His stomach plummets down the Tarpeian Rock as he enters. Cesare can't explain, really: he's done nothing wrong, nothing he can remember. He's asked Miquel to stay at home, which was met with a sniff and a sullen I reserve for myself the right to go and appear wherever I deem fit, which, translated from Miquel-speak, means wherever you get in trouble or make a spectacle of yourself in your sorry 16-year-old-state, but he's indeed alone now.
He's chewing his lip. He walks awkwardly, silently, hands jammed into his jeans pockets.
Seeing Xellos whirl about and hiss and glare at people reassures him a bit, but his stomach and knees are still all shattered at the foot of the Capitoline Hill - how explain to Iago that Xellos came to harm while under his, Cesare's eyes?
He clambers onto a stool at the bar and still hopes nobody notices him. "Buona sera," he says, softly and to no-one in particular.