Mr. Hurricane, I'm Wide Awake, Lullaby, and Aurora by Hans Zimmer which everyone should buy because I'm not American and therefore can't…
I don't even know what I think of this chapter anymore. I had a beautiful idea and I have no idea how well or poorly I executed it, because at its best I tried to re-imagine what's otherwise a horrible stereotype of the boy-love genre, and at its worst I took the porno-esque nature of the title (Black Cherry? Seriously? IT SOUNDS LIKE A PORNO) and ran with it.
I'm so sorry and the worst part is I can't stop laughing.
Black Cherry
Part 3: I Didn't Think This Through
Remember that wall? Romano does, and he intends to fix it today since his garden is doing fine and any work with the grapevines will require several days of intense labour. He's got the cement and the stone for it, and the weather's sunny and bright like it always is in summer.
There's little point in showering before this kind of labour, but Romano makes sure to do that and brush his teeth to rid himself of the sweet residue from last night. And where's Gilbert? Romano doesn't even bother worrying about it because he has to wait for the German to get out of the shower before he can get in there to clean up.
"Coffee?"
Sure. Gilbert makes an alright cup. It's not as good as Veneziano's espresso, but that's not a fair comparison and the Prussian does a better job than America or Canada (those two have no idea what they're doing). It's not until Romano comes back into the kitchen in his work-clothes and sees a cup of coffee waiting for him than he decides to drop the bomb on Gilbert.
It still takes him a few minutes to actually say it though. The decision is the easy part, but distracting Gilbert from where he's bent over the sink scrubbing away at some sticky gelato mess from last night... it's bad but Romano just tastes the hot black drink and listens to Gilbert mutter a few soft curses in German. For a moment, South Italy feels unnaturally bold and wonders what those grey shorts would feel like under his hands, or whether Gilbert's back bends quiet the way the sun is implying as it shines on the white cotton tented over his shoulders.
He drinks his coffee and tells himself to grow the fuck up. He has work to do today and lusting isn't going to get any of it done.
"Hey, are you helping me or not today?"
"Huh? What does it look like I'm doing?" Making coffee and shaking your ass, which isn't what Romano means but if he isn't allowed to touch then Gilbert had better stop doing it.
"Masonry's a two-man job."
"Shit, you're really serious about that?" Why wouldn't he be? Gotta keep those big mean tigers out of his orchard. "Haha, fuck you."
Romano doesn't have a come-back for that. At least not one he can say.
They eat a light breakfast and Romano sets out a few things for them to make a fast lunch out of later, then it's a quick march around the garden and outbuilding. They gather up the tools they need before they make the long trek across the rolling dell to reach the grove and the fallen wall on the west side of the property. Gilbert complains and Romano laughs at him, until finally he gets the idiot into the task by challenging that old line from Grandpa Rome's song:
"Aren't Germans supposed to be the best engineers?"
"It's a four foot wall, there's no engineering involved."
"Says you."
Says Gilbert until he stops complaining and hunkers down because there's work to be done, and there's no sense whining about it. Gilbert's military background kicks in before they're at it for more than ten minutes. The two men pile rocks and fit them in place, mixing cement and shovelling and sloughing the heavy muck around with only a few sparse words. It's good hard work, but the sun catches up with them before they're even a third of the way through. Romano's too busy worrying about not crushing his fingers to give a damn when he knocks his hat away and pulls off his shirt again to let the breeze help cool him down. The sun is unforgivable in summer so his shoes are abandoned soon too, Gilbert teasing him about being barefoot in the grass and grime before Romano snaps at him to hold that rock steady, damn it.
But eventually Gilbert's won over to the idea of shedding the useless clothes. Safety? Who needs safety in Italy? The work boots and socks he tried wearing in the heat are tossed aside as the wall grows taller. Romano focuses on mixing fresh cement to replace the powdered and weather-worn mortar between the remaining rocks and slabs making up the barrier. He'd rather fight with the shovel and the wheelbarrow than let his eyes wander after Gilbert's shirt goes the way of Romano's and rests in the tantalizing shade. Romano has to plant at least two more trees: it's not fair for the shade to end three feet short of where they're working.
In the end their wall is crooked and sloppy looking, but it's standing straight and follows the lay of the rolling land. Romano is no perfectionist when it comes to building things. He needs a wall to keep dogs and goats and things like that off his property, he needs a physical barrier to mark his property in case some random shit goes down and he has to prove where his responsibilities begin and end. A sloppy wall is a good wall, so long as it stays up.
"Oh god..." It's up and Gilbert goes down, Romano watching him just collapse on the green grass, limbs spread wide and sweat making his skin shine. Shit. "It's hot, it's so hot, it's so fucking hot, do something!"
"Uh, like what?" Romano barely catches the simpering demand, but he snaps his eyes away from whatever he was admiring and starts rubbing his hands together in a half-hearted effort to get the cement paste off his fingers.
"It's your country! Make it rain!" That's impossible? "Clouds then!" Still not his job. "How the hell do you get anything done in this heat?" Romano doesn't answer, because he shouldn't have to, but Gilbert isn't up for smarm and clever comments right now and just starts kicking his feet like a baby. "Shit, even the air- my lungs are drowning...!"
"There's always the spring if you-"
"Spring?" Gilbert's head pops up. "You have a spring? Like one with water?" No, he means one made of copper. No you idiot of course it's got water. "Cold water?"
Instead of answering, Romano starts walking. He's not worried about someone stealing a wheelbarrow partially filled with semi-solid cement mix, or a shovel in the same condition, so they just leave them on the orchard-side of the wall as Gilbert flouders on the grass and chases after him.
As in literally chases, because yes Romano's tired from all that work, and the heat is intense even for him, but the thought of showing off another feature of his home is too exciting to just amble and saunter down across half an acre of slopping paths and olive trees. His bare feet pound the packed earth and sunlight flashes white and gold as they pass under tree branches and follow the lay of the land. Romano has no fear of tripping or falling and Gilbert lags a little bit behind trying to be a little more cautious.
Several hundred years of living in the same place has given Romano enough time to cut steps into the rock leading down to the water, along with a rope to hang onto and hand-holds for more safety. The water bubbles and gurgles out of the mountain through a network of caves he has no honest interest in exploring, since they're all underwater, and drowning doesn't appeal to him even on a hot day like this. The spring is located at the lowest point in the dell, out of sight from the villa and bathed in sunlight at most hours of the day, specifically now with the stinging eye hovering directly over their heads.
Food would be good, but as soon as Romano's feet hit the familiar platform of cut stone, he leaps and draws his knees in tight to his chest, eyes closed before the shock of ice cold mountain water hits him like a lightning bolt. It's disorienting and yet brilliant as the liquid closes around his limbs and flashes straight through denim jeans, thick sweat, and dark tangled hair to get to his skin. The cold floods his ears and swells around his nose and mouth until he breathes out, his feet kicking at nothing but the silent dark as his arms stroke once and, there-
Romano breaks the surface again and the sun flashes over his closed eyes, a gasp ripping out of his lungs as he's still reeling a little from the jolt. Cold water can kill, but this spring isn't nearly the right temperature for that.
"How deep is it?" Huh? "I'm up here! How deep?" Romano looks up and it's easy to spot Gilbert with his white hair and pale skin, hands on his hips as he shuffles a little bit on the stone ledge, looking down critically at him as the Italian kicks his legs and spreads his arms under the water so he can float comfortably.
"Shallow on that end, but here it's pretty deep." That end is the way out of the spring, the sloping stone that leads into broken rocks, mud, mulch and finally grass. The water drains another way through the ground, and the deepest, darkest part where Romano's floating is the mouth of those submerged caves.
"Can I dive?"
"If you want."
So he does. It's not some pretty olympic swan-dive or a pin-straight drop into the depths, in fact judging by that splash and the sound of it Romano would hazard that Gilbert just about flops trying to get in. He's laughing in preparation for the idiot to surface again and takes a mouthful of water when something grabs his ankle and whoops, he's under.
It's cold and it's quiet and his eyes snap open in the blurry dark, the sunlight casting rays around them as Gilbert gets back up to the surface before he does. The Prussian is whooping and hollering to get around the shock of the cold water on his skin, punching and splashing as he laughs. It's funny and ridiculous, so Romano makes the appropriate response: with a sharp splash of water to the face, the Italian lunges with a grin and gets his hands on his friend's pale shoulders, shoving him back under the water before his own head goes down.
It's fun, okay? That's the only god-damned reason for it. It's fun, and there's no one around to judge or make him feel stupid for wanting to have one little bit of stupid-ass fun with his friend, because that's what Gilbert is. He's Romano's god-damned friend.
And yes, he likes him more than a friend, so the kicking and the splashing is easier for him than the wrestling and shoving in the shallower waters. And yes it's distracting when the light shines down and Gilbert's whole body just starts to glow like he's made of ivory, and the contrast between his sun-dark skin and the northerner's unnaturally pale complexion is startling. But between cheap-shots with the water and head-locks that turn into half-drowning flails in the shallows, for every awkward and slippery touch or time when faces come just a little too close together, more than Romano wants to kiss or touch the man grappling with him, he wants him smiling. The laughter when Gilbert comes up for air because Romano's got him pinned is more important than the cold water sloshing between their hips, because Romano has a hard time making friends, but he likes having them.
He'd rather keep friends like Gilbert than lose lovers like him. It's a lot easier and not nearly as painful, even if Gilbert makes it a trial by flipping them in the cold spring as soon as Romano lets his guard down.
"You give up?" Gilbert pants the question after Romano goes under and resurfaces again, the Italian braced on his elbows so he can keep his face and chin above the water.
"Sure." Not really, but he's getting tired and the swimming's done wonders to cool him off. Gilbert's hands are planted on the ground to either side of Romano's shoulders, the water lapping at his arms while his legs are spread over the Italian's hips under the surface. The water is just deep enough here that Gilbert were going to actually pin him, Romano would drown, so the fun ends with their faces floating closer together than is otherwise ideal between friends.
God his lips are so close though, and parted too where he's still breathing hard, his body moving with every breath as water trickles down his shoulders and drips from his nearly white hair. The cold keeps anything uncomfortable from tightening his pants, but what if he just raised his arm and hooked it around that curved neck? What if he pulled those parted lips that aren't smiling anymore and covered them with his own? What if they just vanished under the sun-drenched water and shared a breath that's way too poetic and a good indication that Romano's got a bit of heat-stroke? It's time to get out.
But,
"Hey," His skin, Gilbert's skin. Gilbert's red eyes are focused right on him, but Romano's drift over into the light, away from the colour that reminds him of those damned cherries.
It takes some careful balance and a lot of weird muscle control to keep him steady on his hips and one elbow, but Romano drags one hand up out of the water and places his palm flat against the curve of Gilbert's back. The sunlight reflects off all the little beads of moisture clinging to them both as the Prussian lets out a breath, which is weird, because Romano didn't hear him holding it to begin with. Gilbert's face also drops and slides down closer to his, moving just past him like he's about to slip down into the water to try and rest on his shoulder.
"Uh... yeah?" It's a hoarse reply, gruff from all the laughing and working, and Romano tries not to close his eyes as the combination of sharp sunlight and rough murmurs by his ear try to challenge the effects of the cold water. The spring wins, and in a way, maybe, Romano loses.
"Hey, uh, I think..." Actually Gilbert loses. "I think you're burnt."
"…What?" And he loses really, really badly.
Okay, just an aside: I mean "I can't stop laughing" as in I can't believe I wrote something so cheesy, not I can't stop laughing at the pairing. This is my introduction to Prumano but I wouldn't be writing in excess of 10,000 words for them if I didn't like the pairing.
So I'm not mocking it. I just… really screwed up this scene somehow and I DON'T KNOW WHAT I DID.