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Francesco had liked to think that Lorenzo mirrored him during the decade and so when they stopped being friends. Not in the sense of being a banker, of holding up the weight of his family’s expectations on his shoulders, of striving to earn Florence’s approval and her gold. No, more like the little things that became more symptomatic of heartsickness over the years. The things like Francesco wandering the house at night after Jacopo and Guglielmo were fast asleep, and returning to his room with a goblet of wine, and trying and failing to distract himself with a book, and finally laying down in bed, sweat on his brow, running a hand through his hair again and again. Agitated to the point of wanting to rip something apart, maybe the blanket he’d thrown off because he was too hot with the thoughts of Lorenzo in his mind. Or rather ripping the fabric of the world apart to create a new space, however small and ragged, where he and Lorenzo could reunite and be together and touch each other and Lorenzo would want him and breathe, Francesco slapping his own cheek, breathe, for God’s sake. It’s never going to happen.
Before every feast during any Medici and Pazzi peacetime, Francesco would look in the mirror, fix his collar, push back a stray hair, wipe off a spot of ink on his cheek he’d acquired at some point during the day at work. He’d stand there for an hour or more, looking into his own eyes, practicing his training. The training, thus far unsuccessful over a decade but goddamn he would try, was to clear the sheen of longing from his eyes, to force them to look neutral. Not blank, but indifferent. Eyes that could look at Lorenzo and be infused with enough courteous acknowledgement without instantly contracting a thrumming, painful heartbeat fever from the sight of his face, his body, the way he moved, the way he laughed, the way he, damn it, Lorenzo, just was. The way he was so beautiful it was nothing less than God laughing mockingly at Francesco.
Francesco convinced himself it was a positive sign of his creative imagination that he was able to vividly imagine Lorenzo leaving his own room in the Medici palazzo in the small hours and walking the halls, sipping from a goblet he kept forgetting was empty, leaning sideways against a wall in mid-step and closing his eyes, trying to cool his blood at the thought of seeing Francesco again. It was an easy picture to paint.
Too easy. Because all it took was for Francesco to conjure up a detailed remembrance of Lorenzo and it was possible to place him in any situation. In his home, on the street, at the bank, at a feast, in Francesco’s arms. Damn.
Francesco would bear down on his reflection, bore heat into his own eyes to scorch them clear, then make his way to the feast and spend as little time as possible around Lorenzo. As the designated Pazzi representative to Medici feasts during peacetime, he had to stay as long as was proper, make a round or two of the room, greet Lucrezia, Giuliano, Bianca, Sandro, before he’d turn around and Lorenzo would be there, always around, always the proper prince. Easy smile, hand extended. Francesco would promptly freeze his emotions, clear his eyes. He’d incline his head slightly, shake Lorenzo’s hand, make some chit-chat about how Fortune had smiled on their families and on Florence. Yes, how lovely. A pleasure to see you. Until next time. May your family be in God’s graces. Good night.
Once he was home again, the customary Yes it was fine, nothing unusual, typical ingratiating Medici charm from here to as far as the eye can see to his uncle and brother, and he could shut the door to his room and slump against the back of it. He’d cradle the hand that had touched Lorenzo’s in his other hand, as if it were a wounded bird that needed caring for, that couldn’t be neglected for fear of sickness. Sickness. That’s what this was. So many years of standing at one edge of the broken bridge of their childhood friendship, the ravine between them too steep, filled with too many stones.
Peace was only a word. It was as useful to Francesco as swimming against the tide. It was agony, and he threw himself into his duties at the bank, into currying his uncle’s approval, into making inquiries for a suitable bride for his brother, into staying in bed at night and not dreaming about him, him, him. Night dreaming, the kind you do alone in the dark with your eyes still wide open, was different than daydreaming. You can distract yourself from daydreams, there is always some work to be done. You can’t distract yourself from night dreams, the dreams you wander incautiously and inevitably into before sleep claims you. You have nothing to do, nowhere to go, the bed is a prison, the room is suffocating, the world is cold. Francesco wanted to batter his mind, if that’s what it would take to make him stop feeling, stop wanting to chase down the impossible, like a phantom.
So he decided to churn his frustration into full-fledged anger at Lorenzo. It seemed the easiest thing to do, and therefore the best.
At the next feast, it was incredibly agitating that the potential client he’d been courting changed sides and verbally signed a deal with Lorenzo during the two minutes Francesco had left the client while searching out a fresh goblet of wine for him. The urge to throw it in Lorenzo’s face made his hand shake so badly that he had to set the goblet on the table before turning on Lorenzo. Lorenzo’s face was a calm slate and his arms were crossed. Infuriating. You Medicis, Francesco had hissed, scraping up the anger from the pit of his stomach, unleashing it, pumping as much vitriol in it as possible, the pent up frenzy of years and years flying free. You Medicis. We’re in harmony in the eyes of all Florence right now. But Florence is blind, and it is because of your family. It always has been. You would gouge her eyes again and again if it meant her tears turned to gold to fill your pockets. Pazzi and Medici peace is not an occasion for joy. It’s an aberration in my family’s history. As soon as I leave here, I pray the tarnish will fade from me. But my prayers will be in vain. So go bleed my family dry and use our blood to slather your bricks of gold together to build your house of iniquity. I feel pale with blood loss already. But when you’ve finally killed me, make sure not to throw my body in the river. Make sure you eat it with a gold knife and fork. I wouldn’t put it past your Medici tastes to want to feast on your enemies in every way possible. You’re already vultures, so why not be cannibals as we-
His voice had stuttered to a halt when Lorenzo had grabbed his arm and jerked his head toward the direction of his study. In dazed bewilderment, he’d let Lorenzo half drag him across the hallway and into the room. His eyes had adjusted to the dark until small flames sprung up from the candles on the long table. Lorenzo had shaken out the match, then turned to Francesco, and pointed a finger at his chest. His voice held the note of the air before a storm.
You have disrespected me in my own home, in front of my guests, during peacetime. I should never have invited you. I’m going to ban you from my home. When people ask why you’re not at feasts, I’ll tell them it was because you couldn’t make time in your busy schedule away from kissing the ground your uncle walks on before you lick the mud off his boots until they shine.
Francesco felt like Lorenzo had snapped one of his bones, exposing raw tendons. He had gritted his teeth and pointed a finger back at Lorenzo. If you want me gone so badly, why am I in here and not on the street on the ground on my face where you’d like to throw me?
Because I’ve been waiting for this opportunity.
To insult me in private?
Yes.
Fine. Do your worst, or leave me alone.
A hiss. You don’t tell me what to do.
The pot, violently boiling, had tipped over and he’d felt the backs of his eyes burn. You’re a hypocrite, Medici. You tell everyone what to do. You’re worse than a hypocrite. You’re a dictator. Or one in training. You’ve not quite mastered the art yet, though, have you? An elegant man, a regal man, would have had his guards take me under arms and hauled me out while he stayed at the banquet and sipped his wine and painted the image of my bank black with the subtlest insinuations so that the people would think they discerned the lies for themselves and felt clever for it. And you would never have laid hands on me yourself. But I’m warning you. I’ll come for you one of these days. Yes, that is a threat. Take it to heart. Smashing his hands against a wall in his mind. And until then go to Hell. I’ll pay for your golden carriage to the entrance. The devil will thank me.
Deadly silence. Francesco’s chest had heaved. He had surprised himself with the viciousness of his words. They were by far the blackest he’d ever spoken to anyone, nevermind Lorenzo. The fact that they were spoken to Lorenzo should have felt like a victory. Like more water poured around the hard stalk of anger he had so carefully been cultivating. This was fairness. This was justice. How proud every Pazzi in his ancestry would be of him.
He had breathed in a satisfied breath as Lorenzo had moved out of the candlelight and Francesco could only see outlines of his body, its rigidity.
And then Lorenzo had stepped back into the light and the glow from the candles was dim but it painted his face with only the softest shades of yellow and gold. More importantly, in fact the only important thing in the world, was that his eyes had spoken the actual truth as loud as bells.
The stalk of Francesco’s anger had cracked. It was all he could do to keep from sinking to his knees when he saw that look in Lorenzo’s eyes.
They had the sheen that Francesco’s had, in the mirror at home before seeing each other.
The sheen of longing.
Of desire.
Lorenzo had taken deliberate strides over to Francesco and leaned his chest into Francesco’s outstretched finger, which he hadn’t realized he’d still been holding up.
One half smile. Lorenzo had lifted his chin. His eyes had a flare in them, dangerous, exciting.
I like it when you make me angry. I like being angry back at you. It makes me want you so, so badly. God help me, but it does.
Were those the words you heard at the gates of Heaven? Could Heaven be erotic? The walls of Francesco’s world shook, and life, as he knew it, rained beautiful chaos on him.
His voice had been husky. I like to be angry at you.
Lorenzo’s voice had been smooth but with a deliriously teasing note. Because it eases your desire? For just one second?
Francesco had tried for a similar teasing. Yes. And you clearly know the feeling. His chest was expanding and contracting too quickly with anticipation.
Yes. It’s too late to pretend I don’t. Lorenzo had leaned in even further so that their faces were an inch apart, his breath on Francesco’s face, warm like a piece of sun. Francesco. Touch me.
Stars had fallen in luminous bursts where Francesco’s longing ached, in the darkest shadows of his spirit, and he’d felt the sweetest pitter patter of heartbeats he was sure any human had ever had. He’d shaken his head dazedly but determinedly. This was his moment. Fortune, I kneel before thee. And now I’m going to rise.
He shoved one more piece across their chessboard and then ended the game. This was the moment, damn it. This was the vibrant air after the storm.
He had leaned back against the wall. No, Lorenzo. You touch me.
So Lorenzo had nearly knocked Francesco’s head back against the wall as he gripped his face, pushing him off his center of balance, crushing his lips against Francesco’s, then again, then again, then again.
It was Francesco’s first kiss. Kisses, in fact, because Lorenzo couldn’t seem to stop, and so Francesco couldn’t either. Blessed are those who wait a lifetime.
***
They do it first like they’re still angry at each other, although of course they’re not, they’re too ecstatic at finally being together, but making a game out of it quickly proves irresistible. They half-wrestle each other to see who can grab whom from behind, can yank his collar down, can apply his lips just below the line of it so that the bruises made from sucking the skin won’t be seen when the collar is pulled back up. So that the broken blood vessels blooming into beautiful webs are their hidden twin marks, stamps that read Yes.
Lorenzo has managed to suck both sides of Francesco’s neck, and Francesco one of Lorenzo’s. The warmth and wetness of Lorenzo’s mouth on his neck makes Francesco’s blood feel like it weighs nothing in his veins, his head so light that he’d float away if Lorenzo weren’t trying to hold him to the earth. Every second that passes feels like a hot, tangible thing. Francesco moves in towards Lorenzo’s neck but Lorenzo grabs his forearm and trips him off balance, onto one of his knees. As Lorenzo lowers him all the way down to the carpet and begins unlacing Francesco’s shirt in earnest, Francesco feels as though he’s being wrapped up as well. Like some invisible, loving hand is draping a silk shawl around him for once in his goddamn life instead of laying tar under his feet.
Lorenzo manages one bite on one of the delicate bones framing the hollow of Francesco’s throat before Francesco’s head returns to him enough and he shoves Lorenzo off him and flat onto his back. They roll around until they hit the leg of the table hard enough so that it jars and papers float off and a book falls with a thunk. They both freeze at the noise, but no one could have heard it over the sounds of the feast, and Francesco takes the opportunity to shove Lorenzo on his back again. He gently places a knee on Lorenzo’s chest, gazing down at him in delirious triumph. Lorenzo is shaking in silent laughter, his breath gently blowing the loose laces of Francesco’s shirt. Francesco feels enormous disbelief at having the fevered and adored object of desire pinned bodily under him. It’s hilarious in its unlikeliness and that’s what makes it a thumping joy in his whole body. Lorenzo looks gorgeous sprawled beneath him, curls stuck to his forehead, breathing shallow, mouth twisted to the side, like he’s basking in the glory of this faux defeat, saying I lose, what do I get for being the loser?
Lorenzo’s lack of composure, his aura of being utterly undone, feels like a private gift pressed into Francesco’s hands. No mask, no haughtiness, no imperial set of the shoulders. A man sprawled out, face open, those beautiful planes of his face showing every unbidden emotion, every joy. It’s better than a miracle. It’s come from his wanting to open up to Francesco, not from an act of unknowable fate. Perfect in his honesty with every unstudied rising and falling breath.
Francesco leans down toward him, unsure yet whether he wants to bite him back or finally claim the one side of his neck he has yet to suck, when Lorenzo squeezes the back of Francesco’s thigh.
It’s like Lorenzo has dunked Francesco’s head into cold water, so hard does his breath leave him at the pure eroticism of the gesture. Francesco immediately loses his balance and falls, off kilter and to one side. In a desperate attempt to regain his balance, he reaches to steady himself with his hands on Lorenzo’s chest, but misjudges the distance and plants his fist directly on the bone above Lorenzo’s eye.
Lorenzo cries a hiccupping gasp and flings both hands up to cover his eye as he rolls onto his side. Horrified, his own heart hiccupping in terror, Francesco rights himself and pulls Lorenzo upward, grabbing his hands away from his eye. He hauls Lorenzo closer to the candlelight, up onto the tables edge, and sits him down on it. He kneels in front of Lorenzo, peering at the bone he hit. God, God, it was going so well. He carefully brushes a curl of Lorenzo’s hair from the spot and inspects the damage. His fist completely missed Lorenzo’s actual eye and a small bruise is only forming around his eyebrow. He whimpers anyway. “Oh my God. Lorenzo-”
Lorenzo flails a hand at him, wincing but meeting his eyes. “You didn’t get me as hard as you think. It’ll be fine. Whatever bruise there is, my hair will cover it.”
“It was an accident. You know that.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorr-”
“Stop.” Lorenzo takes a deep breath and gently wraps his fingers around the hand Francesco still has hovering near his face. He laughs, a tiny sound but full of mirth, his smile an actual beam. “Look how far we’ve come.”
Francesco is still cringing and craning his face to inspect. “What do you mean?”
“Well, when we were children and you’d swing your fist at me, it was because we were playing, and you did it slowly enough so that you knew I could stop you before you actually hit me. Do you remember?”
“Yes.” Francesco sits back on his feet, heart still jittery, but Lorenzo’s voice is calm and he tries to absorb the mood. He carefully, ever so gently lays his hands on Lorenzo’s thighs. “I remember everything.”
Lorenzo’s eyes are fond and he lays his hands on top of Francesco’s. “Do you? Do you think about it frequently? Our time together.”
“Yes. Every time I see you. And sometimes when I’m alone.”
“What’s your favorite memory?”
Francesco feels the soft fabric of Lorenzo’s trousers under his hands as he presses down gently. “Well. So many. When you stole things from the kitchen just for me. Figs and dates in your arms, so many that they fell on the ground but we ate them anyway. When we’d race each other down the hall and the loser had to sing, which was funny, because both of us would make the muse of music want to gouge her eardrums out, we were so awful. When we’d just lay in the sun, talking about nothing and everything. When my uncle was gone at the bank and Guglielmo was out with friends and I had you all to myself. I cried sometimes, when you had to leave. I wanted to shout, Don’t leave me alone. You were the sun of my life.” He looks down at their hands, feels the lovely weight of Lorenzo’s hands on his own. “I had to become used to the darkness.”
“And did you?”
“No. Never. And you? What’s your favorite memory?”
Lorenzo threads their fingers together and sighs, nostalgia coloring his voice. “Always believing that we were meant to be some sort of partners in life. Not like brothers like my mother would say. But like two people connected and inseparable. Just someone I knew would always cushion me against the blows life dealt me, and would embrace me when I succeeded, and would turn to me whenever I called his name. But I had to grow up, as they say. And know that I would never be young again.”
Lorenzo sounds as weary as Francesco has felt all these years. Francesco squeezes their crisscrossed fingers. “I wanted to curse the world so many times. I’m still so angry. Not at you. I’m angry at my uncle, who shoved my nose into books and forced my hands to touch scales and taught me to carve my tongue sharp and my hatred of your family even sharper. I’m angry at how he bludgeoned me into spitting at you every time I see you. I’m angry that he wrung me dry of my dreams that you and I could ever see each other without wanting to throttle each other. And in my own way, I’m angry at Florence, for being the place I was dropped into in this world. Of all the places, here. I know it’s useless to be angry about that, but I’d do anything to leave here and dump all my books and ledgers and accounts into the river and leave the bank to flourish or flounder, I don’t care. And I’m angry at the world, which is even more useless, but I’m angry it’s not a place that gives me peace. I don’t remember the last time I slept well. I’m so tired.” He leans his forehead on their clasped hands. “Will you wake me up?”
“Yes,” Lorenzo whispers, and leans down and rests his cheek on Francesco’s head. “I’ve been so tired, too. I hold a lot of weight on my shoulders. It has to stay there. But that doesn’t mean I’m not exhausted sometimes. Especially without you, you who always raised my spirits. You who brought uncountable joys to my life. Who would have made me believe I could weather anything, before I had to learn that without you. I wish I could relearn how to be strong again. And have you be a part of my teaching. Have you near, always. Not just near. Close.” He breathes in softly. “Have you ever known tenderness, since we parted?”
The easiest answer of Francesco’s life. “No.”
Lorenzo undoes their hands and puts a finger under Francesco’s chin, tilting it up so that their eyes meet. “You know that I love my family. I love Florence. I love power. You can read me like an open book, you always have. I reckon, truly, that there’s nothing about me you don’t know. Except that I’ve never been able to fill the particular emptiness in me when we were torn apart. I have a wonderful life. I’m blessed. God favors me. I’m breaking loyalties by talking to you about even something like our childhood. I’m needed by a great deal of other people. You know this. You can’t change it.”
Francesco closes his eyes. “I know. Trust me.”
Lorenzo nods, but when he speaks, there’s frustration in his voice, touches of flint. “Francesco. The void I feel, though. It’s a wound.” He traces Francesco’s cheekbone with one finger. “Can we heal it? Finally? I think my anger dried up, just now. No, not when you hit me,” he waves his hand as Francesco opens his mouth. “It doesn’t even hurt anymore, by the way. But no. I think I’m done wanting to see anger in you. I want to be free around you, like old times. I can only be this way in front of you. But I wouldn’t have it differently.” His eyes are fervent. “This is for you. From me to you. And gladly. And I think I want tenderness now. Do you?”
Francesco leans his cheek into Lorenzo’s touch. “You would betray so many people and so many things by being tender to me.”
Lorenzo shakes his head, adamantly. “It’s not betrayal if it gives me peace.”
Francesco laughs softly. “That’s your logic?”
“I deem it so. So it must be.”
Francesco gazes up at him. The untouchable Prince of Florence. But still only a man with a beating heart that wants things, things he cannot have, things he’s willing to prize from the world’s grasp anyway.
Francesco being first among them.
He traces Lorenzo’s face with his eyes, his spirit hungry. “Tenderness, then. How would you show it to me?”
Lorenzo immediately pushes off the table and lands on his knees in front of Francesco. “I want to take off your clothes. Is that alright?”
***
“What about the feast? Shouldn’t you return?”
“Probably.” Lorenzo pulls Francesco’s arm out of one sleeve of his jacket. “In theory.”
“What will you say?” Francesco feels his neck exposed to the air again and the bloom on his neck still feels warm. He never wants it to heal.
“I’ll say that urgent business arose and I needed to speak to you in private if we had any hope of solving it. Which is,” Lorenzo flicks his fingers through the last of the laces down Francesco’s shirt and starts tugging it over his head, “actually very true.”
Once on the floor together, they had both reached for each other’s clothes at the same time, which caused laughter, then Francesco grabbing Lorenzo’s face and kissing him for a full minute before they even started with the business of undressing.
So now they do it tenderly, their jackets and shirts barely tossed in a heap beside them, before Francesco doesn’t wait for anything else, can’t wait to touch Lorenzo, has to take him in his arms immediately. He runs his palms in circles over his back, which is cool at first, then almost feverishly hot as his hands run over him again and again, sweet to the touch, so sweet. Lorenzo buries his face in Francesco’s shoulder and holds tight to his shoulder blades, curling his fingers around them, holding him, just holding him. Francesco feels like he’s taking huge, greedy gulps in comparison, unable to stop his hands roaming, pressing the tip of his index finger against Lorenzo’s spine and following it from the top of his neck to as far down as he can go. Lorenzo murmurs something unintelligible at first, then whispers, “There,” as Francesco’s finger reaches the small of his back. Francesco traces just this one knob until Lorenzo shudders, mouthing more than saying, “Again.”
Then he turns Francesco around and holds him fast and kisses the nape of his neck, then kisses all the way down his back, slowly, each kiss its own unique gift of devotion. Francesco grabs the table edge and bends his head down, curving his back as Lorenzo reaches the bottom of it and starts a new line up to the top. He holds Francesco by the ribs, fingers splaying to rest in the gaps between them as if he wants to cup and capture the rise and fall of Francesco’s lungs.
He does end up turning around once again and kissing Francesco’s ribs while Francesco plays with his hair, brushing locks of it back, careful to avoid the bruised eyebrow but burying his hands over and over in the glorious texture, thrilling at how a piece will curl around his thumb. His pulse is heavy in his wrists but the air around him feels soft, a feather pillow, the place where he and Lorenzo deserve to rest. Lorenzo moves his mouth closer to Francesco’s neck and settles his lips in the hollow of his throat and doesn’t move them for long moments. Francesco leans his face down and rests it in Lorenzo’s hair, breathing it in. The candles are almost burned out but the dark is finally welcoming, finally a place where he could build a home, build a shrine.
When they were children, they would punch each other in the arms, shove each other in the chest, occasionally try to knock each other on the side of the head. It was all affection. Francesco had forgotten the word “affection” had existed until these moments of strokes and caresses and kisses. He becomes fluent in its language again, these sighs and small mouth sounds and breathy hums, these communications that are sent out to Lorenzo like birdsong and he receives the music back every time.
Time is slow, still hot but a gentle and smooth wind rather than the tempest they’d conjured earlier. Francesco thinks of the wind and remembers all the times he’s met with clients just returned from their villas by the coast. Perfection, they’d said about the breeze over the water. Francesco thinks of the sea. He’s never seen it in person but he’s seen images in books of foamy tides on the brink of collapse and wreckage before being formed anew and repeating their collapse. He thinks something like that is happening in his body, the waves of pleasurable sensation ceaselessly rolling under his skin as Lorenzo makes it tingle. Maybe he’ll go to the sea someday, maybe Pazzi and Medici peacetime will lead the two of them to a retreat. They could go on the pretense of a friendly vacation, a refreshing trip of two friends who have worked so hard that their families can take care of the banks for a few days. The world, once so shuttered, such a barred door to fresh air and freedom, seems to unfurl with potential before him.
The moments here are enough for now. They’re kissing again, in new ways, Lorenzo running his tongue along the top row of Francesco’s teeth and Francesco trying to move his tongue to block his progress and Lorenzo trying to overcome him and resume his movements, then too many smiles through the kisses and they have to cease, laughing, their noses brushing.
Lorenzo kisses a path to Francesco’s ear and whispers into the shell of it. “I want to do more. But in a real bed, which is what you deserve. Your palazzo is less crowded than mine. Can you contrive something?” His hands have wandered down to Francesco‘s hips and he slips one finger onto a hipbone, rubbing it gently. He removes it almost immediately. “If you want to. I need to stop assuming what you want. Old habits die hard, but I’ll beat this one down, I promise.”
Francesco chuckles as he takes Lorenzo’s wrist and returns his fingers to the spot on his hip. The ache is almost unbearable, almost makes him gasp. Plans must, indeed, be made.
“Yes. I’ll figure something out soon. My uncle has been working longer hours than usual. He has one client who will only conduct business from his home, and he takes up the whole day sometimes. Guglielmo’s in and out but there’s a woman he’s courting right now and I’ll find a time when he’s away with her. I’ll tell the servants we’re working and not to disturb us.” He rests his head on Lorenzo’s shoulder. “I’ll figure it out. I will. I have to.”
Lorenzo rubs his cheek against Francesco’s. “Write to me.”
“I will.”
“Kiss the letter.”
“I will.”
“This is ours for the taking, Francesco.” Lorenzo lays his palms flat on Francesco’s cheeks. “The world can’t actually stop us.”
“I know. I stopped playing by its rules tonight.”
“How does that feel?”
Francesco turns his face and kisses Lorenzo’s palm. “Like the only power I’ve ever truly wanted. Like I finally know what ‘unstoppable’ means. Like I could move the moon. Like I could touch you where you’d feel-”
“Lorenzo?” The clunk of a fist rapping on the door. “People are leaving. Come see them off.”
“Yes, mother,” Lorenzo whips his head away from Francesco and projects the words at the door. “Damn,” he whispers when her footsteps retreat. His mouth is twisted and he looks genuinely in pain when he turns back to Francesco, a grey cloud passing over his eyes.
Francesco feels a weight like a slab of marble in the center of his chest and tries to sigh it away. He sorts through their clothes and tosses Lorenzo’s to him. When they’ve dressed, fixing their collars over the vessel webs and strategically moving a curl over Lorenzo’s eyelid, they help each other to their feet. Lorenzo opens his mouth and it hovers open as he gazes at Francesco. The words don’t come, but Francesco can hear them. Back to Medici business.
“I have an idea,” Francesco says suddenly, while they’re almost at the door. He takes Lorenzo by the shoulders. “Let’s make a pact.”
Lorenzo’s lips ghost a smile. “Go on.”
He looks Lorenzo straight in the eyes without blinking. “I’m not a Pazzi when I’m with you, and you’re not a Medici when you’re with me. We’re only us.” He presses his forehead to Lorenzo’s. “Us. Do you accept?”
Lorenzo lays a finger on Francesco’s lips, but the gesture isn’t a shush.
It’s a vow.
“Yes. Always.”
Francesco will sleep well tonight. No more wandering the halls or lying in bed in lonely agony. If Fortune favors the bold, then he’s standing on a high pedestal. He’s created a sanctuary. His childhood self would be so proud. Gardens strive for the beauty he and Lorenzo create together. Wine wishes it tasted as sweet. Anger fizzles out and desire cries for nourishment, and is granted its wish. Wounds are salved. Kisses and touches may not last all night, may not happen every day, but each one lives for eternity. And eternity, by God that’s what they’ll have. They have to. And they will.
Francesco holds their heads together for a moment longer, a honeyed moment. “Who are we?”
Lorenzo brushes his lips against Francesco’s. He opens Francesco’s mouth with his tongue and then says the word into it, inside him.
“Us.”