25

Have You Ever Tried Sicilian Wine, Signor?

There is a boy writing madly on his computer.

He's filling out university applications in his room. He cannot remember the last time that he'd felt so motivated. He has a list of universities beside him, his notebook, a pack of cigarettes, and tomato juice. Every few moments he takes a sip. Lights another cigarette, reminding himself to open a window and light incense later to avoid making his roommate angry. He's on his fifth application. Just yesterday, he and the Belgian therapist compiled a list of schools he could apply to. And she said to him, "You are very bright. You have the potential to get into some very prestigious schools." He even agreed to put a German school on the list, as averse as he is to attending university in Germany. But he absolutely refuses to apply to school in Rome.

He needs a change of scene. He needs to leave this place that he's been in for over five years now. He needs to feel that he can accomplish something, that he can explore this world that has been so cruel to him and find the good parts that have been hiding from him. He's found some in Granada. He's found the beauties of a Spanish language and a rich history and a kind culture not dissimilar from his own. But the cloud that he's carried with him remains, and Spain is now tarnished by it. He's finding it more and more difficult to keep the good memories at the forefront of his mind. No. He remembers nights spent in his bathtub, debating the true use of a razor. He remembers running to the bathroom in the middle of the school day so that nobody can see the tears on the verge of his eyes. He remembers frightening other students when he snaps at them, insults them, screams when they try to touch him or come near him.

He needs to go somewhere he can make new memories.

He applies to school in Germany, in Austria, in Great Britain, in America, in Canada, in France. He knows exactly where his brother will go to university—he knows that that course has been planned out for him from the beginning: a prestigious institution in Vienna. And, for some reason, though the boy has agreed to apply to the same institution, he knows that he will not go there. He does not want to go to Vienna. He does not want to be in the same space as his innocent younger brother. He does not want to bring that burden back to him, does not want to bring the memories back. He does not want to make things harder for his brother.

His favorite school on the list is, by far, the one in Great Britain. But he's worried that he's not smart enough to get in.

He wasn't sure what time it was. Two, three, four in the morning. The hours and the minutes and the seconds blended together when darkness fell and the stars came out to play. Romano was in bed. He could feel the mattress rock with Toni's breaths. By now, after countless nights, sleepless, beside him, Romano knew every minuscule detail of Toni's breathing when he slept. He could predict which direction he would sleep in, how his legs would be positioned, could tell when he was dreaming and when he wasn't. When his dreams were nightmares and when they were honey sweet. His breaths were like a song playing over and over again in Romano's exhausted insomniac brain.

Romano's pillow (Toni's pillow, actually) was wet. And Romano was facing the window, his back to Toni. There was an uncharacteristically large space between them, even in this not-so-large bed. They had gotten into an argument before bed. A 'lover's quarrel,' as some might have called it. Romano had started it. He always started it. And he always ended it.

Can't I hold my tongue for one fucking second?

Can't I restrain my temper?

Can't I just deal with things normally?

Romano regretted getting into the argument. He was leaving for Sicily tomorrow morning—leaving for three weeks. Three weeks without Toni's touch, three weeks without hearing Toni's voice, three weeks without seeing Toni scribbling in his notebook and knowing that it was about him. But Romano had let the anger, the jealousy, the pettiness get to him. So now they were in bed, a line of pillows between them that Romano had placed there—don't you dare fucking touch me if it weren't fucking two in the morning I would fucking go home you stupid fucking piece of shit—before waiting for Toni to fall asleep. Toni had tried apologizing.

Not like you have anything to apologize for.

Not like you actually did anything wrong.

Usually it took Toni about fifteen minutes to fall asleep. But that night, it had taken him two hours. Laying there, trembling because he was trying so hard to hold the tears back, Romano had waited. Waited for him to fall asleep. Waited for his breaths to fall into their rhythm. But it had taken him so long. Why had it taken him so long? Was it because he knew that Romano was angry with him? That Romano was so sad, so upset, so anxious, that he felt his insides twisting and curling and squeezing themselves dry? He couldn't care that much, could he? He had tried to call Romano's name.

"...Romano? Are you asleep?"

He had been met with silence. But Romano knew that Toni was smarter than that. Toni was always aware of whether Romano was asleep or awake.

"Te quiero, Romano."

He had said it so quietly. Whispered it. As if afraid that someone might steal away his words as he spoke them if they were too loud. While Romano squeezed the pillow beneath his head and stared at the window and tasted the familiar salt of his tears.

Now he was certain that Toni was asleep. He sat up, gently, in the bed and leaned back against the headboard. He stared at his shaking hands in his lap. What had they argued about? Romano couldn't remember.

María, I think.

Señora Carriedo.

Beautiful, successful, lovely Señora Carriedo.

He wondered if his mother had looked anything like Toni's wife.

Romano looked at the other side of the bed, over the stack of pillows, at Toni's curled frame. He always looked much smaller when he slept. He wasn't a small man, no. He was taller than Romano, and he was muscular. But curled on his side, hair matted to the pillow, grasping at the sheets to cover his bare torso, he really did look small. Romano put a hand to his temple in an attempt to rid himself of the terrible headache that suddenly gripped him.

I love you, I love you so much.

He wasn't sure if it was anger or pride that had kept him silent in the face of Toni's apologies. He could never discern his own motivation. He had stopped trying a while ago.

Tomorrow, he would be back in Sicily. Back in the familiar streets of Palermo, where the people would understand and welcome his language. Where he could recognize each building, each cobblestone, could feel close the grains of sand on the beaches and the slang with which passersby called out to him. And he would be with his brother, his beautiful baby brother, the light at the end of the tunnel of his strife, the reason he had given himself to smile.

Tomorrow, he would be without Toni.

Another wave of anguish came over him and, gripped with it, Romano could hold himself back no longer. Slowly, calmly, he removed the pillows. One by one, tossing them lightly to the bottom of the bed. He heard Toni groan in his sleep. Once the pillows were gone, he burrowed back beneath the covers and inched closer. He put his forehead to that spot, open and beautiful, between Toni's shoulder blades, and he wrapped his arms around Toni's stomach. He fit his legs behind Toni's, where his knees bent, and he squeezed. Spread his fingers out across Toni's chest and kissed his skin. Toni groaned again, shifted his position to fit into Romano's quaking body. The chill that Romano had been feeling disappeared in the instant that Romano touched his lips to Toni's back.

"Mm...Roma...?"

Instead of answering, Romano squeezed harder and pressed his cheek against Toni's back. He felt Toni's hands come up and encase his fingers.

"¿Estás bien, neno?"

"No."

"Ven."

Romano closed his eyes. Let himself go where Toni led him. He felt the covers come up over his head, felt two strong, steady arms take hold of his body. Felt their legs intertwining, wasn't sure which were his anymore. Felt a sweaty palm against his neck, felt lips heavy with desire and affection press to his as he kept himself encased in this darkness. His fingers clutched at Toni, clutched at him desperately as their lips and tongues and breaths collided. They were completely covered by the bed sheets.

"I'm sorry," Toni breathed against his mouth, pulling away for a moment. Romano began to shake his head, lips parted, eyes still closed. "I'm sorry."

He kissed Romano again and it was like a drop of rain in a desert. I love you's crashed against their ears in different languages and in the silence of their kisses. Romano thought about Sicily as Toni kissed his lips, his cheeks, carved his affection into the tender, vulnerable skin of his neck. He imagined himself walking along the streets of Palermo, hand in Toni's, blushing as the sea air surrounded them. He thought about what it would be like to make love to Toni in the room that he had grown up in.

I suppose I'd have to let you try Sicilian wine.

I'll bring some back for you.

Have you ever tried Sicilian wine?

¿Has probado vino Siciliano, Toni?

"Let me love you one last time before you go to Sicily," Toni whispered in Romano's ear. Romano, gripping Toni's shoulders, nodded his head. Toni's arms snaked under his and held him, as he breathed words of lust and affection into Romano's ear. His limbs became weak, his thoughts blurred, his soul fiery. Everything turned red, everything turned into desire and passion. And Romano wondered what had possessed him to put that wall of pillows there in the first place.

"Lovino! Assai avi ca nun ni videmu!"

"Ciau, Ziu."

His uncle, perhaps believing that Romano hadn't grown terribly in the past half-year, refrained from the salutatory hug or kiss on the cheek. He stood on his doorstep, hands on his hips, smile as warm and comforting as ever. Romano managed a soft smile, adjusting the strap of his bag. Then, in a sudden spurt of affection and confidence and, more than anything, lack of fear, he put his arms around his uncle's neck.

"L-Lovino?"

"I missed you, Ziu."

"I...I missed you, too, picciriddo."

Romano wasn't lying. He meant it. He hadn't been home in half a year and already he felt the Sicilian air invigorating him. Reviving him. He knew that his uncle would be surprised at his relatively open affection, his openness to being held, his lack of a particularly foul temperament (for the moment, anyway).

"Ah, and there's little Feliciano," Ziu said when Romano pulled away. With relative ease, Ziu switched from Sicilian to Italian—easier than for Feliciano to switch from Italian to Sicilian. "Benvenuto. It's been a while, no?"

"Yes, it has!" Feliciano, who had been standing eagerly beside Romano, leaned in for the two kisses on the cheek. Always so much more social and friendly. "How long...?"

"A little over six years," Ziu sighed. "You've grown so much. Sometimes I forget how similar you and Lovino look."

"Ugh, don't say it," Romano hissed, throwing the door to the house open. He felt its arms wrap around him, its light encasing him. He breathed in the familiar air. A smell he couldn't quite pinpoint, but the smell of the closest thing he had ever known to a home. The same smell that Ziu had.

"Yeah, we do, but he's darker like you. He got that from your side of the family," Feliciano laughed. "Sometimes I get really tan in the summer...?"

Already Feliciano and Ziu were laughing together, making jokes together, reminiscing together. The three of them were now reliving the days when they had been younger and Nonno and Feli had come to visit them here in Palermo.

"That little pastry shop you always used to love is still open—we could go after dinner, if you'd like?"

"We'd love to! Right, Lovi?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

But he was secretly very excited to go to the little pastry shop with Ziu and Feli. He just wished that Nonno and Toni could go with him. He wanted a moment, one moment, to be surrounded by the people he loved. Though he knew it would never be possible.

After he and Feli were finished getting settled in, they set off to familiarize themselves once more with the streets of this city. Romano, at least, could never forget them. He walked as if he had never left their soil, as if he had never gone off to Spain and then to England. The city was so welcoming to him. They passed by buildings and Romano reminded Feliciano of what they all were, reminded him of the stories told in this alleyways, while they fell into nostalgia and became drunk on the memories hanging in the air. They laughed, they joked, they drank Sicilian wine and they ate Sicilian food and Feliciano tried his best to speak Sicilian. And still, every person they met knew without a doubt that he was from Rome.

Feliciano and Romano slept in the same room, even shared the same bed. Ziu offered to sleep on the couch, but they refused.

"If your back is still as shitty as ever, you'd better not," Romano sighed. "We'll just share the bed. That okay, Feli?"

"Of course! Like when we were kids. Remember?"

They were tired. They fell asleep almost instantly, backs turned to each other and hands grasping pillows and the scent of Sicilian wine still on their breaths.

"I'm so happy I get to come here with you, Lovi," Feliciano murmured, his voice drifting off into sleep. "So happy...are you happy, too?"

"Yeah. I'm happy."

"Good...we're going to have so much fun here...aren't we?"

"Yeah. Yeah, we are."

"I can't wait. Buona notte. Ti amo."

"Bona notti."

T'amu.

They went to the beach almost every day, though they didn't swim very often. It was a little bit too chilly to swim. Romano and Ziu, when he wasn't working, took Feliciano to all the big tourist attractions: the Palermo cathedral ("I know I've seen so many cathedrals but please can we see it again?"), Palazzo dei Normanni, the Archeological Museum, the Teatro Massimo, the city squares. They spent hours and hours roaming through the streets, stopping in Romano's favorite cafés, learning tidbits and fun facts from Romano's uncle who, Romano was convinced, had been a tour guide in another life.

"Did you know that Palermo is actually derived from Arabic?"

"No, I didn't! How fascinating."

"You knew that, right, Lovino?"

"Of course I did, who do you think I am."

"Speaking of which, have you continued your Arabic studies?"

"Yeah."

"Wonderful!"

"Lovi! You should teach me Arabic, too," Feliciano cried.

"You can hardly speak English."

"Ow, that's rude."

They ate as much as they possibly could, they went shopping, Feliciano learned Sicilian and took in the sights of the city and made friends with practically every person they came into contact with. The light followed him wherever he went; people, strangers, even, flocked to be around him. Ziu, Romano knew, was as taken with Feliciano as ever. And Romano was taken with him, as well. He had always felt so blessed that someone like Feliciano, whose smile could make the sun shine brighter, was his brother. That someone like Feliciano, bright and talented and beautiful and selfless, could love someone like him.

One week after their arrival, after they had just woken up and before Ziu went to work, he told them that he had a surprise.

"I've been preparing it since before you got here, and it's finally ready!"

"Oh, geez."

He took them to a small garage, separate from the house. With Feliciano's help, he opened the manual, old-fashioned door. Inside was a large figure, covered up with a tarp. The garage smelled of oil and paint.

"Tada!"

Ziu whipped off the tarp to reveal a bright red, beautiful Vespa.

Romano's heart stopped in his chest. He nearly dropped the mug of coffee he was holding and his breath was caught in his throat.

"Ziu...you...?"

"I remember you mentioning before you went to Granada that you've always wanted a Vespa. So I went ahead and got one! Didn't have a lot of money so I got it pretty old, but I think I managed to fix her up well. Don't you think?"

"It's amazing!" Feliciano cried. He jumped forward, examining every part of the beautiful machine. While Romano stood, struck silent, staring at the amazing and indescribable scene before him.

"Feel free to take it out for a spin. It's all yours, picciriddo," Ziu said, pinching Romano's cheek lightly. "I'm off to work. Don't get into too much trouble, boys."

When he was gone, and Romano had managed to slightly regain his composure, Feliciano grabbed his arm.

"Lovi! We have to ride it. Right now."

"N-now?"

"Yes! Now."

"I don't...I don't actually know how to drive one."

Feliciano raised his eyebrows and winked.

"Who do you think you're talking to, fratellone? I'm Roman, remember?"

"Yeah, but I don't trust you to drive it. You're too reckless."

"Hey, don't say that! I'm great with Vespas!"

Romano couldn't deny, staring at the red scooter, that he wanted desperately to ride it. He'd always wanted one because he'd believed that it would make him feel like he was flying in the absence of his inherent ability to do so. He didn't have the right wings for it.

"Come on, Lovi, pleeeease? We can ride it along the beach!"

"...Nun lu saccio..."

But before he could even finish, Feliciano had jumped onto the Vespa and turned it on. It revved, loud and musical, and Romano flinched. Feli smiled up at him, eyes shining.

"Hop on! Hold onto me as tightly as you want to," he laughed. Romano hesitated for a moment, before finally swallowing his pride and his fear and taking a seat behind his baby brother. "Hold my waist tightly, okay?"

"Go slowly."

"No way! That's no fun, trust me."

"H-hey, Feli, wa—!"

And suddenly they were flying. Romano screamed, not of his own will, as his stomach flew from his open mouth and he grasped onto his brother's slim waist.

"Woohoo!" Feliciano cried as they raced through the street.

"Statti!" Romano heard himself yell. He closed his eyes as tightly as he could, squeezed, felt the air whip at his cheeks.

"Relax! I won't let you fall, I promise," Feliciano screamed over the rush. "Open your eyes, Lovi!"

As frightened and as surprised as he was, Romano could find nothing in his hammering heart but trust for his brother. He could do nothing but obey his whims. Slowly, fists digging into Feliciano's stomach, he opened his eyes. He saw the blur of the houses rushing by, the people who watched them race (much faster than the speed limits dictated) past, amused smiles on their faces. The wind whipped his face, his stomach found its place again, the sunlight rained down on them. They turned corners rapidly and gracefully—Feliciano had been telling the truth. He knew how to drive it like a dream. Even though they'd only been here for a week, Feliciano had memorized the routes down to the beach. He drove down there, occasionally taking a shortcut that Romano pointed out to him with his trembling fingers.

Then they found themselves by the sea. On a paved path that ran on a cliffside parallel to the beach. Silence overcame them, broken only by the gears of the Vespa shifting. Romano gazed out at the sea. Its brilliance, its blueness, was blinding. Its vastness unfathomable. It sparkled and gleamed and sang to them in the sunlight. They could see sails rising up, tiny and blurred, in the distance. Could see people on the beaches, could see it all stretching out as if just for them. While they drove smoothly, flew, along this path made especially for this moment. He heard music blasting in his mind, beautiful music, and he was tempted to reach his arms out and feel the pressure of the wind against them.

Romano had been right.

This was the closest he would ever get to flying.

This is what it's like?

Hair whipping my face, wings outstretched?

Looking at the ocean and breathing in my Sicilian air?

"Lovi!" Feliciano cried.

"What?"

"Are you really happy?"

"Huh?"

"I said, ARE YOU REALLY HAPPY?"

"YES!"

"GOOD!"

Feliciano glanced back over his shoulder for a moment, just to flash Romano his shiny, genuine, good-hearted smile. And it made Romano smile, too.

"EYES ON THE ROAD, BASTARD!"

"SORRY!"

They flew. They soared.

And Romano made sure to buy a special, expensive bottle of Sicilian wine.

Translations:

estás bien (Spanish)=are you okay?

Assai avi ca nun ni videmu (Sicilian)=long time no see

Ciau=hello

picciriddo=little one

Statti=stop