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I don't know what this is, sorry.

[alittleunhinged]

You would think that, after all these centuries, either of them could have charmed the world with their mouths. The unspeakable things they have done with their tongues. The sins, the condemnations, the whipped cream and honey-drizzled lies, warm blood on cold, hungry, unfeeling teeth-indented lower lips-- hush now. There is not quite the need yet for crying.

There are words they could use, and certainly stern words have been exchanged - in bed, over bed, over corpses for breakfast and empires for supper - but when they fight they use their hands. Never fists - those savage days are behind them now - but they adorn their rapidfire shouting with hot-blooded gestures and such explosive accoutrements that every neighbour-awakening argument always sounds like the last they'll ever speak to each other.

But it is hands that tear them apart and hands that hold the pieces back together again. For the hand that had slapped the Roman hard enough for the paparazzi to immortalise the bruise was the same hand that trembled uncontrollably between the Roman's thumb and fingertips, as he held the frail, coughing, sickly man in his embrace unfazed by the prospect of death or discovery.

"Bello..." He would whisper against a hair-mussed sweat-slicked forehead. No reverence for titles or crowns. No regard for trespassing or authority. No platitudes or 'sorry's or fear or pity. Only love. The kind they have been writing and singing and laughing about for thousands of years.

Julius never brought any warmth with him. Only comfort. A salve for the loneliness. He never needed to say anything more than that. All he needed to do was use his hand. Run it down the length of his withering-away-slowly-but-surely forearm.

Sometimes he yearns for dying again. Because then when he plucks that stupid phone out of Julius's hands and tosses it over his shoulder, he won't get that mildly irritated, mostly exasperated look. When he crawls into that lap he won't feel those hands moving straight to his hips to appease what he assumes to be sex masquerading as attention-seeking pettiness. Maybe Julius would love him the way he did when he was dying in his arms. Does any sane man crave for cold lips on his forehead more than a hot mouth on his cock?

Well. Nobody would ever accuse the Italian despot of sanity.

They fuck. They fight. The hands fly, yet again. Doors come off hinges and broken glass litters the floor. Again and again he chooses his shiny new phone over his old used up fucktoy. But in the dead of morning when Lorenzo opens his eyes to be greeted by his maker's unnaturally still bare chest, his gaze sweeps down to the backs of Julius's fingers resting on his wrist. And he can't help but reach up, ever so slowly between their bodies at rest, to press two fingerpads to his own forehead.

Ciao bello. If he thought it any louder, or loved any harder, it might have left a scar.