Work Text:
Blood is on his hands. He can’t remember when he last felt himself breathe. There’s only the sound of stone shifting and the mountain weeping her rage and dolorousness out onto the island’s inhabitants.
Cesare is inclined to mirror her. Thinks he already has enough, though, so he doesn’t scream like she is. He only sobs, choking on air and agony.
He throws his blade as far as he can, the metal too tainted by wickedness for even the one who caused it to bear. His knees hit the ground, and even though he’s away from spilt blood, the smell still wafts into his lungs, riding on every breath like waves of promise threatening to drown him. Promises of never returning from this. Promises of never knowing softness after today.
Cesare mourns it for merely an instant, before he’s overcome with grief for far more important things— things like laughter and autumn eyes. Things like oleander leaves and chamomile tea. Things like sun and good and Son and God and everything else divine.
He can’t hold so much wretchedness and anguish in something as small as a mortal body. God was allowed to shake the earth and blacken the day sky, but what was Cesare allowed to do? Other than weep and die. Other than soak in his regret and shame. Other than think of laughter and autumn eyes as he muddle oleander leaves and chamomile tea to end the pain.
But Etna is burning all life, and Cesare can only pray to an already unfair power that the burning plant’s smoke will reach him and take the place in his lungs that the scent of blood has so captive.
But when has nature been so kind? When has God?
The ground growls like judgement beneath his feet, and Cesare trembles before its teeth, bared righteous and irreproachable and nothing compared to its creator.
He wipes his hands on his thighs, desperate to clean them of sin, yet helpless to it all the same. As the action simply smears it, covers him further, buries him deeper and deeper beyond recovery.
Throwing the blade proves regrettable. It would have found its new home in his own chest— but Cesare doesn’t think. He never fucking thinks before he acts and he ruins everything because of it…
He has ruined everything…
—————
Cesare wakes up in a cold sweat, panting, reaching out for comfort, but only grasping pillows.
He murmurs a name that breaks his heart, lunges up when he gets no response.
Throwing himself out of bed, he rushes out of his room, calling. Calling, calling, calling. And there’s still no response.
“No. No, no…” he mewls, whipping around and searching in all directions to no avail, no relief. God— he doesn’t even know where he is right now, only that he isn’t home. That he isn’t safe or surrounded by familiarity, no chance of repose.
The sky is black outside, when Cesare glances it accidentally, no moon in sight. No stars. No life. The hallways are empty and silent, and every corner he peaks around is desolate and bleak.
Stumbling is unavoidable, in such circumstances, and it takes him nearly faceplanting to finally stop moving his feet.
At the lack of soothing motion, however, sorrow begins to overwhelm him once more, tears welling up in his eyes. He feels like a child again, how he would wake up to search for his mother, even though she was always long gone, no matter his cries, no matter his prayers.
He wants to hear her voice, right now. Wants her comfort. Wants her to hold his head in her lap and wipe his tears with her skirt.
But, just the same, he wants hands that are calloused and not so acclimated to being gentle. He wants their owner to kiss his eyes and lips and— and…
“Cesare…”
He can’t help but cry harder, til his sobs draw to irregular, near silent huffs, snapping around to face the young man. All darkness and painful isolation utterly abolished. It’s as if there’s a light being cast from the relieving sight of the boy’s flesh itself.
“Enzo. Enzo, Enzo,” he weeps, so ruined that his words are like howls, rushing over to him, throwing himself into the embrace the moment he can reach its offer, Enzo’s open arms welcoming him like earth welcomes rain, pulling and bearing every drop with ease, no matter how frantic the torrent.
Cesare squeezes him tight, sobs and hiccups into his neck, just saying his name over and over and over again.
“Oh, amuri miu… I’m here. It’s me. I’m right here with you. It’s alright, now,” he coos, holding Cesare in his arms like he’ll never let him go again. “You were gone,” he chokes, his voice muffled by their closeness, by Enzo’s skin; warm and real and alive. “You were gone, Enzo, you were gone. I’m so sorry— I’m so sorry.” Its hard to get it all out, how uneven his breathing is, how every inhale is halted almost immediately by hics and devastated sounds of grief.
Enzo shushes him, carding his hands through Cesare’s hair, taking long, deep breaths for the older boy to copy, tenderly rocking them on their feet like their slow dancing.
“I just left to get some water. I’ve been with you, Cesare. You know I’ll always be with you.” This calms him, albeit slowly, until the tears are falling, rather than streaming, and his breath finally slows down to something at least akin to Enzo’s. “C’mon, let’s go back to bed. It’s still late,” the man purrs softly in his ear, bringing Cesare back to him just that much more.
Finally taking a complete, deep inhale, followed by a slow exhale— that only wobbles a little, Cesare nods against his neck, still not letting go quite yet. He takes another breath, grounding himself with Enzo’s scent— always flesh and citrus and spring grass, and it reminds Cesare of the earth beneath his feet, of the blood running through his veins as well as Enzo’s.
But all that’s there is smoke. It’s dusty and acidic beyond fruit, lacking any freshness. Is the hearth lit?
He freezes. Breath slow and searching.
“Cesare? You need to sleep,” Enzo urges, sounding more than a little concerned. He sighs, “You haven’t gotten a full night’s rest in weeks…”
“You are gone.”
“…What?”
Cesare pulls back, shaking. “You’re gone,” he repeats, terrified. “Cesare…not tonight, please…” Enzo reaches out to him, but the older boy can’t help but step back.
“You’re gone.” Tongue numb and like lead in his mouth, these words are all it seems willing to form. His throat is closing up again, tears sliding down his already salt burned cheeks.
Enzo stares at him, looking tired and defeated. “You have to let me help you through this.” His eyes are dull, suddenly. Like voids of indistinguishable color. What should be tawny and doughy, are merely…nothing
No response.
The younger man squeezes his eyes shut, brow furrowed as if this physically pains him. “I know you still feel horrible about what happened. So do I. But what’s done is done, Cesare—” “Please stop.”
Enzo deflates.
…
“Ok…”
Cesare blinks.
Gone.
He’s gone.