Authors note: This story does not follow canon in its dating, as it is set in 2023.
Rome, Spring 2023. Though some of the winter cold clings to the still leafless trees, it is the first day people dare walk about without a jacket. Summer is hanging in the air.
You are standing on top of the Spanish Steps, your jacket in your arms, and your backpack containing most of your belongings on your back, overlooking the Eternal City. It was there that you first saw him, even though you didn't really pay him much attention. He's a handsome stranger smiling at you; you don't respond and instead return your attention to the city at your feet. It is a view that never bores, but after a couple of minutes, you take a seat to eat a left-over croissant from breakfast and write down some notes in your notebook. Together with your toiletries and clothing – and your car, which is waiting for you at the hostel where you spend your nights, it is the only thing you have brought with you. Your phone is in your pocket, but it is off, and you only turn it on twice a week to let your family know that you are still doing okay.
Once you leave Rome, you'll have to navigate Europe by map. It is not something you are used to, and you know you are bound to get lost. Given the reason you fled your hometown, this only seems fitting.
After you have closed your notebook, you walk down the now familiar stairs, past the fontains. Your feet automatically bring you to your favourite place, Caffè Greco, to get your afternoon coffee. It is the oldest café in town, where artists and writers have always come. For the last couple of weeks, you have followed in their footsteps and sat down there to work on your book, despite the expansive coffee.
As you are looking through your notes, working on your opening paragraph for chapter one, you hear a soft cough. 'Excuse me?' someone asks you in English. 'Is this seat free?'
You look up and see a man about your own age with red hair and a big grin. You smile back and nod, before you realize that you know him from somewhere. He thanks you and sits down. 'I am Fred,' he says. His eyes fall on your notebook. 'What are you writing?'
'I am making notes on my trip. On what I have seen today.'
'You are a tourist?' he asks you. 'Where from?'
'I am from Italy. But from the south. Sicily.' You smile. 'You sound like you're from England.'
He grins. 'Guilty. I am here for business, but I decided to mix in some pleasure as well. You can't visit Rome without at least seeing some of the city.'
A waitress approaches, and he looks at your drink before ordering the same.
'I am more of a tea drinker,' he says, once the waitress has walked away. 'So for coffee, I am willing to follow the Italians.'
You laugh. Something about his grin is very contagious, and you decide that you like him.
'What brings you here?' he asks, looking genuinely interested in your answer.
'It is cliché,' you start. 'But I writing a book.' You tap on your notebook.
'That is impressive,' he says. 'What is it about?'
'I am going to… You stop, choosing your words carefully. 'I am going to travel around Europe, and I want to write about the cities, the culture… I want people to feel as if they have really been there, by just reading my book.' You smile, suddenly feeling a bit shy. 'That's what I am trying, at least.'
'Wow,' he says. The waitress arrives and puts his coffee in front of him, and he thanks her with a very accented 'grazie mille'.
'It sounds like an amazing idea,' he continues. 'Where do you want to go?'
'I want every chapter to be a different city, but I am not entirely sure where I want to go. I want to be surprised, might go to places I have never heard of. It's not just in the big cities where you can find the real soul.'
'Sometimes it's a good thing, getting lost,' he agrees.
He takes a sip of his coffee and, for a very brief second, you can tell that he does not like the taste. Very quickly, he regains his composure. 'Strong coffee,' he says. He puts the cup in front of him again. 'Are you planning on visiting the UK?'
'No,' you have to admit. 'I am travelling by car, and I am terrified of driving on the wrong side of the road.'
'The wrong side of the road?' He pretends to not understand what you mean.
You laugh. 'Yes. It is the wrong side of the road, you can't convince me otherwise. And it got more difficult, with Brexit and all that, to get into the country. I don't have a passport. But I have been to Scotland before, years ago. My older sister went on an exchange there, in Aberdeen.'
He nods. 'Did you like it there?'
'I did. I really want to go back there one day.'
'Did you learn to speak English over there?'
You shake your head. 'I was only there for a couple of days. But I did my exchange in Spain, and I took some courses in English over there. Most of my friends also couldn't speak Italian, so that helped.'
'You speak well,' he says. 'Was it a language exchange?'
'No – I followed courses in Spanish history and art.' You take a sip of your coffee, which is getting cold. 'Very interesting,' you add.
'You were a student?'
'Yes. My major was art history, but I took a lot of history courses as well.' You smile. 'That's also why I am excited to travel around Europe. It's not just going to be a travel book but also about history and art. So I have a good reason to visit all the museums out there.'
He takes another, very small, sip of his coffee. 'How long have you been here?'
'Three weeks.'
'Three weeks! You must have seen most museums by now.'
'Most of them,' you admit. 'And many of the churches too.'
'You like architecture too?'
'I like all the older art.'
He smiles. 'How old?'
'Depends on where you are. Italian art from the 16th century, Dutch and Flemish art from the 17th, French from the 18th and Russian from the 19th. And churches from the Middle Ages.'
'I have to admit I don't know that much about mug… about art in general.' He has a thoughtful look on his face as he takes another sip.
'Let me drink that,' you offer. 'I'll pay for it. You can get something a little less strong.'
'Is it that obvious?' he asks.
You both grin.
'I have a better proposition,' he says. He leans towards you. 'You can have this coffee – and I'll get both of us the amazing cake the table next to us is having.'
You look at the couple next to you. 'You mean the tiramisu?'
'Is that what it is called?' He shrugs. 'It looks amazing. But, as payment, you have to give me a tour of something I really have to visit before I leave.'
'That is very kind,' you say, not wanting to accept a gift from someone who is essentially a stranger – a kind stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. But you stop yourself. He might be a stranger, you think, but he is friendly and handsome – and besides, it is a busy city, in the middle of the day. 'I think I can give you a small tour,' you say. 'But I have promised my mom I would call her at nine, so I have to be home before then.'
It is a lie, of course, but it will help you get away in case Fred turns out to be not as nice as he seems.
'Deal,' he says immediately.
Fred told you that he likes surprises, so you keep it a secret where you are going as he follows you through the city center.
'What is your business about?' you ask him, as you walk past a group of German tourists following a tour guide.
'I have a gift shop,' he says. 'In London, with very… exclusive gifts. So now I am travelling around to get some ingredients. And gifts.'
'What kind of gifts?'
'Doesn't matter, as long as it is something special and unique.'
'That sounds like an amazing job,' you say. 'You must visit a lot of great places.'
'I do,' he admits. 'But I am afraid that I am not much of a writer, so I can't really share my adventures with the world.'
'You can share your photos,' you say. 'Don't you have Instagram?'
'What?'
'Instagram,' you repeat. 'It would be cool to see all the stores where you find your gifts.'
When you look at him, you can tell he is confused. 'I have to admit that I don't know what Instagram is.'
You laugh, but after a few seconds, you realise he is serious. 'You don't know Instagram?' you ask him. 'Where have you been hiding for the last decade?'
'I am afraid that I stay away from most modern stuff.'
You are still not sure if he is making fun of you, but he seems sincere. 'I will look into it,' he adds.
'I can't believe you have never heard of Instagram.' Part of you still thinks he's just joking, but you decide to drop it. Perhaps it is for the best. You try to stay away from the internet anyway—as much as possible, at least.
'We are now walking to the church of Sant'Ignazio,' you tell him. 'It is very close to the Pantheon, so if you want to visit that as well, we can go there. But it is also on the way to the Forum Romanum and you have to go there.'
'Then I will. I fully trust in your good taste,' he says.
For Roman standards, it is quiet in the church. You look at the beautiful building and tell him that you love the ceilings.
You wander around for a while, describing what he is seeing in a hushed voice, until you arrive at your favourite part.
'What do you think about the dome?' you ask him.
'It is beautiful,' he says, after giving it a look.
'Look closer.'
He follows your command and lays his head on his neck. 'Beautiful,' is his judgement.
'Still closer.'
He sends you a puzzled look, and you can't stop yourself from laughing – a sound you quickly smother with your hand. 'It is not a dome,' you tell him.
'What do you mean?'
'It is a trompe d'oeil, a trick. It's flat, the ceiling—there has never been a dome.'
He looks at the ceiling again. 'No,' he says, unconvinced. 'I don't believe you.'
'It is! If you go outside, you can tell.'
Outside, Fred looks at the flat roof. 'Unbelievable,' he says. 'It's like magic.'
'It does feel like it, doesn't it? There was supposed to be a dome, but there was no money. So one of the monks painted the ceiling to look like a dome, somewhere in the 17th century. I forgot the exact date.' You smile. 'It might be my favourite ceiling in all of Rome, even though there is a lot of competition.'
'It is incredible,' he has to admit.
As you walk from the Sant'Ignazio to the Forum Romanum, you are surprised to learn that he knows little about the history of the place, so you give him a crash course Roman Republic, which continues as you walk over the square that was once the most powerful place in the world.
'So this is over 2000 years old?' he asks, looking at the ruins.
'It is. And look, over there – some people say that Cesar was murdered here, but that is incorrect. Uou see, he was actually murdered under the statue of Pompey, his adversary, which…' You stop yourself. 'Am I boring you?'
'Not at all,' he says immediately. 'Please continue – who was Pompey?'
'I think you missed the call to your mom,' he says.
You look at your watch and see the time. 21:30.
'I completely forgot,' you say. You don't want to admit that the phone call was fictional, so you turn on your phone and send your mom a short update. 'I will call her tomorrow. She'll forgive me.'
'Especially if you explain to her why you missed the call,' he says. 'The best spaghetti in the world.'
'If I tell her that, she will definitely not forgive me,' you joke. 'In my family, we all know that my grandma makes the best pasta in the world.'
'That must be quite the legendary pasta then,' he says.
'It is,' you acquiesce.
You take another sip of your wine. 'How long will you be staying in Rome?'
'I don't know,' he says. 'How about you?'
'I don't know,' you admit.
He offers to pay, a kind gesture that you refuse. 'You have already bought me food today.'
'And you gave me an excellent tour. I feel like I have underpaid you.'
'It was my pleasure, but you don't have to pay again.'
'I insist,' he says. He leans forward. 'But I wouldn't say no to another guided tour.'
You feel that your cheeks are turning red. You haven't felt this relaxed, this free since… well, since you fled to Rome. That had meant that you had left the judging looks behind you, but it had been lonely at times.
Now, for the first time in months, there's no longer a heavy stone weighing on your stomach, despite the fact that you not only ate a big plate of pasta, but also some of the best ice cream you have ever had.
And that is all thanks to Fred.
'I think I know just the place,' you say.
As you walk past the river Tiber, you tell him the story of Romulus and Remus. After, you point him to the Ponto Vittorio Emanuele, the beautiful bridge that crosses the river. Its lights reflect in the water.
'It is spectacular,' he tells you softly.
'We're going to cross it,' you tell him. 'Behind it, there's a beautiful building.' The breeze cools your hot face and you can hear the sounds of people laughing, cutlery hitting plates. People eating outside, or taking a walking after dinner.
As you walk over the bridge, you point at the Castel Sant'Angelo. 'It is over 1900 years old.'
'1900?' he repeats.
You nod. 'The statues are from later times, I believe from the 18th century. And it has been a prison – but it was traditionally built as a mausoleum.'
You stand still to admire the view for a couple of seconds. When you feel Fred touching your hand, you don't pull away. You don't mind him holding your hand.
You don't mind at all.
You look at him as he stares at the building and wonder if you are about to make a mistake. Who knows – he might be a serial killer. He might be dangerous.
But you don't believe that. Most people, in the end, are, if not trustworthy, at least not serial killers.
'You know,' you say. 'There are many places like this. Well, not like this, but there are many other castles and museums – and restaurants, all around Europe.'
'And you are going to visit them all,' he says.
'I hope so.'
You want to continue, but you notice that he is about to say something. He seems to be hesitating.
'This might be a really stupid idea,' he eventually says. 'And if you don't want to – that is okay. But I don't know where I want to go next, and you told me you have a car.'
'I do,' you say.
'Do you think I could tag along, at least for the next trip? We could split the fuel costs, and it would be more practical than travelling by plane.'
'It depends,' you answer. 'Do you really don't care about where you're going? Because I am planning on getting lost.'
He smiles. 'Sounds like an adventure to me.'
