"Just what are you proposing?"

The game turns more dangerous.

He says nothing, not because the 'nothing' manifests, but that his tongue lies as heavy as the unbridled tension coiling tighter and tighter, as he stands without facets before the man who controls the turn of his blade. Slowly, he moves, a step, the landing of his heel, the pause in his stride, an itch tugging at the corner of his lips while he eyes the slanted gaze of the other—there is a plethora of feral curiosity within that inquisition, even when Lorenzo's pretense masks such questions, so apparent that the revelation is tangible in the form of his suddenly hot skin. Yet, the ruler of Firenze makes no move to protest, and he knows.

Impending victory allows him this.

"Altezza …" Run his fingertips down a cleanly shaven cheek. "Altezza."

The leader demands him to state his thesis.

"I want you."

Again.

"Lorenzo."

And he experiences primal awareness.

Because it is different, his back colliding violently with the mattress, how the taste of a man—no, this man—can drown out thoughts of another possible intrigue—perhaps, that figure with the little tentative smile in the midst of freeing doves, paint smeared on the tip of his nose, a need to claim the artist for himself. No, it does not matter now, groaning heatedly, as teeth scrape down his jugular, for there is only that slim second to acknowledge the outcome, all the time left for carnal pleasure to wrack through his body, his pulse thudding to the sound of harsh pants and the current exchange. He forgets the rules, the formal bearings in the presence of Il Magnifico abandoned, amidst the frantic grinding that he does not comprehend in terms of possibility, that he would act on such absurd means.

But one look, and then, "Gio—".

Once more: "Auditore."

"Altezza …"

"You may want me."

Breathlessness—tangible perception.

"However, I will have you."

He proves it better than anyone else.