The body under Louis' hand hasn't changed in 500 years. Smooth, soft, perfect. The faintest lines of dark hair on his belly, but silk-soft, remade in angelic brushstrokes from the crude clay of his beginning. A young man, then, in Venice. But old and wise in the ways of the world, and the ways men can be cruel.

Sweetness, now, in the way Louis touches him, as though he's fragile. He kisses Louis back, eyes closed, tasting it as fully as he can. Leaning up to kiss him again, chasing him where he would have pulled away, he reaches down without looking to hook his thumbs under the waistband of his pants -- tailored, a matching set for the two of them, during a trip to London in the 1960's -- and pushes them down his hips, onto his thighs.

A simple moment of concentration, hardly noticed, is enough to send blood where it needs to be, filling out his cock as he raises both hands to cradle Louis' head and kiss him more thoroughly.