Hello, readers. Here we are again with another Cantarella fanfic. I just hope that you enjoy. Read, review, request—such things please me.

Disclaimer: I don't own Cantarella…sadly. Pity, please.

Warning: Slash, folks. Guy/guy lovin'—but no sex, hence the low rating!

Five Things

Chapter One

By Cezzy

Cesare was not asleep. But he could pretend.

The Church called it wrong. It called it evil. It called it sin, done by heathens and heretics.

Bu then, were those bureaucratic idiot masses infested by demons from Hell? Cesare begged to differ.

Cesare only allowed himself to blink when his eyes were on the verge of watering and spilling over; he was deathly afraid the angelic vision of magnificence would vanish, like a mirage. It was too beautiful to belong to Earth.

Let alone you, the darkness leered at him, sensing the direction of his thoughts.

Cesare paid no mind. They were still young; it had only been a year ago that the young assassin had come under his wing. There was time for that later. Surely, good things happened to those who waited…and later pursued.

The first drops of rain splattered on the chipped pane of glass that the innkeeper had optimistically called a "window". Truly, Cesare thought to be merely a hole in the wall covered by a block of hazarded glass. In response, the nose of sleeping Chiaro—who was sharing the flea-ridden mattress with him—twitched.

Cesare blinked. I like it when he does that, he decided firmly.

He twisted his fifteen-year-old body in the bedsheets—stained by occupants and by things that he refused to think about—entangling his legs in them. He laid his head on his bent arm, thin strands of gracefully waved hair fluttering as he breathed. No—that was Chiaro's breaths whistling quietly out of his nostrils to quiver Cesare's hair. Cesare could not suppress a small shiver at that revelation.

What else do I like about him?

1) Cesare likes it when Chiaro twitches his nose; it causes an adorable clenching in his eyebrows and brings out dimples on one side of his mouth.

Cesare blinked.

Then he blinked again.

Chiaro already had his eyes squeezed shut as his mouth was open wide, tumultuous and gleeful laughter erupting from parted lips. He lolled back upon the groaning chair as full-throated mirth-filled hoots spewed from him.

After a full thirty seconds, he recovered, with a few minor relapses into quick, embarrassingly (and, as Cesare found them, oddly cute, which he did not deign to pursue in his mind) snorty giggles.

2) Cesare likes Chiaro's real laughter, when it is only the two of them; it is humiliating and explosive, but to see Chiaro that way is both fun to observe and invites chances to tease him all-knowingly later.

Chiaro took good care of his boots.

They were all from exclusive retailers, with springy, supple, bendy leather hand-chosen directly from the tanners. He took at least one afternoon every two weeks to slowly, carefully polish them with a strange mixture that Cesare only knew half the ingredients of—tallow, goat hoof shavings, and congealed olive oil to name a few.

When Cesare once demanded just what was so extraordinary about his footwear, Chiaro had solemnly insisted that it might save his life one day, and Cesare grudgingly realized this to be true; the smallest wrench in the grand design could ruin a masterpiece.

He would then take his time to cautiously stride down one corridor, stepping lightly and deliberately. He had always done this, ever since he had come under Cesare's wing.

3) Cesare likes Chiaro's walk. When he was younger, he had no idea why, but he just knew that somehow, it was very nice to watch.

Cesare could feel the sun poking burning hot pokers through his eyelids as a golden tinge entered through them. He kept his eyes closed, however, along with every other cardinal, feigning dutiful, obedient prayer. His robes were thick and woolen, not allowing a healthy breeze to graze his glistening, flushed skin.

As the final murmurs of the communal cardinal's prayers were murmured sluggishly, Cesare rose, muscles quivering and aching.

Chiaro was beside him in an instant, lightly and instinctively pulling a curtain of stringy brown hair off the back of Cesare's sweaty neck.

4) Cesare likes the way Chiaro is always there to serve—even kill—without question. And he likes to know that it's all for him.

Chiaro's singing voice was not pleasant.

But strangely, Cesare loved it.

Chiaro did not ever sing apart from when he bathed in the natural pools outside the city walls, nit even in his church hymns. And he did not truly sing—not that it could have been that in the first place. Rather, he belted his tune-lacking, croaky voice so that it was quite possible that people in Naples heard him. He went all out—for better or, certainly in his case—worse.

His voice was horrendous.

He was never on any pitch in particular. He was flat, screeching, and sounded somewhat like a blond pterodactyl.

What made it worse was that, according to a suspicious Volpe, he got this huge, satisfied smirk upon his face every time it happened.

5) Cesare likes it when Chiaro sings. He honestly does not know why, but he likes it.