Author: Existence's Bane PM
Five Cantarella 100-word drabbles. Chiaro/Lucrezia, Chiaro/Cesare. Some vague spoilers and everyone knows the word count on this site is wrongRated: Fiction K+ - English - Drama - Words: 526 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 1 - Published: 06-09-09 - Status: Complete - id: 5125192
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Warnings: Homosexuality, some blood
Chiaro is begging Cesare to kill him. The warm wetness of blood shines wetly on his lower lip, a dark smear in the gloom of the dungeon. He's sagging against the wall despite the chains holding his arms painfully above his head digging into his wrists.
Cesare wants more blood. He leans forward and feels the metallic sweetness rush between his teeth. This blood is so different from his own. There's no chance he will risk losing this.
Chiaro's light surrounds him. Cesare nips and licks at Chiaro's lips, dowsing for more. "No, I don't think I will."
Lucrezia is something beautiful. She is something so precious in the hazy world of sin in which she resides. She is to be treasured and worshipped and protected.
Cesare is becoming something terrifying. His beauty is beyond that of even his angelic sister, but his soul is coal black and drowning in false love and damnable ambitions. He will do anything to achieve his ends, and he's about to shatter. Cesare needs to protection, having the fires of hell at his heels, and he'll never let Chiaro go.
Chiaro wonders if there was ever a choice. There is some doubt.
Cesare sometimes gives him the Look, and for a split second, Chiaro's world disappears. He feels as if he'll die if he so much as twitches under the violet—golden?—gaze that pins him in place.
Then Cesare will laugh and continue the conversation airily. The Earth comes back under Chiaro's toes and the sky is blue once more. Shakily, Chiaro stares at Cesare, seeing behind the red robes and smile. Hell glows red behind the purple. Steel is in the set of his jaw.
Just once I wish you would react the way you're meant to, Cesare's eyes say.
The flowers in her windowsill are fresh; different than the ones that had been there last. That scares Lucrezia so badly, and she draws a shaky breath of horror. Her oldest maid spies her expression and explains quietly, "The flowers were dead, milady. I replaced them."
"Yes. Of course. Thank you," Lucrezia tells her, dizzy and feeling some sense of disbelief and detachment. She sits heavily on her bed, seeing nothing.
Chiaro—strong, golden Chiaro—will always be so close, yet so far. Maybe she's meant to chase after him just as hopelessly as he chases after her.
The world is full of endless troubles, each more heavy and desolate than the last one.
Both Cesare and Chiaro have their own problems. Somehow, whether by solution or cause, every one leads to the other man. Some problems are weightier than others and worry at Chiaro until dawn's gray light.
Cesare, most of all, concerns Chiaro. The assassin senses something close and boiling under the surface. One man, even a Borgia, was never meant to that all in. It could destroy his mind.
Sometimes Chiaro wishes they could both climb in a cage and shut out the world's troubles.