Title: "What the Medici Saw"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: PG-13, Lorenzo/Sophie, (LoCa-ish), angst.
Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own them.
Summary: The economic and ideological causes of Lorenzo Alcazar?

The first time he and Sophie made love, they were in Florence. Laughing drunk on too much vino and stealing out to the grounds of the Pitti Palace. Sophie flashed the security guards and he tugged her into the shadows as they whistled. He murmured apologies and bemused things about how the spirit of bella Firenze put his donna in the mood for romance. As she re-buttoned her blouse, he told the closest guard in a stage whisper that he planned to propose.

Later, when they were lying sated on the grass, listening to the distant noise of the sea, he did exactly that. He told her that her eyes were like dark jewels and her skin tasted like honey and chanted "te quiero, te amo" against the curve of her hip, the fall of her thigh, and the arch of her foot.

"It's too soon, Enzo," she had whispered, clutching his shoulders. "Much too soon."

They made love again in Rome. Threw coins in Trevi fountain.

Too soon.


Of course, he still dreams of her. Sweat-soaked in the tangle of sheets, he rises and scrubs away the memories with rough pumice and scented soap that speaks more of countries he never saw with her than of the life they once lived together. Thailand, Singapore, Vietnam. He spent six months in Cambodia working on an arms deal for Luis and with his hands bathed in blood, he brought a nineteen-year-old whore to a climax that made her cry.

He simply whispered "Sophie" and drank cheap whiskey until his own needs drowned. He woke up with a headache the size of Brazil and hoped for some kind of pox...something that would kill him...but he's much, much, too damned to die.

He is the one who is cursed to bear the burden of living while everyone around him burns.

He scrubs until his skin turns pink and raw. He tilts his face back under the persistent spray of the shower and the water sluices like Sao Paulo rain over the smooth planes of his face. Mrs. Corinthos shaved him well, close. The blade danced on the edge of his skin like a Judas kiss.

Of course he still dreams of *her*.

He must.

He must not forget.

Too soon.


Back at uni, he used the power of his name to woo keys to the Convocation House and they joined the secret society of brave students who shagged on the Chancellor's Throne. All those glorious hours spent in the Bodleian library...and none of it for the pursuit of history. Just the future.

Too soon.

"Come with me when this term ends, preciosa," he said. "Meet my family and let me marry you in front of God and everyone."

"Come with me to the village," she countered.

Too late. Far, far, too late.

He has been back to Florence a thousand times since.

He has not made love in the gardens since.

He has not made love at all.

It is far, far, easier to make war.

And never too late.


August 12, 2003.

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