"No you're not," Angelo says agreeably. Absolutely nothing has been solved by this conversation, but he's not going to draw it out, not when it's a brand new day. His mother hadn't been envisaging this when she gave him that advice, but that doesn't mean he can't take it. "I am though," he says as he scoops himself out of bed (god it's fucking cold in here) and aims for the door. "Is that cannoli still gonna be good if I eat it now? I don't wanna eat stale cannoli."
"It'll be fine," Alastor replies, sitting up in bed without sliding out of it, idly scratching the back of his head through his sleep-mussed hair. He feels unsettled, and irritable on a very instinctive level because of it; he doesn't want to argue, even a little bit, but there's a distinct sense that he's lost a fair bit of ground in the past ten minutes and he doesn't like it at all. Hard to be patient under a feeling like that.
Angelo's back in a minute with the cannoli and his leftover brandy, as well as his shirt from last night. He drops into a squishy velvet armchair by the window to empty the glass and then unwraps the cannoli carefully. "I can't even imagine you when I'm not around. Can't picture what you get up to."
Maybe he'll just lie back against the pillows and not think about it. "For all you know I was lying about all of it," he says with a raised eyebrow and a little smile. "The truth is, I just cease to exist whenever we aren't in the same room."
It makes him laugh despite himself, which in turn makes him feel better; Alastor stretches his arms up and folds them behind his head. "As long as it's enough to keep you from getting sick of me."
"Oh, mio caro, I'd never get sick of you." Saying that makes him think about all the words they call each other. He doesn't think he'd ever think to call Alastor my dear, but mio caro is fine. Enough degrees of separation, maybe. He chews thoughtfully on his cannoli, watching Alastor all the while. He can't imagine his life without Alastor in it, not now, but Alastor must have had so long without him. This is the blink of an eye to someone like him. "How old are you?" he asks quite suddenly. It feels like a very childish question, but he can't remember ever asking before.
"Charming," he smirks. But he thinks about it, silently, for a good minute or so, before he finally says with honesty, "I don't know. Our time is different than yours. But I've been on earth since humans began exploring concepts of divine punishment, karma, whatever you want to call it. That's what I was made for."
I was born in 1988, Angelo thinks to himself, with a mild expression on his face. "You look pretty good for a couple thousand years old," he says as he finishes his cannoli and gets up, heading back over to the bed and dropping solidly onto it. "What d'you think when you look at me?" he mumbles, reaching out to run his hand over Alastor's chest, his brow softly furrowed.
Coupla thousand, Angelo says, and Alastor is not inclined to correct him. He watches Angelo join him with quiet interest, breathing steadily under his hand. "You know what I think."
"Cover me in marinara sauce and cook for thirty minutes on 350, that's how you make polpette alla Angelo." His eyes flick up to Alastor's and he holds his gaze for a second or two. "How much longer are you gonna stick around if I keep saying no?"
What a freak. Alastor stifles a laugh, and does his very best to answer Angelo with a straight face. It's made easier by the fact that he's not lying, and he's always known the answer. "I told you: I'm not going anywhere. Unless you tell me you never want to see me again, you're stuck with me."
"Hmm." The I told you could be exasperation if he wanted to read it that way. Maybe he does ask him so many of the same questions because he likes hearing the same answers: I'm not going anywhere, you're special, you're magnificent, I'm here for you. "Lucky I like having you around."
"Believe me, I know where I stand," Alastor informs him, dressing with a whirl of magic into the same jeans and t-shirt he was wearing last night. "And I'm not interested in playing second fiddle to a naked mole rat. It was nice while it lasted."
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