Work Text:
***
Cesare knows that look. Shouldn't you be in bed, duca, it says, with Miquel's eyes following him round the room. Not now; now it's time to celebrate: the swift end he put to his condottieri's congiura, sweeping the place clean of their perfidy; the blow he has delivered to the Orsini; the ripples this will send across Italy, to every place some horsefly thinks he can lord it- a fig on them!
"So," he sniffles, then sneezes into a piece of fine white cambric, "you must be tired?"
Miquel gives a wiry shrug. It's nothing. He lounges at ease, hands clean, wearing a fresh shirt. You wouldn't be able to tell how deeply he waded in blood, these last hours.
Another sneeze racks him, followed by a bout of hacking coughs. This fucking cold. What'll it look like, dictating choice morsels to Machiavelli with a red and runny nose?
"Where's this coming from?", Miquel enquires. "You seemed fine this afternoon. Spiced wine?"
"Yes, thank you." He slurps and drips. "Something in the air, I guess." His hand trembles slightly; the cup must weigh a ton.
"Perhaps allergic to bloodshed?"
Thwacking Miquel, he snorts snot. "Fuck you. Fetch the Florentine ambassador."
***
.