Participants:
| Scene Title | Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Amato makes a breakthrough and Lucrezia rewards him with shoes. Life is good. |
| Date | February 20, 2009 |
Ritz-Carlton Hotel - Lucrezia's Royal Suite
It has been weeks since the Vanguard's plan was launched and foiled, days since Lucrezia came 'home' to the Ritz Carlton, safe and somewhat sound. For many reasons, Amato has thrown himself into text once more, over this period of time. His faithful leather bound, gold-leafed tome has not, however, been the volume most often before his eyes, but a dog-eared and tattered library book on eastern religions and meditation.
At least, that's what Amato has been doing while under the direct supervision of Lucrezia.
It's a difficult thing to forget, the fact that at any given time, several hundred compacted eyes are taking his every move in while their mistress is elsewhere. Ablutions are a treacherous time during which it is usually best to try and push the tiny beasts from one's mind. But one thing those many-legged creatures are sure to see is the daily ritual of gathering done by the shut-in. There is plenty about the suite that carries Lucrezia's genetic code, but Amato has chosen the hair left in her brush as the mode of transport to be used in his…
Training. Conditioning. Tempering. There are many fine words for it, but above all, it is a painful process. Then again, all of that pain and frustration is worth it when at last, Amato's slender fingers touch even the smallest strand…
…and he sees nothing.
It's early evening when it happens, the social day either winding down or just beginning to wind up, depending on how one cares to look at it. Amato sits in the bedroom, wearing a pair of trousers held it place with suspenders over a sleeveless undershirt. The book that has been his window to this process and the possibilities it may lead to sits open at one side, the brush at the other. And that lock of hair rests on his palm. And it is at that which Amato trains his twinkling eyes.
The herald of the Black Widow's return is subtle but apparent; the noise of a plastic card key popped in to an electronic lock. The front door in the foyer opens with nary so much as a creak to complain and, sure enough, the Queen has returned to her Royal Suite, arms laden with shopping parcels. For all the world may be falling to their knees around them, there are still a few shops worth being seen in in New York City and their names are proclaimed proudly on the sides of the bags that line her heavy-coated arms: Gucci, Armani, Cavalli.
It takes Amato a few seconds to register the sound of the door opening and the subsequent rustle of packages as the lady of the house, as it were, returns. He lifts his head slowly, and, keeping his left hand extended and the dark lock of hair balanced on his palm, stands to walk through the open bedroom door into the parlor. Like a cat bringing home some dead rodent, or a child bearing some school-facilitated art project, so does Amato look upon Lucrezia.
Lucrezia proceeds to parade her way through the foyer and she actually smiles when she's met halfway by her very own half-dressed man… even if things aren't, you know, like that. Her expression fades into something akin to puzzlement, however, when she spies his awkward offering. She doesn't get it. Yet. "«What's this?»"
Despite how prized the symbol of Amato's newly harnessed control is, Amato easily turns his palm to let the lock fall silently from it to the floor. "«It is this, aurea agna»." Amato's voice is soft, as if using it too loudly would somehow spoil the intensity of his meaning as he reaches his hand out to touch the hair that is still attached to Lucrezia's head.
It is a hesitant touch, preluded by a faint yet deep breath. Still, when Amato's skin meets the soft and glossy fibers, there is an obvious release of tension in the muscles of his shoulders, arms, and neck.
Wait. Aurea agna? Who the hell is that?! She's his nigra agna — his black sheep — not… whatever… wait, what? Why is he reaching out to —
All at once, Lucrezia's luxury-laden arms release their load and wee boxes and big bags go crashing to the floor at her feet with a cacophony of laminated paper pitched over. When Amato's fingers greet her hair, however, she seemingly absorbs the tension that he relinquishes and she sighs heavily at this forced confession. "«What do you see?»" She tries to imagine what it is that she might have done wrong in his eyes.
Amato bends at the waist to lean in then, his eyes sparkling even as his mouth quivers into a smile. "Nihil, Lucrezia," he whispers. "Nihil."
Really? Dark eyes go all alight as Lucrezia reckons what, at first, might seem to be calamity. "«Nothing…?»" she utters quietly. Has he lost it completely??
It takes a great deal of concentration to keep Nothing in check, however, and after even a few moments, Amato visibly struggles with the task of, of all things, keeping calm. He nods to Lucrezia, but images tickle at the edge of his consciousness, like a daydream trying much too hard to break the barrier between what is real and what is fiction. It's only a matter of time before, with a reluctant sigh and slight tremor, Amato breaks the connection and lowers his hand to his side.
"«Have you… lost the sight or…»" Could it be?! There's something inside of Lucrezia that just can't help but allow much more carnal thoughts to abruptly bleed in to her otherwise stupefied mind. "«…have you mastered it??»"
Amato turns away from Lucrezia in order to move and lean against the chaise, lifting his hand to his own head and rubbing his brow. "«I have far from mastered it,»" he admits as if it were a disgraceful sin. "«It is difficult. I…I cannot imagine what it is like to see through so many eyes at the same time as your own.»" The headaches Lucrezia must have, but the comment is as much a remark of sympathy as it is a gentle inquiry for suggestion.
Oh, what a world of brand new possibilities! Lucrezia's expression lightens considerably, even as Amato expresses his distress with a tired fretting of his brows. "«This is wonderful news!»" She only barely manages to contain the sudden impulse to clutch the man's freckled cheeks between her palms and instead allows her hands to clasp his suspenders enthusiastically. "«You will learn… in time… with practice. I can help you.»" And that almost seems more like it might be a threat than a promise as it comes with the hint of a kiss on her lips. "«But, come…»" she says, denying him the gesture and bestowing it on the air at his cheek instead. "«I have things to show you. I've been shopping…»" Just in case he'd forgotten about all of the boxes and bags strewn on the floor not far from his feet.
Lucrezia's excitement coupled with the grip she takes on the bands of elastic cloth shake Amato into a state that is more conscious of his actual surroundings and less plagued by exhaustion. There is a thankful smile at her promise, and he lets his eyes close as she nears his face for the sentiment, even if it is delivered to the air. His own lips, unseen save by those compacted eyes not attached to Lucrezia's face, purse to return it, but it is a subtle move in comparison to her deliberate one.
Amato's eyebrows rise at the woman's reminder, and he lets his eyes fall to the packages and parcels on the floor. "«That you have. What for?»"
"«For you.»" Amato is left to languish in her wake as Lucrezia steal over to a seat on the overstuffed couch, whereupon she carefully unzips the boots that had been housing her feet and carefully places the footwear off to the side. A shoebox that had escaped its overturned bag is retrieved from the floor and she extends it out toward her fair countryman. "«Try them on…»"
Amato is clearly skeptical as he moves from the chaise to the couch to take the offered box from Lucrezia, but he doesn't open it until he is seated beside her, laying the box on his lap before he removes the lid. The footwear revealed is of excellent quality - black leather loafers that are sleek and modern, without an ounce of visible metal. Amato lifts one in his hand to study it. "«This… Lucrezia, this was not needed.»" As sparse as his wardrobe may be, even with the clothes that Lucrezia has already purchased for him… "«Quality such as this is wasted on a man such as me.»"
"«Nonsense,»" Lucrezia insists with true Italian nonchalance. She isn't about to allow Amato's presumed mantle of modesty let him reject a three hundred dollar pair of shoes. "«If I have to look at you, then I get to decide what you wear.»" See? In her little insect-infested world, all things really do revolve around this wanton woman and her dark desires. Even Amato, for so long as he's within her web.
Amato frowns as he looks between the expensive shoes and Lucrezia. "«I assume that this arrangement does not work in reverse.»" And why should it? It's Lucrezia who is footing all the bills, not Amato. "«You at least bought something for yourself," he half asks, half wishes as he looks back to the piles of bags and boxes.
Instead of answering Amato's inquiries outright, Lucrezia leans her body back in order to lounge languidly in the crook of the couch between overstuffed arm and plump-cushioned backing. She allows herself the luxury of a sly and beguiling expression, regarding her fair-haired companion through a pair of sparkling brown eyes that hold unknowable secrets untold. One tartsocked toe then creeps its way over to nudge the man's thigh as if to prod the reluctant recipient of her generosity to go forth and explore the treasures laid out at his feet. Ever the voyeur, she wants to watch him awkwardly accept the crone's cadeaux. In an Italian-accented echo of Doris Day, she sing-songs a single word in triplicate: "Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…"
 February 20th: Treading Air |
 February 20th: History Lesson |