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Cesare Borgia (il_valentino) wrote in bearandbarnacle,

Porca miseria.

He could fall asleep like this, the rough tongue washing his hand, the rumbling purr warm against his stomach, but that doesn't really help with a slight but pesky problem: where is this, and, more importantly, how the fuck does one leave?

And where to? The question bears asking. Back to Margate, to choke on his unhappiness? Or back to Rome, to mire himself in the mess he made, with no forces to his name, no friends who'd back him? But Roma today, wouldn't she be different? Eternal, yes, but different. It would be worth a try.

He feels the cat's growing distraction - one of the reasons he's not very fond of them; damn things always have their own agenda - and gets up, tucking the cat firmly under his elbow. He's holding it wrong; its hind legs are swirling and kicking, so he tucks them under and looks the cat in the eyes. "None of this exists, little one," he says pleasantly enough, "Or does it, micio?"