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1.
Immortals didn’t touch each other; it was an unwritten rule of etiquette among their kind. The chances of their auras sparking against each other accidentally were low, but never zero, and it was quite unpleasant when it did happen. Many immortals grew to dislike touching anyone at all, and some, like Dee, went so far as to wear gloves almost all of the time. Machiavelli wasn’t quite that far gone, but he did have a preference for clothes that covered as much of his skin as possible, and was careful to leave at least a little space between himself and anyone else nearby.
Billy, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly so conscientious, as Machiavelli was finding out very quickly. There wasn’t much room to be had in the small bus they were on, but surely there was a line to be drawn. And having Billy’s hair in his face seemed like an excellent place to draw that line.
Machiavelli coughed, at first under his breath, and then loudly when Billy didn’t notice. “Billy.”
“What?” Billy turned away from the window, so that their cheeks were now touching. “Got something stuck in your throat?”
Machiavelli sighed. “No, I would just appreciate a little more personal space.”
Billy raised an eyebrow. “It’s kind of cramped in here, if you haven’t noticed. I told you we should have waited for the other bus.”
“Be that as it may,” Machiavelli said, “I really don’t think our faces need to be touching, hm?” The words came out slightly sharper than he meant for them to, but Billy didn’t seem bothered by this, and it had been a very long day. Going back to Paris was out of the question, so Machiavelli was trying to find somewhere low-profile to stay until he could be reasonably sure Aten wasn’t going to have him killed. Renting an apartment was difficult when you had to fake every required document, and Machiavelli had the kind of standards that came with a lot of paperwork.
Billy had offered to help him out, an offer Machiavelli had accepted almost immediately, since Billy was more familiar with this country than he was. But Billy’s definition of helping mostly consisted of trying to convince Machiavelli to settle for places that Machiavelli was reluctant to even set foot in. He couldn’t complain too much, though; after all, Billy had saved from a mountain of hotel bills by letting Machiavelli stay with him in the meantime.
2.
Machiavelli frowned at the TV screen. “This makes no sense.”
“You gotta suspend your disbelief a bit,” Billy said. “It’s a fun movie, it’s not meant to be super realistic.”
“I can only suspend my disbelief so far.” Machiavelli adjusted the blanket on his lap. “This kind of “pinch” device does exist, but there’s absolutely no way one of that size could cut the power of an entire city.”
Billy glanced sidelong at him. “And you would know?”
Machiavelli shrugged. “I was bored one day a few years ago, did some research on nuclear energy, and one thing sort of led to another. So yes, I do know.”
“I get the feeling you didn’t go outside much as a kid.”
Machiavelli rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the movie.
“I’m only teasing,” Billy said after a moment. “I think it’s awesome that you know all this stuff. But you could stand to have a little more fun every now and then.”
“Perhaps,” Machiavelli mused. “I shall do my best not to comment on the other unrealistic aspects of this movie.”
“That’s the spirit. And then you can tell me about how nuclear energy actually works, if it makes you feel better.”
“It honestly might.”
Machiavelli only halfway paid attention to the rest of the movie, and used the time to mentally compose a lecture on nuclear energy, and how the pinch in the movie would have really affected the city’s power. Part of him didn’t want to appear too eager, but a larger and more enthusiastic part of him overruled, and he started talking almost as soon as the credits rolled. Billy, to his relief, actually seemed interested, and offered his own thoughts on some of the places and events Machiavelli mentioned. They went back and forth until they both lost track of time, and their conversation only ended when they were both too tired to continue.
At some point, the pillows separating their respective sides of the couch had fallen to the floor, and Billy now had his head resting against Machiavelli’s shoulder. Machiavelli nudged him gently, hoping he would take the hint and move, but the snore he received in response told him Billy was fast asleep.
He could just move his shoulder.
Billy did look very comfortable, though. It was strange to see someone so relaxed around him. Mostly, people were afraid of him, and he preferred it that way. Mostly. It was easier to predict the actions of frightened people, but it was also sometimes rather lonely.
Machiavelli shook his head. Ridiculous. He wasn’t lonely. He had his work; even if he was no longer part of the French government, he still had his files to add to, and research of all sorts to do. And he had someone who would apparently listen to him ramble about nuclear energy, which had to count for something.
He shifted his position so that Billy’s head slid off his shoulder.
3.
In Billy’s defense, the train was incredibly crowded, and Machiavelli was already on edge. Trains made him claustrophobic, and this particular one was quite loud as well. Being trapped in a very small, very noisy, and very fast-moving space was not a good combination. He wished he’d brought his laptop, or a book, or anything to distract himself from the sensation of the walls closing in around him. Instead, he stared straight ahead and tried not to think about how many people were less than an arm’s length away from him, and how any of them could be agents of his Elder master, and how easy it would be for any of them to-
The swaying motion of the train sent Billy’s leg knocking against Machiavelli’s, and Machiavelli inhaled sharply, as though in pain. The touch was light, but combined with everything else, it was too much.
Billy frowned at him. “You all right?”
“Fine,” Machiavelli snapped, and then, more quietly, “It’s just… loud.” He sighed and crossed one leg over the other, so their knees were no longer touching.
4.
Somehow, Machiavelli sleeping on Billy’s couch until he could forge his way into an apartment lease had turned into the two of them having lived together for several months. Billy seemed perfectly fine with this arrangement, and Machiavelli enjoyed the company more than he cared to admit. So it was that he found himself walking through the snow, looking at window displays of the stores they passed, as Billy talked about the one-eyed dog he’d seen that morning.
They weren’t looking for anything in particular; Machiavelli had made an idle remark about not having gone outside in four days, and Billy had practically dragged him on a walk through the neighborhood. To be fair, Machiavelli hadn’t put up much resistance. Billy’s enthusiasm was endearing, and it was nice to just wander and not worry too much about where he was going.
Which was probably why he didn’t notice the ice.
As they rounded a corner, Machiavelli’s foot slid out from under him, and he would have fallen if Billy hadn’t caught his arm.
“Careful,” Billy said, pulling him back. “There’s ice.”
“Yes, I noticed. Thank you.” He was about to pull his arm away from Billy, when Billy slipped, and Machiavelli barely managed to catch him in time.
“Thanks.” Billy took a careful step around the patch of ice, and linked their arms together. “There. Now we’ll have something to hold onto if we fall.”
Having someone pressed so close to him was an odd sensation. Despite sharing living space with Billy, Machiavelli had managed (apart from one or two brief instances) to avoid too much physical contact. He wasn’t exactly sure why, other than that he’d gotten used to it over the course of his long life. It was routine, and routine, after the recent upheaval that nearly resulted in the end of the world, was comforting.
“This is terribly impractical,” Machiavelli said as they started walking again. “If one of us slips, the other will too.”
“Well, we’ll just have to make sure to keep our balance, then,” Billy replied with a shrug. “Besides, it’s warmer. Like penguins.”
“Penguins?”
“Yeah, they all huddle together at night so they don’t freeze.”
“Lovely. Now please let me go.”
Billy opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and unhooked their arms without a word.
5.
A tap on his shoulder startled Machiavelli so much he dropped his book on his foot. He picked it up and turned to see Billy standing behind him, looking apologetic. “Sorry, I know you don’t like it, but you couldn’t hear me, so…”
Machiavelli had been flipping back to mark his place in the book, but stopped. “Hm?”
“I said I know you don’t like being touched,” Billy repeated. “You’re, ah, not exactly subtle about it.”
“I don’t know what I like at this point,” Machiavelli muttered. “Anyway, what was it you wanted to tell me?”
“Oh, whatever you were microwaving is done. What do you mean you don’t know what you like?”
“I don’t know, I was just talking to myself.” Machiavelli ran a hand through his hair and stood up. “My soup is done? Excellent.” He started to head for the kitchen, but Billy touched his arm to stop him.
Machiavelli flinched, but didn’t pull away. After a moment, he relaxed a little, and Billy said, “So do you like it or not? You’ve been acting weird every time we sit close together or something, so I don’t know why you’re surprised I’ve noticed.”
Machiavelli shrugged, uncomfortable with the question more than with Billy’s hand on his arm. “I suppose I just got used to not touching people. Old habits die hard and all that.” He gently moved Billy’s hand away. “I would guess it’s more the surprise I dislike than the touch itself, but I haven’t had many chances to confirm that since I became immortal.”
“Didn’t you become immortal in, like, the 1500s?” Billy asked, suddenly looking concerned.
“In 1527, yes.”
“That is a long time.”
“Less than five hundred years.”
“Can I hug you?”
Machiavelli blinked. “I- I suppose-”
Billy threw his arms around him.
It was… nice.
Really nice.
There was probably a more eloquent way to put that, but for once his mind failed to come up with any suitable synonyms.
He hugged Billy back, briefly, then let go and stepped away. “Thank you,” he said, sounding slightly too formal in an attempt to cover up the slight hitch in his voice. “I apologize; my soup’s going to get cold.”
+1
Somewhere, someone was playing the guitar. Machiavelli could hear it through the open window, and it was the kind of song that begged to be danced to. Machiavelli did not do much dancing, but he found himself tapping his toes to the rhythm. After a moment, he closed his laptop and stood up.
Billy was dancing in the kitchen, spinning in circles as he made a sandwich. Machiavelli stood in the doorway, watching him, until Billy noticed him and came to a stop. “Oh, I didn’t see you there.”
Machaivelli smiled. “I was wondering if you could hear the music from in here.”
Billy resumed his spinning, humming along with the guitar. Machiavelli stepped into the kitchen, caught Billy’s hand, and twirled him around.
Billy grinned and reached up spin Machiavelli around in return. Machiavelli laughed, surprised at how right it felt. They danced like that until they could no longer hear the guitar from outside, laughing and spinning, inelegantly perhaps, but that didn’t matter.