with almost nothing known of its provenance or purpose; these two had been through a lot. “I’ll have to research it when we get home. I’m surprised I hadn’t seen it before now.”

“Maybe no one brought it up because they didn’t want the ghost of the man in the portrait haunting you.”

Cecilio huffed. “As if. He only looks like me because I’m with you. I don’t think anyone would mistake this for me normally. I mean, look at that, he’s so… depressed! His face is like a knife.”

“Maybe that’s you in ten years,” Vasco laughed.

“Ugh. More like ten hundred.”

They laughed together this time. Cecilio then leaned onto Vasco’s side, resting his head on the Florentine’s shoulder.

Vasco hummed, wrapping an arm around Cecilio’s shoulder. His strong fingers squeezed at the slim man, pulling him tight to his side. “Well, I hope wherever these two are now, they’re having a much better time.”

Silent for a moment, Cecilio thoughts lingered on the figures in the portrait. Just how were they related? One wore a cassock like a cardinal, the other rich clothes. They weren’t family, unless adoptive, and their expressions were so… intense. He couldn’t think of anything they might be allegorical for, unless they represented the church and nobility in general, but what would it be saying if it did? That the nobles were desperate for a fading church? That doesn’t feel right.

He glanced over at the title once more: Separation. Bold and simple. Perhaps that was it. Two that were close now torn apart, much like the canvas itself. It was applied ex post facto, but it fit, he supposed.

Finally, Cecilio pulled away just enough to give Vasco a kiss on the cheek, pushing his ear out of the way. “I think they are. They have to be. Wherever they are, they’re finally together again.”

Vasco returned the kiss, but his eyes were transfixed on the painting. He rubbed at Cecilio’s shoulder. “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

Suddenly, Vasco pulled away, leaving Cecilio standing there. He walked out to the corridor after gesturing that Cecilio stay where he was; then, returning a moment later, Vasco brought a broad, soft man with him, carrying a large camera.

“Bonjour?” The man offered, furrowing his brow. He was just a bit shorter than Cecilio in Vasco, large and white-furred, unkempt and messy. The clothing he wore marked him as an obvious tourist: A plain shirt and cargo shorts with a floppy hat.He had an amiable, happy air, but was obviously confused.

“Salut, monsieur,” Cecilio returned, looking to Vasco.

“You speak French. Have him take our picture next to it!” Vasco gestured to Separation.

Cecilio laughed, then explained the situation to the Francophone tourist. The man was happy to help, but did have to do a double take when he noticed the painting behind them and their resemblance. He then told the two to take a pose.

And pose they did. Vasco stood in front of the Cecilio figure and Cecilio in front of the Vasco figure. Both of their hands clasped the opposite at their hips, and they stood eye to eye, gazing at each other. The photo was taken; then a couple more for good measure, wrapping arms around each other and then in a strong hug, tightly holding each other. Getting carried away in the moment, Vasco spun Cecilio around.

Cecilio laughed, but quickly pulled away, mindful of their company. He was grinning at them, letting the camera dangle by the strap around his neck.

“Vous êtes couple! C'est modern!”

“Oh, mon Dieu…”

Vasco couldn’t help but laugh at his boyfriend’s obvious embarrassment. He watched Cecilio speak with the other man in rapid French, figuring out how to get the photos. After a few moments of fiddling with their respective devices, Cecilio thanked him.

“Merci, merci, merci!” Vasco joined in.

“Non, non, merci pour ça!” He waved goodbye, returning to whatever he was doing before Vasco grabbed him.

“I’m so happy you still speak that brutish language,” Vasco joked.

“Yes, this rough, coarse, and barbaric language… French.”

They laughed together. Then, Vasco turned for one last look back at Separation.

“I’m glad we saw this. Seriously. I’d never seen that before. It’s almost as if… we were meant to find it together, you know?”

Cecilio hummed, looking down at the picture on his phone. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

They left the room together, heading for the exit as their time was up. They walked in silence until they were back in the Loggiato, surrounded by the statues of great Tuscan men.

Cecilio sat down on the top step, hugging his legs to his chest and staring down at the photos again. He swiped through them, seeing the progression of poses and intimacy, and gave a wistful little sigh. “Vasco?”

The Florentine, standing at the bottom of the steps, looked over to him. “Yes, darling?”

“I love you.”

Vasco smiled, stepping over to rest his head on Cecilio’s, kneeling next to him. “I love you too. What’s the occasion?”

“Just… thinking about that painting. If they were separated, they might not have gotten the chance to say it, you know?”

“Oh? Were they lovers, then?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care. I was just thinking… What would happen if I was suddenly torn away from you? I would want you to know that.”

Vasco laughed, settling down to sit next to Cecilio, spreading his legs down to the bottom step. “Well, I already know that, so don’t worry. Every time you lose your train of thought and just stare at me, or you spend twenty minutes explaining some minutia about a gallery or an artist, or even when you came every single day to our café, it just tells me again that you love me.”

Cecilio couldn’t help but blush, just a tiny bit, embarrassed especially by that last example. “Well… good. That’s good.”

“Only good?”

“Great!”

Vasco laughed, patting Cecilio on the back and rubbing it reassuringly. The Sicilian hid his face in his lap.

The two then sat there for a moment. Vasco watched people pass by while Cecilio huddled up. Eventually, Vasco turned back to his boyfriend, patting his shoulder. “You know what we should do, Cecilio? We should find an artist and get ourselves painted. I mean, I know we got the photos and all that, but… If it’s a painting, then it’s the same, right?”

At that, Cecilio finally showed his face. He adjusted his now scruffy fur. “Yes, I think so. That’s a good idea. There’s painters here, yes?”

They scanned around, looking at the various people lingering around the cortile. When Vasco pointed out one with an easel, a serious-faced man about their age with cream colored fur covered by splotches of brown, they stood, beginning to walk over.

“What should we call it? What’s the opposite of separation?”

“Hm… Unity? Closeness? Connection?”

Vasco hummed. “None of those are as artistic.”

Cecilio shugged. “Do they need to be?”

Silent for a moment, Vasco then said: “Why not just together? The opposite of being apart.”

“Closeness it is, then,” Cecilio smiled.

Whatever painting they’d get from a street artist probably wouldn’t end up in any galleries. It probably would just stay in their apartment and be seen by just a few dozen people. Yet that didn’t diminish it; the art existed, and that was its own statement. Many people saw Separation; fewer would see Together, but they would, and that’s what was important. They knew what it stood for, what it represented for them, that they would never be pulled apart, that they would spend the rest of their lives together.

Cecilio and Vasco loved each other. Whatever year it was said, whatever decade or century, it remained true. Their love had to stay from the public eye before now, but today, it could finally be freely expressed. And they will keep saying it, keep living that love, forever onwards into the future. Above all else, may they never have to endure separation again.