Well, I thought of a new way to make Nick's life uncomfortable! Yup, it's time for another goofy story! We know Nick and Lacroix belong to TPTB. And although I've put them in embarrassing positions, they get returned with nary a scratch on them. A few disclaimers: No disparagements are meant to the excellent magazine, "Archaeology," to which I subscribe. I only borrowed the concept. And you know, I think they'd publish the article discussed below. No accordions were hurt in the writing of this story, not even my pearlized red and gold one. I did take out my old sheet music and play a nostalgic rendition of "Lady of Spain," but I burned it afterwards so I'd never be tempted to do it again. There are some things the world just doesn't need---and "Lady of Spain" is one of them. Warning: Euphemized inexplicit M/M sex ahead. NNPAckers might want to hit the Delete button right now. And now, on with the story. ~~~~~ Music Hath Charms... by Nancy Kaminski (c) April 1998 ~~~~~ "Good evening, Nicholas," said Lacroix austerely. "I have something---interesting---for you to look at. If you are so inclined, of course." Nick reluctantly moved away from the elevator door, allowing the tall, black-clad figure to enter. "What is it?" he asked, half annoyed, half intrigued by his master's appearance on his doorstep so close to dawn. If he wasn't careful, Lacroix would have to spend the whole day at the loft. Nick had just gotten home himself, and had planned to read his mail, pay a few bills, and then settle down with a good book. Trading barbs with Lacroix hadn't been part of the day's agenda at all. Moving towards the black leather sofa in the living room, Lacroix indicated the stack of mail in Nick's hand. "I see you have just received your copy of 'Archaeological Review,' as have I." He held up a copy of the magazine. It was a glossy publication that featured articles written with just enough scholarly detail to satisfy the serious archaeology devotee, while remaining accessible to the casual reader interested in mummies, ancient fertility rituals, and other topics dear to the hearts of cable television documentary producers. "There is an article in it you might find amusing." He sat down and made himself comfortable, clearly planning to stay for a while. "I didn't think you were interested in archaeology, Lacroix," Nick said, sitting down in the chair opposite the sofa. "True---normally I have no interest in reliving my past, or seeing it badly interpreted by ignoramuses, but this particular issue caught my eye at the newsstand." Nick thought he detected a gleam of some sort---amusement?---in Lacroix's eyes, increasing his curiosity. He picked up his copy, examined the cover for a clue to the source of the gleam. It featured a spectacularly ugly but rare piece of Toltec pottery. That wouldn't be it... He scanned the list of articles. Hmmmm. 'The Nineveh Marbles?' No. 'Cloud People of the Himalayas?' Unlikely. 'Pompeii's Villa of the Frescos?' Aha. "This article about the old home town?" Nick inquired, turning to the indicated page. "Home town, yes---and home." Lacroix sat back and watched Nick's face. "It seems the grave robbers---excuse me, the archaeologists--- have finally gotten around to my old neighborhood." Nick raised his eyebrows. "The Villa of the Frescos was yours?" Lacroix nodded. "One of several domiciles, actually. It was smaller than the country estate, and less grand than the one in Rome, but it was my favorite." Seeing the mortal Lacroix's house would be an insight into his master Nick couldn't pass up. He found the page and started reading with interest. The article was somewhat short on text, but lavishly illustrated with color photographs of the recently-excavated villa. Although the roof had caved in from the weight of the hot ash that had fallen on it, it was otherwise almost entirely intact. The first photograph Nick examined showed a large, elegant atrium, the impluvium beautifully tiled with a mosaic of ocean creatures and fanciful plants. A bronze statue of a nymph graced the now-dry pool. Another photograph, this one of one of the living areas, showed household goods scattered about the floor where they had fallen those two thousand years ago. "Messy housekeeping," Nick commented with a sideways glance, unable to resist offering a jibe. Lacroix refused to be baited. "Understandably, the staff left in a hurry. Keep reading," he commanded, unperturbed. Nick continued reading the article. The author, the Italian scientist who had led the excavation, enthused---in a suitably restrained scientific way, of course---about the quality of the workmanship, the beauty of the architecture, and the remarkable frescos that graced the inner rooms. (Enthusiasm *for* science was admirable. Enthusiasm *in* science, however, even in a quasi-popular journal, was something to be avoided at all costs.) She barely held onto her professional reserve, however, when it came to describing "...the unusual and highly realistic frescos found in two of the largest rooms off the peristyle. They appear to depict some sort of priapic rite, the religious significance of which is currently unknown." Nick's eyebrows raised slightly at the passage. <'Priapic rites?'> He turned the page to find a foldout color photograph of the main fresco. His eyebrows threatened to creep into his hairline, while a faint flush coursed through his body. The jumble of human figures---both male and female, limbs entwined, garments flying artistically here and there, amid a bucolic setting of flora and fauna (the fauna thankfully simply watching and not participating)---was, to Nick's somewhat straightlaced eyes, frankly pornographic. "Interesting," he finally murmured as he examined the exquisite detail of the fresco in question. He thought of and discarded several comments and decided to play it safe. "I'm amazed," he ventured, "at the constancy of your hair style, Lacroix...I didn't know it was possible to achieve a buzz cut in those days." Indeed, the central figure in the fresco, entangled with several others, was recognizably his master, although the Lucius in the painting was sun-bronzed and wearing considerably fewer garments than the present incarnation. The flush Nick had felt at first sight of the fresco buzzed pleasureably in his stomach, then started migrating southwards to settle in his groin. Suddenly his black woolen trousers felt somewhat confining. He kept his eyes firmly on the page, unwilling to admit to his state of arousal to his master. Lacroix smiled in reminiscence, a far-off look on his face. "I owned an Egyptian slave who was an excellent barber---only one of his many talents. In fact," he mused, "I believe one of the plaster casts of unfortunates the excavation team made *was* Paneb; I recognized the curve of his delightfully firm rump." He was silent a moment, perhaps thinking about the sad waste of such a tonsorial talent. "He must have waited for me to return from Seline's soiree---loyal to the end. I was, however, otherwise engaged." Lacroix's finger absently traced a small circle on his thigh. "Is that all you have to say, Nicholas? I thought you might have some thoughts on the subject of the frescos---as a student of art and archaeology, of course. I would be interested in your evaluation." Nick cleared his throat---for some reason, his voice had gone hoarse. Striving for composure, he said, "Ah, yes...well, it certainly isn't the *usual* sort of painting found in Pompeii." He regarded the photograph again, now with a critical eye. He had to admit to himself that the painting was quite---stimulating---notwithstanding its moral faults. He turned the magazine sideways to get a different perspective on the scene, and frowned. His traitorous imagination put himself in place of the figure most involved with Lacroix. It had been so long since he had let his sensuous side loose... He pushed the thought firmly away. Aloud, he continued, "The composition is excellent...a marvelous use of color...the astonishing realism shows the hand of a master." Lacroix was watching Nick intently, seeming to hang on his every word. "Indeed, I hired the best painter in Rome to create it." Nick shifted uncomfortably in his seat under Lacroix's penetrating scrutiny. He turned his attention back to the figures in the fresco. He continued, "As for the subjects, they all seem---you seem---remarkably, uh, limber to achieve such a, uh, configuration..." He fidgeted some more. "The author mentions the subject is, uh, some kind of priapic rite...?" "Archaeologists!" Lacroix said scornfully. He stood up and strode to the windows. "Always finding religious significance where there is none. Show them a kitchen pot and it becomes a ceremonial vessel. They wouldn't recognize a simple decoration if it fell on them." He made a disgusted noise. Nick gestured to the unsettling photograph. "So this bit of Imperial Roman pornography is just---decoration?" Lacroix let a moment pass, his chill blue gaze on his overly-buttoned up creation. Finally, he shook his head sorrowfully. "I'm disappointed in you, Nicholas." He walked over to stand directly behind him, looking over his shoulder at the photo. "This 'bit of Imperial Roman pornography,' as you style it, merely served to set the mood, as it were, at certain festivities held at my home. After all, when a warrior returns triumphant from the wars, celebrations are in order." His hand dropped to rest lightly on Nick's shoulder. "It was...inspirational." Nick thought back to several post-battle celebrations he had participated in, and despite his misgivings had to agree (not out loud, of course), although none of *his* celebrations had included inspirational wall murals. He and his companions had had to use their imaginations. Righting the magazine, Nick returned his gaze again to the photograph, then frowned. "Yes, Nicholas? Does something trouble you?" Lacroix asked, his voice silkily solicitous. The hand on Nick's shoulder tightened slightly, making Nick uncomfortably aware of its presence. "As a matter of fact, yes." Nick looked from the painting to Lacroix, then back again. "The painter seems to have exaggerated some things." "Such as?" Nick pointed mutely to the photograph. "I don't remember this as being quite so, um, impressive. Of course, it has been quite a while, but...it looks like the artist was flattering his patron." He smiled and shrugged. "It happens." Lacroix looked at the open page on Nick's lap. The magazine didn't seem to be lying flat anymore. "Nonsense. I see nothing out of order." Nick continued, "And these poses. I can scarcely believe a mortal could achieve these positions! Surely not without dislocating something." Lacroix's hand slid down Nick's arm. "I assure you, although the participants were prime specimens, no unusual physical prowess was required." He raised his eyebrows slightly, and pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Would you care for a demonstration? Purely as an academic exercise, of course." The hand rubbed up and down Nick's arm in a mute invitation. Nick tentatively covered Lacroix's hand with his own. His thoughts careened wildly between refusing the supprising invitation and accepting it. It was obvious Lacroix had come over with this exact thing in mind. And he was asking, not demanding, a unique event in itself. But then he thought, And his feelings at that particular moment were decidedly erotic. Nick said, "It might be interesting. In an academic way." He squeezed slightly, his breath quickening involuntarily. "We don't have the appropriate costuming, though. I haven't worn a tunic in years." Lacroix smiled serenely. "Neither have I. We'll simply have to improvise." The next several moments were a flurry of movements and whispered words. Clothing drifted to the floor, mounds of black silk, cotton, and leather. Time passed as choreography was explained and demonstrated, the master instructing the willing but skeptical pupil. The fresco photograph was referred to several times then finally discarded. Moans and grunts of effort sounded through the quiet loft. "Put this leg here, Nicholas...no, like that...yesssss, just so..." "Ow! That hurts, I don't bend that way...oh!" A gasp of pleasure. "A bit to the left, no, more..." A sigh. "You were right, the artist didn't exaggerate at all..." Things were progressing quite satisfactorily on all fronts; in fact, they were reaching what would probably be a resounding conclusion. Lacroix groaned, "Yesssss, Nicholas, yessssss," as their efforts redoubled in the heat and frenzy of passion. The coffee table had long ago been upended, and the sofa was several feet from its normal position. An electronic shriek rent the air. Two heaving bodies froze into an uncomfortable tableau. "What was that?!?" hissed Lacroix, his muscles straining to maintain his precarious position. "I don't know," Nick panted from his. "...welcome to St. Odelia's Polka Jamboree! Get ready for nonstop polka fun, starting NOW!!!" The amplified voice coming from somewhere outside reverberated off the loft's stark walls. Both men involuntarily turned their faces towards the lowered steel shutters, which were amply demonstrating the fact that steel by itself provides completely ineffective sound insulation. There was a mighty chord from an accordion; a voice intoned, "And a-one, and a-two, and a-" and the entire band thundered into a rousing rendition of the Too Fat Polka. Cheers from at least five hundred throats split the air. Inside the loft, the mood was irrevocably shattered. The tableau collapsed. "Nicholas, what is going on?!?" growled Lacroix from his position on the floor underneath Nick. Nick's brain collated sights and sounds he had heard but not paid any attention to over the past two days---a stage being assembled; concession stands being set up; a dozen Porta-Potties standing in a maloderous green row; the banner stretched across the far end of the parking lot across the street announcing an eighteen-hour polka fundraiser to benefit the local Catholic parish. He said weakly, "It's a polka party." Lacroix pushed Nick aside and climbed to his feet in disgust. "So I surmised from the caterwauling." He shot a poisonous look at the shutters. "And I am trapped here for the duration, forced to listen to this amateur Lawrence Welk and his band of tone-deaf peasants." He stalked off across the loft, his nude (save for the black silk gartered socks, which had somehow not joined the cloths on the floor) white body quivering with anger. Nick got to his feet. "Sorry." He went over to his master and said, "You know, this doesn't have to be that bad." Lacroix swung around to face him. "Oh? Do tell how you plan to survive this noise. Cotton in your ears?" "No." Nick held out his arms in invitation and quoted a more famous, and almost as athletic, pair. "'Let's face the music, and dance.'" He grinned boyishly. "You can lead." Fin. ~~~~~ Thanks go to certain parties who probably wish to remain nameless, but heck...all right, it was Kathy Whelton who suggested the sock garters. And the person to blame for this is Erika Wilson, who, after my last story ("Good Help is Hard to Find"), asked me what new torture I was planning on devising for Nick, and suggested as a possibility, among others, a three-day polka festival in his parking lot. Don't blame Erika, though. She was kidding, but I actually wrote the darned thing. *** Nancy Kaminski--UF, NNPack, Harbourlight, BH List Lobster Keeper *** nancykam@pioneerplanet.infi.net *** Home Page/Fiction: http://pioneerplanet.infi.net/~nancykam *** Proud owner of Favory Cremona, Lipizzan Stallion--"Go For Baroque!"