Cesare's gaze wanders between the two. He's nervously licking his lips. He feels left out, even if all of this concerns him. Hard now not to think of the times he had to deal with it without Miquel's help. Hard not to be ashamed. His shoulders sag, and he casts down his eyes.
See? You should have killed me then, like you were hired to. You had so many opportunities, yet you condemned me to life. Michelotto, the eternal optimist... not so optimistic now, are you?
"I know a piece of it is always there," Miquel nods earnestly. "Some would say it's part of His Excellency's charm." He guffaws and looks at Cesare, expecting a glare or a snort, but not this, Cesare's head drooping and heavy and weary. Cesare's self-pity and misery sober him instantly.
"Scusa," he whispers. "Ti prego perdonami." He looks at Cesare's unruly head of hair, the furious tumble of curls in his nape. He knows exactly what they smell like, how the skin under Cesare's collar tastes like. Very well; perhaps like... so: it's warm and sunny, radiance bouncing off golden wheatstalks, and the sky is the colour of ground lapis and Cesare's cheek rests on Miquel's collarbone, bones humming with a song, the low throb of blood sluggish in the summer heat, and the thoughts and worries of the city are far, far away - no names, no titles here. Just their fingertips touching.
As if in response, Cesare raises his head and smiles timidly. A real, shy, timid little Cesare-smile.