The Holy Fucking Grail

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Scene Title	The Holy Fucking Grail
Synopsis	No means no, and there are no take-backs. Damn it.
Date	January 24, 2008

Upscale Residential Complex — Sonny's Apartment

It's three. Which means everyone's still at work, where everyone is anyone who holds a proper job, salaried, time card, registered for taxes, located at an appropriate edifice with appropriate signage, and subject to the logical protocols of professional dress and conduct. Everyone will have work for another two hours, or else bring work home with them in the form of a laptop or manila folder. Teo's uncle is a partner at a law firm. He knows that, sometimes, that's how it works.

Teo is not working right now. No, he's a recently soaped and long-since prone lump on the sofa, which he had dragged a few skewed degrees to avoid the angle of the blinds, and wrapped up in a caramel-colored blanket that — should all go according to plan — ought to save him some arm hair when he wakes up. He's on the edge of sleep now, eyes showing uncharacteristically bruise-dark under the hang of eyelids, studying the twitch and flicker of the television turned down too low for him to hear.

He isn't watching the television. He's watching the slats of sky moving across the television, clouds breathing like sleeping animals in the sky. A mug encrusted with cold coffee dregs sits on the coffee table just within the radius of his fingertips' grasp; caffeination that was, evidently, to no avail.

Sonny had an early morning, a full day with no lunch break and work brought home on said aforementioned laptop. That's why the good doc is home at 3 PM instead of working right until five like the rest of New York's besuited brigade. There's the sound of the key in the lock and Doctor Bianco enters, clad in a casual, but finely tailored dark gray suit, blue silk tie and heavy wool coat. He's shaved, looking alert and altogether highly professional.

"Heeey. Afternoon." He shrugs off the coat, kicks off expensive shoes and drops his messenger bag on a nearby table. "Feeling all right, man? What'd you do today?"

Princess returns to tower in fine style and unutterably bright-eyed. Pauper grunts irritably on the couch, bobbing his head against the buxom cushion that he had jammed under the crook of his neck, a fist in his eye and spasmodically kicking one socked toe into view out of the far end of his blanket roll. What! What. Oh. "N'thin'," he answers automatically, his jaw popping faintly around a suppressed yawn. "No." He's lying, if only by accident. "My friend died. Jus' found out. Motorcycle accident.

"Sad." His sentences are chopped into erratic fragments, which would ordinarily annoy him somewhat, but his current state of disarray leaves him to try and make up for it by latching a rough hand onto one of Sonny's woollen pockets and pull, all helpful, a boneless zombie butler to take Sonny's coat. Or at least yank the garment, if not its actual wearer, down to further bury himself under.

"What?" Sonny shifts in such a way that his coat can be freed, if a bit awkwardly. "Aw, jeez. I'm sorry." And that's not just empty sympathy. He reaches out to scruff Teo's head. "Y'want a beer?" The tones are low, slow. "Feel like going out to eat tonight?" Because from the looks of things, he could do with getting out of the condo for awhile. "There's a nice casual steakhouse type place just down the street." Just to make it clear he's not suggesting they go to some high-toned eatery.

The layer of designer wool is a comfortable addition to that which Teo had already accumulated for himself, the extra weight bringing with it a prompt wave of warmth. Greedily hoarded with a brief, experimental squirm of long limbs sandwiched between. "Yeah, me too," he answers from under the pat of Sonny's hand, bending his nose against the base of the older man's thumb by way of thank you. He exudes a sigh that was deep-lunged enough to have filled a parachute… and then, inconveniently, forgets to breathe inward again afterward. A twitch of burning sets in at the base of his lung; makes him cough. "Outside?" he asks, rolling his head to stare upward, dopey from something that isn't sleep. "Together?"

"Yeah, together. People only care about who I bring to 'it' places and fancy shindigs. They're not going to pay attention to who I'm at a steak house with." There's a pause as Sonny takes a closer look at Teo, at his pupils and skin. "Hey, are you sick, man?" He moves the hand down to press the back of it against Teo's forehead. It would explain the warmth-hoarding. He drops to sit down on the couch as the hand moves then to his cheeks. The blankets are pushed aside to allow him room to sit. "Maybe I should make you a cup of tea instead."

Warmth-hoarding could otherwise be explained by expatriate neurosis. That is what this is, Teo thinks. The paragon of maturity, he screws up his face when his face is felt, contorting grooves and a petty knit of brows against the flat of Sonny's hand, neither of which relax when tactile contact move to his cheeks. "No," he replies, a warm expulsion of breath against the furrows of compressed fingers. He cedes a few more inches of couch with a caterpillar squirm, a pinned knee protruding from the line of wool before gopher-ducking back underneath. "'M just fucking tired. I'll take a nap, and then… and then the steakhouse sounds good. What time do you want to eat dinner?" The space he gives Sonny is retaken the instant the Doctor establishes himself. Gravity, lassitude, and companionable conduct roll Teo's torso against the back of the older man's hip.

"You know, you could turn the heat up. Or turn on the fireplace. It's electric, but it gives off real heat. Or have a nice, hot shower. You can use the master bath one if you want." With its fancy jets and dual showerheads. "Sixish, maybe seven? Whenever you want. I'm gonna have a muffin and a coffee in a few minutes here."

His hand moves in circles against Teo's back. "Looking at you, you'd think it was Antarctica in here. Making me feel like a bad host." There's a light chuckle and a hair ruffle that follows that.

As if Teo's hair wasn't enough of a mess already. The tips of Sonny's fingers come away smelling of shampoo: apparently the shower was already done, another step in the apparently flagging process of returning this terrorist to a state of functionality. "Cazzo. Who's going around like a fucking hen now?" he asks, failing entirely to sound fed up, either because his voice as enervated as the rest of him or he honestly bears the treatment no ill will. "I'm fine. Seven is fine. Everything is fine, apart from Chris being dead.

"I'll prove it." In a magician's gesture, he flings off blanket and coat in one grandiose swing of his arm. Of course, if he were a magician, the panels of fabric would probably have done a swirl and flown further before deflating in a burp of wrinkles in the small space left between Sicilian and couch. Tadaa. Teo finishes off this stunning demonstration of vibrant good health by sitting up and unloading a sound kiss on the unlikely matron's face. Two. Three, barring protest. Then, "Then, we pretend we're friends?"

"You're being mopey and burrowed under blankets. And you lost a friend, man. If that doesn't call for some genuine sym —" but his protests are cut off by the magician's flourish and the string of kisses. One and two are met with passivity simply out of surprise, but third is returned. He chuckles, softly. "Mmm. Think you can handle that? I think if we start making out over our porterhouses, people might pay attention." Just maybe.

Maybe. Maybe, maybe. Teo might be mouthing that silent word to himself; it's a little hard to tell, given he's switched to being mopey and burrowing under blankets to being mopey and burrowing into the nook of Sonny's neck. He thumbs the small, mobile bones at the base of the older man's throat and, segmenting the indolent kiss skimmed off the Adam's apple, something damp happens on the seam of artery there: by default, Teo's tongue. Given the other circumstances that indicate all too proximate limitations to this course of action, however, he gives way pretty soon to a lugubrious sigh and a slouch on Sonny's shoulder. "Non problemo," he mutters.

Sonny can't quite control the shiver that involuntarily courses through his body at the touch on his neck. "Mmmrgh…on the other hand…we could just stay here." He shifts away from Teo, but only to give himself enough room to tug off the constraining suit jacket. The tie is loosened next, the shirt untucked. He nuzzles against the side of the other man's face and exhales warm breaths. "I really am sorry about your friend," he murmurs gently. But none of the natural questions follow, like who the friend was and the circumstances surrounding his death. He's perhaps too used to being on the outskirts of knowledge of anything beyond his sphere.

By now, Teo's eyes are closed. He has the good grace not to fake a snore or otherwise pretend that that's merely because he's tired. Rich people smell good, as a general rule. Catherine Chesterfield, Lucrezia Bennati, Lori Levonian and Salvatore Bianco constitute the subject test group. "His name was Christian Powell," comes the reply, however inappropriately morbid, and morbidly inappropriately confessed against the crook of Sonny's jaw. Drawn up for balance, Teo's knee nudges the other man's back and his arms thread underneath and around the lining of the suit jacket. Helping. Kind of. No, not really. "He was a Federal agent in the service of the American government, a talentless actor, and a murderer. It w's just a motorcycle accident." He might have sensed the natural questions, or he might be tired of secrets. "I just have to be on the riverfront at ten."

There's an awkward few moments of movement before Sonny's dress is converted from rich bastard to rich bastard without a tie. Then he settles down again, allowing Teo whatever posture it is that he wants. He thinks about the explanation for a moment, then nods slowly. Of course, Phoenix business would include working with people and even becoming friends with such people. He's just never really had occasion to think too much on it before.

"Seems odd that anyone dies in a conventional way anymore, hmm?" His tone is thoughtful and his eyes unfocus. He takes one of Teo's hands and pulls it to his mouth. The back is kissed, then both hands sandwich the one and squeeze in a comforting way. "Can you tell me how bad it's going to be?" The question is asked quietly, softly, almost as an invitation for Teo to ignore it outright.

Teo doesn't make friends because Phoenix needs him to. Which isn't to say he wouldn't, but he hasn't, would prefer not to. That's almost half of a redeeming feature right there. Less favorable is the twitch of rough knuckles and notched fingers in Sonny's clasp, obscurely unsettled by this act of tenderness, if not enough to pull away. Teo pulls around instead, a shuffle that trods heels across the errant sleeve of the discarded jacket, easing the twisted torque of his own back by relegating himself to sitting at Sonny's, his knees split evenly around the bole of the other man's torso. The good Doctor is permitted to keep his hands captive for the time being. "I don't know what you mean," he replies, poking his ostentatious nose into the rim of Sonny's ear, though that strictly speaking isn't strictly true. He suspects.

Sonny leans his head to the side to allow access to his neck and ear. He exhales and leans lightly back against Teo. He fingers the hand he has held captive, pressing between the digits or along the callouses, exploring the makeup of bones, unconsciously searching for signs of old breaks. It's almost like acupressure, or perhaps that's precisely what it is. "You don't have to tell me," he murmurs.
The doc's eyes drift partway closed and he rolls his shoulders back against Teo. "Thought you wanted to have a nap?" A deep chuckle vibrates through their closeness. Then he relaxes his hands and releases Teo's.

"Did. Do." Which is pretty annoying, and probably one of two things keeping his hands from summarily ejecting the buttons off the front of Sonny's shirt. Teo's finger-bones are ridged at irregular intervals here or there, the overlaying muscle strings having long since learned to either lie flat despite or live with a certain manageable level of discomfort, perhaps gradually ameloriated in splinter fractions by Abigail's curative gifts. His forefinger winds up hooked on the interval between the top two shirt buttons, hedging, reluctant, and his face on someone else's nape. "You could wake me up later," he speculates around a mouthful of organic cotton collar. Fffp. He adds, not exactly defensively, "You don't have to tell me either." It courts the question: Tell you what? but one that, he figures, Sonny would rather leave undiscussed.

"I don't have very many secrets, Teo. Not from you. You already know the big ones," And so do most of the Ferrymen, but that's beside the point. Sonny makes no protest when it comes to the buttons. He shifts slightly and pushes back against Teo a little more. As for naps? "S'up to you," he murmurs lazily. A beat, "God, you're like a furnace." He chuckles and reaches back to rub the side of the other Italian's cheek.

Now, or later. Now, or later. Skepticism is unbecoming on a man of Teo's faith, but a man of faith ought to be nothing if not unbecoming at the end of the world. He makes a disbelieving noise about the lack or shortage of secrets and then a dispirited one when there comes more sniggering at what seems, ostensibly, to be his expense. That is it for inarticulate noises for the time being, however, as the Sicilian finally crunches to the completion of his mental arithmetic and begins to part the halves of Sonny's shirt with deft hands. To this end, or at least related ones, the grip of his thighs on either side of the older man contracts firmly. He is that: warm, though not sickly so. "Pretty bad," he answers, finally, four buttons in.

He makes it sound a little like an explanation, if not an excuse. "Worst so far."

Sonny thinks about Teo's words for a moment and all the meaning contained therein. His body is still and he doesn't fight the tug of the buttons that unfasten the top of his shirts. That is, until number five is reached. A hand goes up to catch the unbuttoning one. "You're not…" a cold shiver descends his spine and something grips the depths of his stomach. "…preparing for the worst, are you?" He looks back over his shoulder. Something about the mid-afternoon light makes his face darker and his eyes lighter. His brows furrow as he considers the other with a searching look.

Generally, being subject to a searching look triggers a certain urge to hide. There's nowhere to go. Sonny's sympathetic fussing sucked all the space out of the situation, and leaving no real loci of reference or distances to anything. Teo is left to stare back, one hand hanging off the front of the other man's shirt, freshly aware that his hair and sweater both smell like luxury enough to conceal the pungence of fear that he could have sworn was following him everywhere he goes.

"It's my fucking job to prepare for the worst," he points out. He knows that that wasn't what he was being asked, though, so he concedes with difficulty, almost apologetic, grudgingly accepting the possibility that admitting so could end in Sonny extricating himself in an offended tangle and brace of limbs and tossing him out on his ass. "No. Or I would be panicking to fix all the shit I broke before, not trying… to start something new." With you, is the inference. Not him.

Sonny shifts around enough that he can look at Teo face to face. He simply examines him for a long moment as he chooses his words. He touches the other's cheek, letting fingers trace the line of his jaw. Then, with eyes half-lidded, the doc moves in closer, closer, lips parted. But his head tilts away, towards Teo's ear.

"You can have me…" nngh. Self control, hold out now. His body tenses and rocks forward subtly. He swallows and repeats, "…you can have me when you're safe again. When you've done what you need to do." A beat and a gentle brush of his lips. "…call it an incentive to not fucking self-destruct."

That's.

Inconvenient. Goes somewhere on the ranking between broken sleep patterns and sinus headaches. If you stuck a cable between their bodies, there would probably be enough livewire tension to start a car. Sonny's torso chafes against the grip of Teo's legs when he leans in, whatever vague effort the Sicilian had put into keeping the older man away and out of range of temptation, in light of this inscrutably conscientious rejection, tripping over a coincidence of friction and anatomy to land squarely on failure. Inconvenient. Teo succeeds in corralling some of the hazed heat behind his face into an expression of annoyance, although his growl is the wrong register when he says—

"What do you think you are, the Holy fucking Grail?" Below Sonny's chin, his skin hikes into gooseflesh. Despite Teo's choice of words, it's assent. He doesn't move. He isn't going anywhere.

Sonny may have made the decision, but it's not like it's easy for him. There has been, until this point, affection, closeness, camaraderie, but not quite this…electricity. Strange how talk of abstinence did it. His nostrils flare and his jaw tightens.

"There's this…theory…" He swallows, then draws in a ragged breath. "Where warriors would…abstain and channel that energy on the battlefield." His words are spoken with only a half inch clearance from Teo's face. "My…argument'd have more legs if I fucking pulled back, huh?" And then there's laughter, but it's thorougly charged and uncomfortable.

Not inobviously, Teo is thinking about all the ways he could capture Sonny's points of balance and change his mind about this stupid idea with so many efficient applications of pressure or deprivation. He squints. Glares, really. Looks around, up the side of Sonny's cheek, the grosshopper pulse in Sonny's neck, the oblique muscle of Sonny's shoulder where the shirt, almost shed, began to capitulate to gravity. White knight, Holy Grail. The analogy is beautifully complete and operational on some level. One that he functions decidedly below, for all his cardinal sins. Abstinence.

He used to do that. "Dinner," he says, finally. "Wake me up at six-thirty, per favore." He throws his arms back over his head, over the back of the couch, leans and pulls himself back, falls sideways, swivels back into the cover of blankets with a rasping cough that clears his throat, if nothing else.

As soon as Teo capitulates, Sonny's second-guessing the whole idea. He rolls his eyes skyward and huffs. Seemed like a good idea five minutes ago. He shifts and moves up the couch to give him a gentle kiss that he has to forcefully keep from building to something else. His self control almost breaks, but he manages to pull back with only a gentle nip to Teo's lip to show how tight he's holding the reins on his libido.

"Gonna…get a shower," he announces, then the couch rebounds as his weight is removed from it.

The hand that Teo had splayed on Sonny's belly to support his weight stops, guiltily, before it gets past the very beginnings of a crawl South, is pulled away, closed into a fist and retracted underneath the massed covers and coat. He feels the couch lift under him without hearing the creak of leather, lost somewhere in the static of blood hurtling in his ears. Closes his eyes, accidentally without reply, and silently counts dazed sheep until he can breathe again.

Sonny steps a few strides away, then looks back at Teo on the couch. His shirt is askew, his suit paints now wrinkled and the tie dangles loosely around his neck like a pendulum. He knots his fingers back through his hair, then takes several long, shuddering breaths. Then, reluctantly, he mounts the stairs towards his bedroom. Under his breath, he murmurs, "You're a stupid fuck, Bianco."