A Permanent Center of Gravity

The only major trigger is potential—but didn't happen—animal abuse of a rat. Other than that, it's pretty much fanfiction if the fanfiction was about two (fairly) unknown (in terms of backstory) characters in the public domain.

The sky hung the stars joyously, reflecting the laughter from the Earth’s surface; the Venetian streets cracked and quiet, listening to the drunken singing of a revered, young lover. So, too, did each citizen—young and old, rich and poor, living and dead—all enamored by a previously foreign boy—now a welcomed man—as he sang praises, songs, and joys into the world between sips of Sherry. 

His friend—his beloved and best supporter, one Cifarelli Montresor—was not the biggest fan of his spectacle.

The bacaro bustles and brightens as the man laughs and the friend crosses the floor, intentions pure and just for the man. They have a prior appointment, he knows, and the stop was simply a distraction—a poorly obstacle—to what is a promise to them both. Montresor enjoys drinking as much as the next, but he prefers the man’s attention and company far more, and now he seems to be losing it.

Montresor carefully puts his hand between the man and his drink, looking at him with sparkling eyes and expectation. He leans in close, whispering just to the lover, “Promised me Rome, did you not?”

“Quite far,” he whispers in reply. “Might I promise you Verona? I do enjoy your company.”

Montresor smiles and takes the man’s hand into his own, leading him towards the exit, “Join me, René Fortunato. For I intend to captivate you.”

Fortunato laughs and places his drink down, circling his arms around Montresor’s neck and hanging off him like the streetlamps intertwined into the bacaro’s bones and build. The bricks forming the street carry them softly as Fortunato dances about Montresor, dragging him every which way, as the friend attempts at drawing the lover back into his center of gravity and leading him to where they must go.

“Cifarelli, I must attest to your non-dancing tendencies,” Fortunato claims, his shoes tapping against the loved-on brickwork. He throws his hands into the air, “Hold me high! As I do you, care about and above, stars and stories!”

Montresor huffs, watching the air freeze in front of him, and gives him a soft smile, “Of all, you should know I’m no dancer, René. I must leave that all to you.”

“All can and should dance,” he debates, circling Montresor and sliding against the wet roads, despite the cracks within it. “So much emotion to be found in the body.”

“Mm, I’d say you know an intimate thing or two of that,” the friend taunts.

Fortunato laughs, white teeth shimmering against the stars’ loving reflections. He always had a beauty like no other—his skin kissed by the sun; hair wily, dark, and supple, reaching just below his nape; and ears adorned with gold, even allowing his eyes to sparkle with it. It was as though the man was of the universe’s special and own creation, each and every piece leaving him love-rushed and drunk with splendor.

Montresor turns a corner, Fortunato following just behind—momentarily distracting himself with the windows of closed shops and answering the calls of children above, meant to be sleeping, dreaming, and waiting.

He takes hold of Montresor’s forearm and bicep, playing with a loose strand of his coat, and leaning into his friend’s body heat, “I thought your home was closer.”

His friend, in return, adjusts to hold him close—like a couple returning from a candlelit dinner, ready to undress and lay the day to bed, skin and cloth intertwining as they pass the night in tranquil, uninterrupted sleep. Montresor breathes out through his nose, a small chuckle in his throat, “I think your borderline stupor has affected your mind’s abilities.”

“With an insult such as that, you should simply carry me to your abode.” Fortunato’s voice reverberates through Montresor’s ears while its faux-snobbery air floats about.

“I am much too weak, I’ll have to repay you elsewhere,” he replies, a faint whisper to Fortunato’s vibrato—a sweet song to any ear it meets. Montresor’s arm curves around the lover’s back, lying carefully on the hip opposite to him.

The night began to melt—crying at the scene—dripping slight raindrops onto their faces and the brick below. Montresor understood, how could anyone refrain from such a thing. A teary sight it was, seeing such a beloved man with anyone other than one’s self—his understanding unparalleled in his mental court of law and love.

The sky’s sobs and cries grew as they reached Montresor’s estate—shaking the sturdy walls ever so slightly while the duo entered through a large pair of doors, open wide and waiting for the gift of their presence. The home itself is dim and quiet, with only a few candles lit—their wicks shrinking nicely—and the staff sent home to enjoy themselves.

Montresor stops them, “Avoid the carpet, wet spots are particularly hard to clean.”

The entrance room is grand, much like the outer portion of the house and the doors leading in, with a large staircase taking up at least half the hall. The frayed and intricate designs of the dark and grayed stone of the walls guide the eye to a crystal chandelier, forever unlit and hanging just above the stairs, inviting the two inside as it reflects the electric anger of the sky behind them. Likewise, adjacent bookcases and shelving spaces hold candelabras on each side of the entrance doors. Other rooms, in a general sense, were no mind to the bland, yet intoxicating, beauty of the hall.

Fortunato moves out of Montresor’s hold to a large shelf, carrying a variety of books and trinkets of various sizes and colors, dragging his finger along the surface’s built dust. He returns his gaze to Montresor’s dripping form, “When last did you dust, dear friend?” he jokes, making his way back to his Montresor-led tour. “I could make a second house with all the filth from your estate.”

“My,” Montresor smiles in return, grabbing a candelabra from the other side table—tiptoeing around the carpet, “have you become a mason since last?”

“Perhaps.” Fortunato holds his head high, jutting out his bottom lip—a smirk peeking out from behind.

“I bet you astounded your masters with your talents,” Montresor mocks, careful not to slip any venom into his words—he has done so on more than one occasion, much to both their regret. He makes his way to the catacombs’ entrance: a medium-sized, dark oak door, garnished with bits of gold and steel—rather inconspicuous in regards to the rest of the house. He unlocks it while Fortunato squawks behind him.

Fortunato huffs out a laugh, following just behind Montresor as they duck into the stairway, “Of course they are. I’m quite grand at it—masonry.”

“You’ll have to show me these talents of yours.” He runs a hand through his damp hair, avoiding getting any of his wetness on the slowly sputtering flames of the candelabra.

Fortunato hums, “Are you ever going to install candles into the walls? It would not take much; simple removal of brick and insertion of candle holders. I think it would lighten the place up, yes?”

Montresor halts, turning to look the now giggling man in the eye with mouth open ever so slightly, “Just for that, I’m never going to do it.” He turns back to the steep, downward stairway, continuing his way down.

He hears Fortunato gawk and race down to meet Montresor’s increased pace. “What do you mean! It was not that bad, I assure you.”

“I assure you, it was.” The stairs steepen as they keep deeper on. “Even still, I do not make an appearance here much.”

“A wine cellar? You do not frequent a wine cellar?”

“Are you critiquing my habits?”

“No, no,” he snarks. “You speak with a saint—I would never.”

Montresor’s brow creases, “Hm.”

Fortunato leans over so that his face is parallel to Montresor’s. Enough to see Fortunato’s own creased brow and jutted lips. “Hm,” he repeats, his voice significantly deeper.

Montresor rolls his eyes and tries to push a cackling Fortunato’s face away from his own; unsuccessful as he is, they reach the bottom of the staircase. Montresor offers his hand to Fortunato, who takes it in stride.

It’s a short walk to the cellar within the catacombs, no obstacles or distractions to be met in between, with its bland and dark walls and discreet webbings—bones riddle the widened hall, coming as natural as the stones surrounding them. Yet, a small brown rat—with a noticeable white underbelly—skitters past them, taking refuge behind a small pile of rocks near the opening to the cellar—inviting them with warm light and perfectly aged wines.

Montresor sneers when he sees the rat scurry from its hiding place, justly running into the alluring light of the cellar. He pulls Fortunato into the cellar, surprise clear on the man’s face. He releases his hold on Fortunato’s hand and places the candelabra atop an upturned cask, making his way toward the still-fleeing rat.

He reaches it quickly—quite surprisingly too, he hasn’t reached rats as quickly before, though they are still caught—grabbing it by the scruff of its neck and bringing it to eye level.

“Have you luck, vermin? You are allowed the sight of your killer, prepare justly.” He looks around, finding a partially open cask of Amarone. With his free hand, he lifts the head off the rest of the way; holding the rat above his head, over the mostly filled wine cask, once the head gives. He lets go of the mangy fur and frowns. “René, you shouldn’t touch rats.”

“I prefer my wine without fur,” he deflects, holding the panicked rat close to his person, petting it with a singular finger. “I’ve seen rats swim, as well, they last quite a bit. A drowning would take hours.”

“Might it drink? A drunken man lasts nothing in roaring rivers—or a stilled lake.”

Fortunato hums and carefully places the rat back onto the stone flooring. They watch it scamper out of the cellar, back into the dim and dingy blue light of the catacombs. He turns back to Montresor's peevish stare. Fortunato rolls his eyes in reply, grabbing Montresor by the front of his shirt—comforting silk and partial cotton, bits of lint stuck between the subtle, but repetitious, embroidered coat of arms. He seems to forget what he was going to do as he perks up, “Oh! What did you want to show me? You said you would captivate me, did you not?”

Montresor perks up in tandem, “Yes, it had simply slipped my mind. I do apologize. It is over this way.” He takes Fortunato’s hand from his shirt, caressing the dorsal side with his thumb. “I picked out a specific wine for it.”

“How long have you planned this?” Fortunato’s smile clear in his words.

“You one-upped me last year, I had to repay the deed.”

Fortunato laughs, pulled with little resistance to the deeper parts of the cellar, “You’re leading me everywhere today.”

Said leading brings them to a small, high-top table with two adjacent chairs. They’re a sweet beech, lighter than the woods that make the casks surrounding them, but still strong and comfortable. They have a homemade quality to them, freshly sanded and adorned with small bits of white and gray paint. The table is topped with a small black blanket, shavings of gold stuck to its surface; it was sentimental and intricately knit years ago, but ever so essential to the operation.

“You’d fall off your ass if I didn’t,” Montresor jokes, pulling out one of the chairs for his friend to sit in.

“A gentleman, you are,” Fortunato laughs, taking the seat, adjusting the table, and watching as Montresor fills two Cristallo glasses with a rose-colored mixture. “How have you not been stolen from my fair grasp, with acts such as this?”

“Well,” Montresor starts, swirling the wine in his glass, “what reason do I have to leave it?”

Fortunato’s smile grows as a light blush coats his cheeks, “You jest.”

“Perhaps,” Montresor hums.

“Well,” Fortunato clears his throat, “what did you mix for us this year? I taste extreme citrus, no?”

“Correct,” Montresor beams. “But, you know the game; guess, Ren.”

“You spoil me,” the man snarks. He swirls the concoction lightly, brings it below his nose to smell, and then takes a minuscule sip. He hums in thought, “There’s a tang—distinctly sweet and fruity–”

“Yes.”

“–Pomegranate wine, that’s the red.” Montresor’s poker face fails as Fortunato takes another sip. “The white is quite faint this year, how much did you put in?”

“It’s a subtle taste!”

“Cheat!” Fortunato laughs, and the room seems to brighten. “Tokaji! It’s Tokaji, isn’t it?” He takes another sip—deeper this time, Montresor can see Fortunato’s Adam’s apple move in tandem—before looking at Montresor in awe. “How did you get this?”

“I have my ways,” Montresor shrugs. “And a bottle, if you want it.”

“You really do spoil me.” Fortunato’s subtle dimples become more apparent. His smile falters, “I don’t know how I can ever return the favor.”

“No.” Montresor waves the prospect away. “This is all of my own doing. I expect nothing in return but the joy your smile brings me.”

“No– well, yes, but I mean, everything, Cifarelli.” He takes Montresor’s hand, warmth spreading through Montresor’s face and chest. “Thank you, truly. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

Montresor pauses for a moment, opening and closing his mouth, scrambling for the right words. There’s no way to tell him, really, no way to break years' worth of trust on a whim. So, he feigns ignorance—happy to live in a moment that is simply and solely for them. He pulls Fortunato’s hand to his lips, kissing each knuckle carefully, and looks up to him with furrowed brow and saddened smile. “Dear, you would have thrived.”