Chapter Text
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Falling into easy step with Spadino, Miquel says, "I've watched you." He's ambling along, hands in his pockets. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"
"Doing? What am I doing?" The gypsy prince snorts, throws Miquel an oblique look. Tell me more, that says. Wash me, but don't get me wet. Amuse me - but I might still pull the plug.
"Your brother is in hospital. Chances are he won't wake up. You can be yourself now, don't you think?" Miquel smiles. He tries for an expression without guile: friendly, yet reserved. They've left the colonnades of Piazza dell'Esedra behind, are walking down a side street towards Termini. It's the rougher side of Rome's half-world, and Spadì is no unknown here; at least half the rent boys' eyes light up when they see him.
"And what do you think that is, myself?" The way he squares his shoulders underneath the garish jacket, the way he stiffens his spine and sets his jaw: battening down the hatches.
Miquel blows a blond boy a kiss in passing, then blesses Spadì with a benign gaze. "I don't have to spell it out for you. You haven't made Adelaide nonna yet, have you?" He laughs when Spadino shoves him against the metal-grilled window of a bet shop. Well, that was easy. "No need to get riled, friend." Spadì's Red Bull breath steams hot under his nose while the blade that gave the Sinto kid his name is poking Miquel's ribs. Alright, so he knows where the heart is.
"Better people than you have tried to blackmail me," Spadì hisses. "They're rotting on the dumps of La Magliana."
"Shh. You're attracting attention." Which ain't true. It's a neighbourhood where people know to mind their business. People gotta hustle; two faggots in a spat, nobody gives a damn. He closes his fingers around Spadì's, round the ornate hilt of the knife, whispers: "That feels good." Spadino's lips aren't sticky-sweet like he expected, but dry and soft.
"What the fuck!" Spadì jerks back, tries to gain his distance. "You crazy fucker!" The knife flashes forward but Miquel deflects the motion and nearly breaks his wrist.
"Afraid somebody will see you, tell mamma?"
"No."
"Good." He pulls a wincing Spadì close, shoves a leg between his, sniffs at the gypsy's five o'clock shadow. His after shave is every bit as tasteless as his jacket, but his excitement smells nice.
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