Life & Art

by Nelson and Mugsley



Characters: Michelangelo Mirisi de Caravaggio & Cardinal Francesco del Monte; Mario & Gianni

Authors' notes: This story started after a conversation between Mugs and me. She had an idea about writing a story based upon the artist Caravaggio. The trouble with using real life people is you have to get the history right. J What we decided to do was try to loosely base the story around Caravaggio and Francesco, taking the liberties with Mario and Gianni.

Mario was truly a young man in Caravaggio's life who posed for him frequently. So you can get an image in your mind, we are providing links to the portrait referenced in the story. That boy is Mario. Michel (Caravaggio) included a self-portrait in another painting that has Mario in it and we're linking that in as well.

We tried to stick closely to history for the most part, but we did stray some to suit our story. Don't grade the history part. Just enjoy the story. LOL

Nelson & Mugsley

"Hold still," Michel said to me. I heaved a sigh. Sitting so long was not something I took kindly to, but I did it probably because of vanity. Plain and simple vanity. I could not help but wonder just what kind of creation my good friend was making of my visage this time on the canvas before him. Michel had become a good friend since the time we met. Two starving artists determined to make it in Rome, we joined forces two years ago when I was a mere 16 and he 22. Michel's paintings had since caught the eye of Cardinal Francesco Del Monte who took us in as well as several other artists and musicians over time.

"My apologies," I said to him sincerely. I could not help but add, "Are you almost done?"

He cut his eyes at me, paintbrush stopping in mid-stroke. "Must you complain at every session?" His eyes twinkled and I could instantly see what Francesco saw in him, beyond merely his painting abilities. My friend was anything but atrocious in the realm of his looks. He still bore the pudgy cheeks of adolescence, much like my own, that were encased by a dark, curled halo of hair. "Really, Mario, we have barely begun," he chastised me.

"Are you certain?" I asked him. "I think I have surely been sitting here for a decade. A half of one at the very least."

He laughed from his belly. "I think not." He placed the tip of his brush to the pallet after a long look in my direction. His eyes glazed over as he lost himself once more in the art, oblivious to my complaints. I smiled affectionately at him, his lips pursed in concentration. Michel somehow possessed the ability to paint directly to canvas, without ever first having to sketch or draw his subjects. It was certainly a rare talent that added to his genius.

After another lifetime, I realized my arms were tiring from being in the same position with the heavy basket of fruit in my arms. "My arms are beginning to ache," I announced.

"Oh, bother!" he exclaimed. "You complain more than anyone I know."

I could not resist a smile. "More than you, even?"

"Yes," he said in a slow drawl. "More than even I. Quiet, and let me work, boy."

I suppose my pose began to shift, because he came over to me in a huff, and repositioned the basket of fruit in my arms. "I told you my arms are sore!" I reminded him. His interest was clearly in getting the portrait painted and not my protests.

He grunted in my general direction as he walked back to the canvas. "I swear, I need the patience of St. Peter to paint your likeness." He picked up the pallet once again, hooking a finger through the wood to steady it.

"St. Peter was not patient," I pointed out petulantly. "He lobbed off a fellow's ear. Do you not remember that from mass?"

He looked at me around the canvas. "Enough with the sermon. Be still, I tell you, or I shall tell your lover how contrary you have been today. You will likely have to hear him screech as a consequence." Certainly. "Screech" had he said? Not at all likely to be the only thing my lover did if he thought I had been difficult.

"I am trying," I said sincerely.

"Every day," he said to the paint strokes. "Complain, complain, complain." He glanced up at me and pointed the bristles of the brush in my direction. "Your wrap has slipped." I looked over to my left shoulder and saw the sheet around me was indeed closer to my elbow than Michelangelo had originally placed it. I adjusted it back to the correct position and concentrated on maintaining my pose.

I shifted once more and Michel slapped his hand by his side, somehow managing to keep the wet brush from kissing his black doublet. "I have reached my limit for one day!"

I sat the basket of fruit firmly on the table nearest me and shouted back, "So have I!" I stood to my feet to face my friend, not frightened of his temper as some were.

He apparently recognized the fight in my eyes, and he backed down a bit. His words still stung. "I declare at this moment, I shall start painting objects with no life, no life at all. Even the fruit I use will be shriveled and dead." He clapped his hands to his hips after discarding the brush and said, "You must be the most unruly subject I have yet encountered, and that includes the street boys I have enticed to pose for me."

"Perhaps you should find another, then," I replied with my chin held high. It was an effort as I realized I had angered my friend. "Or, maybe a dead boy would be to your liking?"

"Possibly. At least a dead boy would not complain or wriggle." He nodded at me slowly, considering the prospect then his anger melted before me. He teased me. "Find another boy? That I shall, Mario, that I shall. But, I think," he said looking at me over his canvas, "I shall sorely miss your cherubic face." His soft smile chased away any remaining ire I felt and I smiled at him in return.

I blushed from the compliment. "I should think Francesco would be less than happy with you spending your spare time with objectionable young men from the streets, anyway. Dead or alive."

"Francesco can think what he will. He understands I must paint, and more to the point, he wants me to," he said to me with a smirk. He winked at me as he came closer and took my hand. An innocent kiss to my cheek made up for his earlier impatience with me. "Come. You must be famished."

I reached for a shiny grape in the basket and Michel smacked my hand. "NOT that, you rotten lad. Let us go for lunch. Perhaps then you might feel less inclined to squirm and interrupt my creativity." He leaned behind me to the long rope that was tied to a ring in the wall and released it, bringing the high lantern down slowly before dousing the double flames. Suddenly the room grew darker; though the afternoon light did its best to push through the dark paper-covered basement windows. I shook myself, allowing the sheet to slip from my arms to the floor.

"I cannot stay too long. Gianni will likely be waiting…"

"Piss on Gianni. He can wait," Michel said. He smiled broadly at me and leaned over to kiss my cheek again.

I pulled away from him, my eyes filled with disapproval. "Michelangelo Merici. How dare you attempt to kiss me after speaking such disrespect of my lover? I never speak ill of yours."

"I meant nothing by it," he said with a smile. He held out my stiff collared shirt to me, and then my aging sleeveless doublet, its gold and green colors standing out against Michel's black ensemble. "Dress, my friend, and wipe that hideous expression from your face. I think the world of your lover, until he cuts into my painting time."

"He may cut into any time he wishes when it comes to me. I love him," I said, pulling my shirt straight underneath the jacket. Michel reached out and helped me with the collar.

"Such devotion is unhealthy, my friend," he said, brushing something I could not see from my shoulder. "I mean, I love Francesco as well, but…"

"How you DO lie, Michel. You feel the same as I, and that is the truth." I chanced a glance over my shoulder to get a glimpse of my image as seen by my friend, but he caught me peeking.

He tugged my arm sharply, turning me from the canvas. "Stop looking at it. And, you are right. I love my Francesco more than life itself." His eyes sparkled as his thoughts turned to his lover. He then looked at me playfully, "That is, unless he is insisting on things I care not for. He DOES go on and on at times."

"You would have him no other way," I said, leading us toward the door.

******* We had just entered the crowded establishment that sat on the east edge of Piazza Navona, when Michel ran into a friend of his, a fellow painter by the name of Orazio Gentileschi. They spoke quietly to each other for a few moments, blocking traffic between tables and I stood patiently by Michel's elbow, gazing about the restaurateurs to find either a friend to join or an empty table. The place was fancy enough to have waitpersons, but not quite fancy enough for a maitre'de. (I gotta find out how to spell that…)

If the Cardinal had accompanied us, surely a table would have cleared within moments of arrival, but I suppose it didn't matter, since Michel and Orazio were sharing tennis match scores. My stomach grumbled and becoming quickly irritated, I pulled at the billowing sleeve of Michel's shirt, ready to sit at a now empty table.

Swatting away my hands from his sleeve, Michel didn't even turn his head to address me.

"I'm going over there, Michelangelo." I pointed to the corner, knowing he wasn't paying the least bit of attention to me. He was, however, drawing attention as he and his painter friend stood stock in the middle of the main traffic of the small inn. We frequented this restaurant; however, when I sat at the table, a young man I didn't recognize approached me. He introduced himself as Alessandro and I smiled at him, despite his addressing me in a cold manner.

I noticed that Michel's lack of movement was beginning to annoy the waiters who were brusquely moving about the room, so I called to him. Alessandro, who was apparently and possibly grudgingly, our waiter, tried several times to get by Michel and Orazio, but, deep in conversation, they didn't notice the dirty looks they were being sent. By my third call, he looked over at me distractedly and patted Orazio on the arm before the man left and Michel joined me at the table.

We ordered our lunches, receiving glares from Alessandro. He looked down his nose at me and finally stopped in front of Michel. "Are you that painter from Lombardy?"

Michel looked at him flatly and nodded, used to being recognized as Del Monte's employee. I watched Alessandro carefully, hoping that he would leave the table and let us alone. Thankfully, the waiter turned on his heel and didn't return until he had our lunches in hand.

Plopping our plates in front of us, Alessandro didn't stop to see if we had any further requirements from him before he turned his heel and stormed off.

"I wonder what has him so riled?" I tried hard to distract, Michel, knowing his temper was beginning to get the best of him.

Michel's mug hit the scarred wooden table with a thwack that made me jump. "I don't know, Mario, my boy, but if he keeps it up, he will surely be sorry." The grim, determined look on his face made my stomach drop. I silently prayed that Alessandro would never come back.

The sight of Alessandro headed in our direction snapped me out of my prayer quickly. He was carrying a plate of heaping oysters on a small silver tray, apparently intended for another of his customers. As the smug, pinched-faced looking waiter passed me, he nearly clipped me in the head with the edge of the tray. At my squawk, he muttered something rude that I didn't hear.

At the next instant, I heard, rather than saw, Michel jump to his feet and yell. "BOY? You'll not speak to us that way! Have some respect or I will have Cardinal Del Monte fire you myself! Apologize at once!"

The entire restaurant and myself were now staring open-jawed at the exchange between the two men. I was again dumbfounded when, as Alessandro made to turn his shoulder, muttering something about a boy, Michel grabbed the plate of oysters and hurled them at the skinny waiter.

"He is not my boy, you prune-faced little dickhead!"

As Michel yelled this to Alessandro as well as the patrons, I felt my face turn red and rage take over. The waiter was sputtering madly, wiping slimy oysters from his face and hair and I could tell by the tightening of his fists on the silver that he was contemplating hitting Michel with the tray.

Turning to my plate, I scooped up a handful of my leftover stew that had thickened and congealed nicely and smacked it right in Alessandro's face before he could bring the tray up to either hit or defend himself.

It was then that pure chaos broke loose. A mass of yells, curses, food and arms flailed about among the three of us for what seemed like hours. While still in the midst of fighting, strong arms came out of nowhere, grabbing, pulling and separating until we found ourselves breathing harshly and seated in hard wooden chairs a very good distance from the still cursing, food-covered Alessandro. Head reeling with the shock of what we'd done, I dully noted the crowd of people around us.

One in the crowd whispered, "Call for Del Monte," and I felt my face blanch. I grabbed for Michel's sleeve and he glanced around at me looking frustrated.

"They are calling for the Cardinal," I whispered anxiously at him.

I wasn't sure, but I thought his face whitened at that as had mine. "How do you know?" he asked me.

I pointed in the general direction from where the voice had come, and I said, "I heard it. Over there." His eyes followed my finger and searched the crowd.

"Means nothing," he said. "There is no way to know if they will actually do it, although it would be the best."

I stared at him with open shock. "Best?! If the Cardinal comes down here, he'll be sure Gianni will know…"

"But, he'll straighten this mess out. He always does," Michel said calmly. The color was back in his cheeks.

"Certainly, he does, but I'll surely be thrashed if Gianni hears of it. Thrashed, I tell you!" I implored him to understand, but he did not seem to care more than a little.

"You whelp," he said lightheartedly, apparently unconcerned with the trouble we were in. "Of course, you shall be thrashed. You know better than to throw food." His smirk did nothing to improve my mood, or make me any less concerned.

"YOU threw it FIRST!" I all but shouted. I lowered my voice when I saw heads turn my way, and said, "If anyone should be thrashed, it should be YOU." His face turned scarlet and for more than once, I wondered if Del Monte ever found it appropriate to whip my older friend. I had seen several of the same stern looks I drew from Gianni, as well as heard a terse, reproachful comment or two. The flush in Michel's cheeks made me entertain the notion again, though I would never ask. My youth made it a given that trouble would be followed with swift, unerring discipline, and Gianni made no secret that he whipped me whenever he found it necessary. His lover, yes, yet still a mere boy in his eyes, on the very verge of manhood.

We sat quietly under the uncomfortable scrutiny of the restaurant patrons and waited for the authorities to arrive. They were not long in coming…and neither was Cardinal Del Monte. He demanded entrance through the crowd, carrying an air of authority that was genetically imbedded in his family. My eyes scanned past the Cardinal, looking for my lover, but he was nowhere to be seen. I cannot say I was disappointed. I was in absolutely no hurry to see him after this most recent fiasco with Michel.

"See here," Francesco said to the authorities as he approached. "I want to know what the problem is immediately, and more importantly, why my charges are being held."

The leader of the pack turned to the Cardinal and bowed slightly. "Cardinal," he addressed Francesco, "these young men - your charges - were both involved in general mischief and mayhem."

Francesco's eyes traveled first over Michel, then over me. I felt my belly stir with nervous anticipation for what may lie ahead for me, when he turned his attention back to Michel. "Michelangelo. What has happened here?" He said it sternly, but his voice was calm nonetheless.

Michel took on a look of contrition that I was not buying for one moment. I wondered if the Cardinal would be fooled. "Francesco, it was nothing really," he said off-handedly. "These gentlemen have taken the whole thing to heart in a way most undeserving by poor Mario and me. Just look how upset he is." Michel waved a hand in my direction and I took the cue, and bore a stricken visage of dishonor and remorse, which under the circumstances, was not at all difficult.

The Cardinal straightened up tall, and squared his shoulders. "I do not believe I asked about the result, but rather, about what transpired here. Answer the question, Michelangelo."

I turned wide eyes on Michel and listened as he wove a tale with enough truth in it to not be a lie, but embellished enough to paint us in a better light. "Francesco, it was like this. That waiter over there," he pointed directly at the man who had served us, "spoke to us like a couple of commoners. I merely requested an apology from him, but he flatly refused, did he not, Mario?"

"Yes, he did refuse, Francesco, he…" The Cardinal abruptly cut me off before I could finish my sentence.

"I am speaking to Michelangelo at the moment, Mario. I am certain Gianni will be happy to hear from you when we get home." My lunch almost hurled from my body, and would have, had I not been able to swallow quickly enough to stop its trek upward.

"Yes, Francesco," I replied humbly. His hard glare made me feel all of the eighteen years I was, and not a year more. When alone with my Gianni, I felt exactly as I was: a simulation of boy and man. Man as his lover, and boy wrapped up in his protection and care. At the moment, all feelings of manhood were nowhere to be seen.

"Very well, Michel. Continue," Del Monte said.

Michel swallowed hard and nodded toward the waiter. "So, he refused to apologize and I might have thrown something at him." He shrugged at his lover like the act was nothing to be concerned about. Del Monte was not fooled.

His eyebrows crawled closer to his short-cropped fringe. "'Something' did you say? And, what 'something' would that be?"

Michel's head dropped finally and he mumbled to a point I would not have known what he said had I not been there to see what was thrown. Francesco had not heard him either, and having not been there, he demanded, "Speak up, boy. What did you throw?" Twenty years Michel's senior, it was not uncommon to hear him be called 'boy' by the Cardinal.

"Oysters…" Michel admitted.

Del Monte's eyes went to the waiter and took in the tomato sauce smearing the front of his tunic that came from the stew I hurled at him. "I see. Considering oysters are not in red sauce…" he said turning his eyes on me. I shriveled when he asked, "Did you throw part of your lunch as well, Mario?" His eyes left mine only long enough to take in the bowl of stew on the table.

"Yes, sir, I did," I admitted quietly.

Del Monte surveyed Michel and me closely and said, "I believe apologies are in order…" then with a glare directed at the waiter he added, "all around." He held his gaze with the waiter, and waited for rebuttal. None was forthcoming, as the waiter had indeed treated us unkindly, not knowing we were of the home of Del Monte. The waiter nodded and muttered some semblance of an apology, then the Cardinal looked to Michel and me to do the same.

I quickly did as he expected, hoping beyond hope that he would find it unnecessary to share the afternoon's events with Gianni. "I am sincerely sorry for my part in this," I said. I meant every word. Had I not been sorry before, I most assuredly was sorry at that moment.

Michel did not apologize, but waited for prompting by Francesco. Francesco took his arm and tugged him forward toward the waiter. "I believe you have something to say, Michelangelo." His voice was hard, having an edge to it I recognized.

Michel responded to the command and uttered a frankly unconvincing apology. "I am sorry I threw my lunch at you because you were rude," he said. The Cardinal's eyes narrowed and he cleared his throat. Michel grimaced and looked at his elbow still in the Cardinal's grasp, which I assume became tighter with the insincere apology. Michel then looked at Francesco before turning his attention back to the waiter. "I am sorry for throwing oysters at you." The apology seemed to placate the good Cardinal, though it was not much more sincere than the first.

Apologies given, the Cardinal looked at the city official in charge and said, "It seems to me that no harm has been done here. Are these gentlemen free to leave in my custody?"

The official coughed and sputtered his own apologies and said, "Of course, yes, of course, Cardinal. Had I known these men were of your household…"

"Never you mind. We will just be on our way then," he said. Looking at Michel, he asked, "Have you paid for your lunch?" Michel shook his head, looking as miserable as I felt.

The Cardinal reached for his money pouch and tossed two coins on the table. "I believe that will cover it." He started walking away, his head held high, and called to us without turning around. "Come along, then."

Our feet began moving immediately, and we followed him without a word toward home.

*********

It did not take long for Gianni to seek me out in the large home of Del Monte, having expected me home much sooner. The only thing on his mind when he found me was my having been late. That was soon to change.

"Where have you been?" he said to me in his low voice that warns me trouble is brewing.

"I…I was… I…" Stammering was unavoidable, and Michel saved me, if only for the moment.

"He was detained," Michel said with a crooked grin.

The Cardinal looked at him with disapproval and said, "This is a serious matter, Michel, and I will thank you to behave as though it were."

Michel's smile faded as quickly as it had appeared, and I found myself trying to hide behind the Cardinal. Gianni reached around him and pulled me out into the open. "Mario. What serious matter?" His eyes were concerned but I knew the concern would be replaced with frank ire when he learned I was nearly arrested for throwing food.

I gulped and tried to concentrate on stilling the knocking of my knees. "Gianni, I… we…," I said, looking to Michel for help.

"No," Francesco said, having caught the look. "It is your turn to speak, Mario."

I cast the most forlorn expression I could muster my lover's way, before I tried to tell what happened. Without the eloquence God bequeathed to Michel, I gave my own rendition of the afternoon from hell.

"Food throwing?" Gianni snapped when I was finished. "FOOD throwing?!" I nodded mutely in answer to the question. "You came dangerously close to being arrested! Do you realize that?"

"Yes, sir, I know. It would have none of it happened had that waiter not been so crass. He was MOST rude," I said earnestly. "Most rude, indeed. It was his entire fault! Even he apologized." I started to ask for confirmation from Michel, but knew Francesco would likely not allow him to speak. I appealed to Francesco instead. "Please tell him, Francesco."

"He did," Del Monte said. I relaxed a bit, until he finished his thought. "However, that in no way excuses the throwing of food you two partook in."

He looked no more impressed than he had at the café. Michel's cheeks burned with Del Monte's words that were followed with a hard look in his lover's direction.

"No, it does not," Gianni agreed. He reached out and snatched my wrist, pulling me in his direction. "Come." It was only one word, but I knew it held a wealth of messages. I knew exactly what I was headed for. I had to walk fast to keep up with him.

I heard Del Monte behind me, his voice trailing off as I was dragged toward my fate, "You and I need to discuss…" then I could hear no more. Surely, Michel was in for an earful, as was I, but I would be posing for him the next day with a sore backside. It was hardly fair.

I was hauled through the piazza Madama and out the rear entrance, Gianni having no regard whatsoever of prying residents' ears and eyes as we passed, lecturing me the whole way. Sometimes, I found our home to be all too full of artistic hopefuls, especially when I was in some sort of trouble. Between residents and servants, there were always people milling about. A couple of servants hushed as we passed by and I received more than one sympathetic look, as well as one or two "tsk, tsk"s from people who thought Gianni was surely doing his duty, and that I had earned what was coming. "If you insist on spending time with Michel, then you bear the consequences of following him blindly into inappropriate activities," Gianni said as he marched me outside.

He took me toward the brush where he often did when he felt I needed a whipping, to cut a switch adequate for the job. He continued to verbally castigate me, his words falling mostly on deaf ears, while my mind tried in vain to find a reason suitable to get me out of the fix I now found myself.

He kept a firm hold on my hand until we reached the brush, then he let me go long enough to pull his knife from its sheath to cut a small limb. My delicate rear flinched in anticipation as I watched him select and examine several small branches before settling on the one he wanted. He cut it loose and put his knife back in its sheath at his side, reclaimed my hand and took me toward the stables. He was walking too briskly for me to even try to drag my feet, which were moving at double-pace to keep up. My eyes were fixed on the switch he carried, standing upright in his free hand, twisting against the air that passed it while we walked. I strained to get my hand out of his clutch as we neared the stables, but it was going nowhere.

I found my voice as the stable grew ever closer, and said, "Please, Gianni, he was deserving of everything he got."

"And, so are you, Mario." He was unwavering and continued with his journey to the stables, clearly set on carrying out using that wicked switch in his hand.

"But, what about Michelangelo?" I cried. My throat was tight with unshed tears that threatened from knowing what was in my future. "He is the one who started the whole thing with the food!"

"Michel is not my concern, Mario. You are," Gianni said. The stables loomed in the foreground and were getting closer entirely too fast. I tried again to wrench my hand free, but Gianni held firm, his hand larger and stronger than my own.

We entered the stables and the stable boy was no dunce. He must have read the look on my face, and coupled with the switch in Gianni's hand, decided it best to become scarce. He left the stables immediately, leaving us in peace, and giving me a nervous glance as he passed.

"Gianni," I begged. "I will never do such a thing again. I swear!" Gianni had let go my hand and was busy rolling up his sleeves.

"Lower your breeches, and bend over," he said. I knew I was caught and there would be no going back. Gianni had a set look to his face that told me so. I pleaded with my eyes, but his did not waver. Reluctantly, I did exactly as I was told. I took the tie of my breeches between my shaking fingers and pulled the ends until the tie loosened, as did my breeches. I pushed them down my legs as I was told and turned my back on my lover, having to shuffle a bit against my downed trousers. "Quickly," he said from behind me, and I hesitated before I bent over and grasped my knees, my fingers digging mercilessly into my flesh. My shriveled cock bore evidence of the fear boiling in my belly. I truly hated to be switched, and I gritted my teeth as I waited for the first stinging lash.

Gianni took up position at my side and pulled me tightly against his waist, raising my tunic ever higher to expose my nakedness. The smell of straw was thick in the stables, and I doubt I shall ever associate it with anything but a solid thrashing at the hands of my lover. Perhaps with the passage of time I will think only of horses and hay, but I doubt it will be any time soon.

The first lick landed, and I gasped in spite of myself. Gianni said over my shoulder, "You are never to behave in such a manner again." The second and third lashes branded my behind as soon as he spoke. The thin switch he had selected burned little lines of heat across my backside with every stroke. He continued to bring it down methodically, lecturing me in between each stroke on how to behave in public. In no time at all, tears streaked down my cheeks and my throat burned almost as much as my bottom. I tried in vain to keep quiet, mindful that the stable boy was likely nearby as were the horses, but my cries rose with every biting lick of the switch against my butt and thighs.

Gianni changed sides I suppose to be sure the switch covered my naked bum evenly and the stripes were distributed with equal care to both cheeks. I have never found the nerve to ask him why he did this. It was just my assumption, but he did it every time he switched me. He continued to punish me, oblivious to my desperate cries of repentance. Gianni finally stopped after what felt like an eternity. I knew he had not broken skin - he never does - but it felt like he had all but shredded my bare backside. He threw the switch away, taking me gently in his arms as soon as it was over.

"You are better than that behavior, Mario," he said over my crying. "Do you hear me? Better than that." I allowed him to enfold me in his strength and I leaned hard against him, openly crying like a boy. "I love you. I expect you not to dishonor yourself or Del Monte at any time. Is that clear?"

I was crying too hard to speak, both hands reaching under my tunic to hold my fiery backside. All I could do was nod against him. I could see the switch lying harmlessly through my watery eyes among the scattered pieces of straw, and could not believe such a little thing could cause such a sting. Gianni lifted my face to him and kissed at the tears on my cheeks. He said softly, "Do not ever make me have to switch you for something so childish again, do you hear?"

I managed to gulp back enough tears to speak, and I nodded again. "I will never, Gianni. I swear."

He smiled at me and said, "Of that I am none too sure. So long as you spend time with Michel, trouble will surely continue to follow you. You need to think before you act."

"I try," I said helplessly. "It just happened so quickly."

"That is always the way with Michel. If you ask me, he should be thrashed as well." There were no signs of anger in his voice or disappointment in me. His eyes twinkled when he said, "He needs to learn self-control just as someone else I know." He touched a big finger to the end of my nose, tapping it to indicate just who that other someone was.

I sniffed back a sob and tried to control the hitching in my breathing. "I wish you would switch him," I said to him. "Maybe then he would stop getting me into trouble."

"You get yourself there," Gianni said with a chuckle. "You are accountable for your own actions, sweet Mario. Learn to say 'no' when you are with Michel."

With a hand gingerly fingering the sting in my bottom, I said earnestly, "I will. Believe me, I will."

He laughed again, apparently unconvinced, and tugged me close. I felt slight in Gianni's mass, although he was no more than six years my senior, barely a man himself. But, he was mine and my atonement was complete. He would not mention my misdeeds again.

********

I had little to say at mealtime, and ate my food in virtual silence. My humiliation was compounded by the fact that most, if not all, of those at the table knew I had been thrashed. News of Michel's afternoon escapes and mine had rapidly spread through the manor. At least everyone was gracious enough not to mention it where we could hear. I drew a look of sympathy from another painter across the table when I slid into my seat. It did not escape my attention that Michel was virtually speechless himself. I thought I saw a wince when he sat down - a wince that surely mirrored my own when I took a seat. I could not help the thoughts that came to me. Thoughts surrounding what a discussion with the Cardinal might entail.

The servants cleared the table and Del Monte said, "Let us retire to the music chamber. Are you fit to play, Gianni?"

"Always," Gianni said. My lover was exquisite with the lute, and was the very reason he had been welcomed into Del Monte's home. Francesco had a soft spot for musicians and artists, my friend and I being taken in from our destitution as the latter. While I lacked the talent of Michel, I often felt the good Cardinal allowed me to stay only as an afterthought. Gianni did not allow me to speak such "nonsense" as he called it. But, I was Gianni's lover and Michel's favorite model; had been for two years running. The Cardinal could hardly throw me out. But, he never treated me with anything but kindness and respect, so I honored Gianni's wishes and did not speak ill of the Cardinals intentions for letting me stay. At least, I did so rarely.

Gianni's hand wound around mine and he kissed my cheek openly in front of everyone as we stood from the table to leave the room, the tender show of affection causing me to temporarily forgive him for the pain in my rear. We went into the music chamber and Gianni placed a thick pillow on the floor at his side, reminding me that he was conscious of the pain he had caused me. I curled up comfortably against him and the pillow, laying my head in his lap, instead of sitting on the pillow. I left him the room he needed to play the lute, mindful of where my head lay. Michel chose to lie on his stomach instead with his head nestled against his folded arms, staring wistfully up at his lover as he took up his violin. Cheerful melodies filled the air and my unease melted as I lay close to my lover and companion.

********

I tugged my clothes off the next day in the chamber reserved for Michel to paint in the piazza Madama. When I slipped off my breeches, I caught a shadow of smile crossing Michel's lips. "What are you laughing at?" I asked, knowing exactly what had made him chuckle.

"Looks like Gianni switched you good for yesterday," he said, noting the little lines of pink obviously still present on my bum.

I turned my backside away from him and his eager eyes, presenting my front to him instead. "No thanks to you," I grumbled. I was embarrassed at having him notice, although I knew the day before there was no question in anyone's mind what transpired when I was hauled outside by my lover.

Michel disagreed. "I did not make you throw food. You did it all on your own."

I blushed with the memory of the horrible day. "You should have the decency not to laugh." I pulled the sheet around me and tried to straighten it before I took up the basket of fruit. I tested him by adding, "It is not as though you would understand. Not having to worry about getting a whipping and all…" I saw his color rise distinctly, although he would not offer up any details.

"Do not wish your troubles on me, boy," he said brusquely.

"Let us see your behind," I said. "I am inclined to believe Francesco just might be of the same opinion as Gianni."

"Believe what you will," he said, revealing nothing but blushing the color of ripe strawberries. I strongly suspected his bum would match mine in color, or closely to it.

I was enjoying seeing him uncomfortable, especially after he teased me so. I pushed a bit more. "I saw your reaction when you sat for dinner last night."

"You saw nothing," he said.

"I did. I saw you wince. Just as I did," I pointed out.

His face flamed brighter, if that were possible at all and he said, "Never you mind, Mario. Worry about your own ass, not mine."

"No need to get upset. It is quite all right with me if Francesco saw fit to whip your miserable ass as mine was," I pointed out. "In fact, I would be elated, seeing as it was YOUR fault my ass bears stripes today."

"You are not in the least bit funny, Mario," he said without a trace of mirth. "It stands to reason you would be thrashed. You are just a boy." I hated it when he made me out to be a child.

"I am NOT a child," I argued. It bothered me that he was able to get to me so easily. I saw him smile at my reaction, which was indeed childlike, despite my efforts not to be. I took him down a bit by saying, "Surely, Francesco sees you as such. You are nearly half his age."

"He sees me as the man I am," he told me with his head tipped meaningfully in my direction. He almost convinced me with his piercing look, but still, I wondered. He interrupted my thoughts as he lit the lamp from the day before, adjusting it to suit him. "It is time to stop playing and let me get to work," he said with finality, cutting off my attempts to pry.

His reaction made me more inclined to think he had met a similar fate as I had the prior evening. He was not about to admit it, it seemed. I decided to change the subject. "How much more until you are done with this painting?"

He rolled his eyes to the heavens and said, "Oh, God, must you start before we even begin?"

I smiled at his frustration, happy with myself that I had gotten to him twice in one day. "Yes, I must," I said.

"Do not. Please. I would rather keep what little remaining sanity I might have."

I proceeded with my job of mixing the crushed colors, daubing them onto Michel's palette, while he adjusted the lighting to suit him. He took the palette from me and ushered me to the spot where I would remain for most of the day. Leaving me where I was with the basket of fruit, he took up his brush and neared the canvas. "In position," he commanded. I took up the fruit, regaining the uncomfortable position from the day before, and he began to paint.

The End.