If Xellos is indulging in a little strange acrobatics, Miquel doesn't notice, and Cesare is too rapt by Miquel's vision to comment upon it.
When he is like that, it's as if Miquel were standing in a pool, thigh deep in a glinting spring dappled with light and leaves, and were looking back, saying, come on in, come; the water is fine. Cesare smiles and closes his eyes.
Yes, like that, Miquel gently encourages him, you can let go now. It's safe. Be yourself again. No expectations. No judgment. He cards through Cesare's hair and hums against his scalp, watches the sky, makes sure they are hidden from sight. Cesare sluggishly starts to fiddle with the buttons of Miquel's farsetto, but Miquel holds his fingers and laughs. Not now, caro. Obediently, Cesare slumps and leaves off, his entire body going limp. He clings to Miquel like a wet shirt slapped onto the rocks to dry, but his face is serene. The warm earth smells good.