There were no other words shared between them, and no warning -- instead with a gentle nudge to Cygnus' side did Gaultier urge him further from the door and much more closely to himself. A single arm wrapped itself around Cygnus' waist, pressing them both tightly together as with a whispered spell they apparated away from the confines of the Lestrange study and appeared on the lawn of one country built Italian home. With a smile, Gaultier leaned forward, almost entirely resting his weight against Cygnus as his lips brushed his temple. "We're home."

The words, whispered so quietly, seemed a bit unreal at first. As if this entire image that laid before him now were nothing more than a dream. And perhaps it was, perhaps it was nothing more than a fictional portrayal of what Gaultier wanted -- no, needed -- most: an escape from the sudden amount of responsibilities thrust upon him. From his wife, from his family, from the world. Cygnus offered him that, and so much more. The gift was surely needed to express his appreciation.

Pulling away suddenly did he lift his gaze and motion, with a single sweeping gesture, toward what would have been one of the many bedrooms. "What do you think?"