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“There was a bitter taste on my lips. Was it the taste of blood ? . . . Nay; but perchance it was the taste of love. . . .”
— Salomé, Oscar Wilde
Francesco lets himself be pulled into Lorenzo’s embrace. Strange what memories a touch can bring back. He briefly remembers the summer afternoons spent in the Medici gardens, running after Giuliano and Lorenzo. He remembers holding little Piero in his arms at his christening. He remembers Lorenzo’s lips on his own- sweet and teasing.
He remembers being in love with him.
Francesco grips Lorenzo at that particular memory. It’s a stab in the heart, one he doesn’t expect at all. His hands curl, ready to scratch Lorenzo’s back like they so often did during their nights together. Nights where he could taste Lorenzo’s sweat and drink his moans.
Nights long gone by now.
Lorenzo lets go of him, like he so often did when dawn came. Francesco makes his utmost to keep his mask in place, despite the uncertain look in Lorenzo’s eyes. His hand is still on his neck, and he can’t help but shiver at this intimate touch. It brings specific memories to his mind, ones he wants to bury deep. Lorenzo is not his anymore. Francesco turns to Giuliano, desperate to feel murder in his heart again.
Despite his best attempts, his lust for blood only comes back when the host is high in sight.