Vincenzo's nails dig into Antonio's back as he tries to stop himself from crying out. His heart is racing, skin tingling, eyes closed as they both breathe heavily. Every inch of him screams for more . He clutches the bedsheets, his back aching, Antonio moaning, the rhythmic thumps getting more rapid, more desperate, and—
It's late when he is rudely awakened by the crash of Peschina pushing a bag of food from the counter onto the floor. It is so late, in fact, that when he opens the shutter, the city is quiet, save for the clinking of silver on plates, the low hubbub of lunchtime chatter.
His head and heart ache as he turns over the dream in his mind. Antonio isn't even that far away, but it feels like it. It's been months since he last saw him. It's been years since they were last free to be together, without the constraints of adulthood.
Peschina, when she realises he's awake, is absolutely furious that he's left her to starve for three whole years. And then, to add high insult to such injury, oh, the way he looms over her and addresses with such cruelty, oh, such heartlessness !
He sniffs and coughs and sets down a bowl of food for her, cleans away the mess she's made. She mews indignantly, as if he hadn't been awake at three that morning hand feeding her biscuits after she nipped him enough times to let him know he had no choice in the matter.
He takes his time brushing his teeth, taking a shower, pulling yesterday's clothes on, eating cornflakes out of a mug and eventually sinks into the chair at his desk and opens his laptop, and then the window. The smell of the pasticceria downstairs wafts in on the warm Tuscan breeze and his stomach rumbles. The cornflakes would simply not suffice for an afternoon of work, so he gets up again and makes a bowl of pasta. Peschina catches on and decides she's hungry again, so he gives her a plate of tuna. He wonders why she seems to be getting fluffier and fluffier.
He sits down to work again, Peschina on his lap, begins replying to emails, and the doorbell rings. He gets up to answer the door, and she gives him the most affronted look as he places her on the sofa.
"Maria! Ciao, come in, I wasn't expecting you," he says, kissing her on each cheek.
"Vincenzo, amore, ciao, I hope I am not interrupting anything," says his aunt, a tall, gentle woman with such presence that even Peschina gives up her fussy act and wraps herself around her, purring. Maria hands him a basket full of fresh pastries so large he can barely fit it on his kitchen countertop and he goes to make her a coffee.
"Interrupting! Of course not, I've just been working all morning. It's a welcome break."
"Well, look at you, you hard worker! I'm so proud," she gushes, and he smiles sweetly. "Anyway, I'm sorry I didn't call first, but I brought you a little something."
Vincenzo clears his throat and glances at the basket. There's what, a whole week's worth of breakfasts in there? It's a godsend. "That's way too kind, thank you so much."
She looks at him, and then at the pastries, and bursts out laughing. "Oh, amore, no — you're welcome for those, but your surprise should be arriving any minute."
Sure enough, the doorbell rings again, and Peschina hisses and runs to Maria, punishing him for letting it happen twice.
He looks at Maria, who gestures for him to go, answer it, and runs to the door. He opens it, and shrieks and jumps onto the tall figure.
"Antonio," he cries, "oh, amore mio, tesoro mio, you're back, you're here, I'm so glad to see you."
His boyfriend catches him and lifts him up, princess-style, and Vincenzo kisses him on the lips, cheek, forehead, everywhere possible. He tastes like pure, golden joy and menthol, and it's beautiful. Antonio holds him tight and Vincenzo hugs him close and he's needed this. For seven months he's needed this. God , he's needed this.
"Vincenzo," Antonio says breathily, leaning in to kiss him back before seeming to remember himself in front of Maria and sets him back down with an apologetic smile toward her.
Maria clears her throat and says, "He's not back for long. Just whilst the class is on a trip in London, and none of the other students have signed up for extra Spanish lessons."
"Pity for them," Vincenzo whispers into Antonio's ear, and his cheeks become very hot.
"Would our guest like anything to drink?"
"Oh, just a coffee, if you have it," Antonio says.
Maria laughs. "This is Italy, Antonio, you must know already that we always have coffee."
Vincenzo bites his lip. "Actually," he says and Maria raises an eyebrow. "Hey, no, don't look at me like that, how was I meant to know you were coming? I've got coffee, but no milk or sugar."
"I can drink it without either," Antonio says quickly, "or something else. It's fine."
Maria gives Vincenzo a look.
"I literally didn't know you were coming! If you'd called ahead or something I'd've gone to the shop, or not finished it with breakfast—"
"You finished the milk for your breakfast so the love of your life couldn't have any now?" she asks.
Antonio looks between them, eyes wide. "Hey, now, guys, it's fine I really don't mind, I can just drink water—"
"No," says Maria. "Vincenzo will go out for milk for you. It's the least he can do after you've come all the way from Perugia with me."
As if to agree with her, Peschina jumps up onto the counter top and rubs her head against what she can reach of Maria's hand.
Vincenzo sniffs and accepts defeat.
"I'll come with you," Antonio says quickly.
Maria winks at him, and Vincenzo wonders suddenly if she planned this, if she'd known somehow and intended that they'd have a moment alone, no feelings of pressure.
He's grateful for it, as he slips a hand into Antonio's back pocket as they're walking out of the door, and squeezes. Antonio, in return, glances around to see if she's watching and slaps his arse in return. His shoulders relax when they're out of the house, and his usual easy grin slips back.
"I missed you, amore," Vincenzo says as they walk under the shade of the tall buildings. "It's so long, I almost forgot what you looked like."
"No, you didn't," says Antonio, but his tone is soft.
"I didn't," Vincenzo agrees. "I couldn't."
"God, I think about you every day," Antonio says. "I wish I could move here, or you could move there, or at least we could have some more time together."
"Yeah. Me, too." But I can't goes unsaid. But the university in Perugia doesn't need another linguistics lecturer. But the university in Firenze can't afford another Spanish teacher. But Antonio can't find another job, closer to Vincenzo, while his Italian isn't strong enough. But it's just not the place, not the time.
"One day soon," Antonio says, "one day soon I'll find a job closer to you, and then we can live together—"
As they wander onto the main street, Antonio is cut off abruptly.
"Hello there, sirs!" says a bright, American voice, and Vincenzo is taken aback slightly as the speaker jumps in front of them. "I hope this doesn't come off as too forward, but I saw you from a way off and was just desperate to speak to you. Can I have a moment of your time?"
He's addressing everything to Antonio. Vincenzo has a terrible headache already. And to his absolute horror, Antonio looks the loud man up and down, wide-eyed as if he's seen a ghost, and nods.
"Hey, amore, what the fuck are you doing?" He whispers, but Antonio doesn't reply.
"I must ask first, sir, are you a resident in Italy?"
"Ma che cazzo vuole questo tipo?¹ " Vincenzo says under his breath, and again, to his absolute confusion, Antonio seems not to be in agreement.
"Wait, no, Vincenzo, wait a second," he says, and Vincenzo looks at him with absolute bewilderment.
He gives up. He isn't exactly dating Antonio for his street smarts, and if he will act like a damn tourist, there is absolutely nothing Vincenzo can do. "Eh, okay, fine, whatever."
"Listen, sir, I don't mean to pry but have you considered modelling?"
Oh, for fuck's sake. Vincenzo has half a mind to slap this stranger, as if it wasn't obvious already that Antonio is taken-
Antonio raises an eyebrow. "N-no?" he says. "You mean like, fashion modelling?"
Vincenzo cannot believe this. "Ehi, lo credi? Sul serio, lo credi?² Okay, vabbè, if you want to act like a foreigner, go right ahead—"
"Vincenzo, shut up."
"Sir, please let the man speak? Yes, fashion modelling."
Vincenzo is surrounded by clowns. Absolute clowns. "Stai scherzando, non ci credo, davvero, non ti credo, tesoro.³ "
"Vincenzo ."
He gives up again, and lets Antonio listen as the American explains that right here! In the centre of Florence! You, too, sir can become an icon of the Italian fashion industry!
He doesn't believe a word of it, until the guy hands Antonio the address of an office just off Piazza della Repubblica, one that he's actually heard Lorenzo talking about.
Well, who knew.
The American wanders off and Antonio stares at the address in his hand, seemingly as disbelieving as Vincenzo himself.
"Amore, this is great news," he says, reluctantly. "I really didn't—"
"I recognised him," says Antonio. "I've seen him in Erzsébet's magazines, doing pieces on working as an American in the Italian industry. Maybe if I can get a job here in Firenze, I can stay here with you."
Vincenzo bites back his and then what because honestly? He's been dreaming of this since they became something serious back in university in Napoli, since they were young and free and basking under the hot southern sun.
"I'd like that," he says softly, and squeezes Antonio's hand.
They wander into a small, empty park, quite forgetting about the milk. Vincenzo pushes Antonio down onto a bench and kisses him, sitting himself in his lap, gently biting his bottom lip and loving how he can feel it affect Antonio beneath him. His hand sneaks into Vincenzo's back pocket, squeezing his arse, whispering sweet nothings in his ear.
Out of the corner of his eye, Vincenzo sees a couple of kids run into the park. "Milk," he says quietly, and they both reluctantly give it up.
Soon, they might not have to. If this is legitimate — if, because honestly, it still seems too good to be true — they might have days, weeks, months of bliss; a house to themselves, evenings alone.
It was like that, back then, in Napoli. Not a care in the world, just flying through their studies, not even thinking about when it would come to an end. Wandering hand-in-hand through the streets, reading in the sun in the late afternoon, Vincenzo resting his head on Antonio's chest, swimming in the moonlight after long, hot days. Antonio hadn't even considered what would happen afterwards, either, having stepped onto campus that first day assuming he'd only be in Italy for two years, going back to Spain after, not worrying about learning Italian, not even thinking about the possibility of being constrained by an international degree.
They walk back to the house, and Antonio tells Maria about it excitedly, Vincenzo adding on that Lorenzo was one of their photographers for a bit, I think , and she gushes over them.
Vincenzo allows himself a little more hope. It's real. It's happening. The American stranger was an angel disguised as an annoyance. He wouldn't dare to daydream a useful tourist, so it must be real.
He asks them to stay the night, and Maria, comfortable on his sofa, says — well, why not — and Peschina jumps on her lap and purrs. She and Antonio pet his backstabbing cat and he makes Antonio a coffee, and then sits back with him, head on his shoulder, fingers entwined.
They sleep together that night, in all senses of the word, desperate and messy and beautiful, and then when he wakes up to the morning sun, Vincenzo slips on Antonio's shirt and sneaks into the kitchen to throw together a breakfast of orange juice and Maria's croissants.
He sighs, content, daydreaming of long nights and fresh mornings and stolen kisses and — oh, he hadn't even thought of the fact that his boyfriend's arse will be in tight jeans, in glossy magazines—
There's a crash as Peschina pushes a bag of food from the counter onto the floor. Vincenzo startles and sits up straight, alone, in his bed, late in the morning, full of summer flu, the city's murmur drifting in through his window, tissues and on cold medicine strewn over the floor.
Of course it was but a fever dream. Perhaps even a nightmare. A drug-induced fantasy, a horrible, hopeful hallucination.
He feels empty. His chest is tight for reasons unrelated to any kind of illness as he opens the window in his room, the silence of his room deafening and painful, his pillow damp with tears as he falls back to sleep, his boyfriend a hundred miles away from him.
italian notes
¹ what the fuck does this guy want?
² hey, you believe him? seriously, you believe him?
³ you're joking, i don't believe this, seriously, i don't believe you, my treasure (derogatory)
( native speakers mi spiace se ho fatto gli errori e se non sembra naturale ? lo so io che non è un segreto che l'inglese è la mia madrelingua ? ﾟﾘﾭ)
hey look another fic with a title from billie's lovely ? i'm sorry if you want to yell at me please do x
czesca on tumblr