A body moves over Hero, her legs encircle his torso, anchoring her to him, hips rocking against his hard outline, desperate for more. Straw-threads tangle in her stomach, pulling tighter and tighter, serrating her nerves as the friction builds, satisfaction maddeningly out of reach. Fingers dig into her hip as a mouth pulses hot along her neck, trailing wet kisses over her clavicle, down to her breast, kneaded by a rough palm. She gasps, grabbing at clothes and tufts of raven hair—

Bertram's hair was never this dark. She squints, her mind stirring beyond the haze of pleasure, she recognises the blurred surroundings of her bedroom in San Francisco — but she never brought Bertram here. She gazes at the dark-haired man that bobs between her breasts, her nipple caught under his expert tongue, as he thrusts hard and fast against her throbbing core.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

His name teases her lips. She knows it. She knows it. But it is oil under her clasping hands; it won't remain still long enough for her to hold. He increases his pace, pistoning his hips as she writhes beneath him, her mind clinging on by a hair's breadth —

He drives forward one hard thrust. Heat spears to her centre. The hair snaps. Her vision goes white.

"JOHN!"

She wakes, legs tangled in sheets, skin flushed and something slick between her thighs as she pants for breath. She hears her cry echoing in her ear as reality crashes down around her.

The man beside her jolts awake. "Hero—! What—? Are you hurt? Is it the baby?"

She takes one look at his face — the same face that had lapped at her bosom in her dream — and hurls herself from the bed.

"Oh God!" She sprints for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Of course, this does nothing to assuage his concern and soon he is knocking on the door. "Hero? Is it the morning sickness? Can I come in?"

She crouches on the floor, burying her head in her arms. As her thighs brush together, she is aware of something warm and sticky and she releases a mortified groan.

John calls through the door, "Hero? I'm coming in—"

"Don't come in!" She screeches.

This only adds to the alarm in John's voice. "Why not? If you're in pain—"

"I'm fine, please." She considers whether citing bowel movements as an excuse would be less humiliating than the truth. "I'm fine, I promise. It's just… embarrassing."

There is a pause. "Alright… but if you need anything, I'm here."

Hero restrains a mortified sob. This particular need is not one she can ask him to help her with. Not after he fled from her last night. She has to scrunch it up tight and shove it deep, deep inside her.

"Thank you," is her hoarse reply.

She leans her head against her knee and fights back tears. She is so grateful for John, truly she could not have asked for a better man…

She cleans herself up and leaves the bathroom, smiling at John who has dressed in her absence. She tries not to linger over his form or the unbuttoned collar of his shirt revealing his collarbone and undervest, fixing her gaze on his face (which is too, too beautiful) and offering a smile.

"Today is the last day of harvest."

"So soon?"

"We've made great progress," she links her hands, gazing at him from under her lashes, "Thanks to your help."

This doesn't please him as she expected, pursing his lips and casting his gaze to the carpet. She tries to think of something else to say, but nothing seems right.

"I uh… be-better finish getting dressed." She scurries to the wardrobe to pick-out her clothes for the day and hears John slip into the bathroom.

She glances at the closing door over her shoulder, an invisible hand squeezing her heart. Tomorrow he will be gone from her life for good.

:-x-:

"What has John done to make you avoid him?"

Hero almost nicks her finger with the knife. She turns to Beatrice. "I'm — I'm not avoiding him."

"I'm delighted that you're spending all this time with me, coz. But some might find it suspicious to see you working apart from your husband two days in a row." She gestures to John several rows across from them, being chatted to by Baz. "Do I need to speak with him?"

Hero doesn't like how she twirls her knife as she says this. "No. I'm not… you don't need to speak with him." She breaks off another bunch of grapes, throwing it in the basket. "I… I had a dream is all."

"A dream?" Beatrice squints at her.

Hero's cheeks scorch, remembering.

Beatrice observes her reaction, mouth curving in a cattish smile. "Ooh, that kind of dream."

Hero ducks her head. "Please, I'm mortified."

"Does he know?"

"God, I hope not. He woke when I called out his name, he thought I was in pain."

Beatrice's expression is sly and grinning, "You called out his name? Sounds like a gooddream."

Hero groans, hiding her flaming face amongst the green leaves. "I can't go near him without remembering… remembering… how it felt…"

Beatrice chuckles. "I almost pity him. He has you spooked and no clue what he has done wrong."

Guilt twists in her stomach. Hero glances again at John and discovers he is already looking back at her. She gasps and drops her head under the vines.

Beatrice gives a sympathetic coo. "Poor man, he looks heart-burned even from here."

"Stop it."

"You will have to face him at some point. It will be suspicious if you don't."

Hero turns her attention back to picking grapes. "He will be leaving tomorrow."

"Will he?"

"I… he agreed to the end of the harvest."

"You won't ask him to stay?"

Hero hacks through a grape stem. "I thought you would be pleased to see him go."

"I'm thinking of you, peach. How will you feel?"

Hero doesn't look at her, focusing on the task at hand. "I'll be fine. He… he has put his life on-hold long enough."

"Hero…"

"I can't keep him, Beatrice. He's not… mine."

Beatrice is quiet, a contemplative silence that has Hero's skin prickling. She is sure she will not like whatever astute observation comes out of her cousin's mouth.

"But you want him to be."

Hero goes rigid;l, her nails pinching her palms. She opens her mouth but all that escapes her is a wheeze. She swallows against the sour swash in her mouth and tries again. "It was only a dream, Bea."

She turns her back, signalling the end of the conversation and moves down the row. She feels Beatrice's eyes on her as she goes, piercing through flesh and bone to where her battered heart trembles underneath. Because she doesn't look back, Hero doesn't see how her cousin's gaze narrows or her jaw sets as it does when she is scheming.

:-x-:

The sun casts its ochre gaze across the winding vines of Le Nuvole as the last grapes are picked and carted off to the giant wooden vat. It has taken three days for a hundred people to harvest the vineyard and now it is time for those grapes to be crushed into wine. A crowd gathers round the vat, emptying crates into the cylindrical structure, cheering as it fills. At the helm of it all is Leonato, issuing commands and inspecting the grapes before they go in.

Antonio finds John, loitering at the fringes of the activity, and claps him on the back. (John is certain his back will be violet by the time he is gone from this place.)

"Aren't you glad you stayed for this?"

He inclines his head and doesn't answer the question. He is aware of Hero flitting around at Beatrice's side. Whatever ground he gained last night he lost just as fast with their almost kiss — though he is not sure he can even call it that. He is a ship without a captain, a tear in its sail, floating adrift on a cold ocean.

The idea of parting from Hero, more strangers than when they first met, grates like a pebble between his fourth and fifth rib. But perhaps it is for the better. To walk-away knowing he has had the best of her friendship, that if he stayed things would only have broken-down from there, becoming an unwelcome interloper on her life.

"You have done good work. Don't think your efforts have gone unnoticed, we are all impressed."

John glances sceptically at Leonato. "Everyone?"

Antonio follows his gaze but his smile doesn't waver. "Even him, though he will not admit it. My brother is proud and stubborn, it chafes that Hero chose a husband without his input. But he sees, as we all do, that she chose a good one."

He squeezes John's shoulder. The younger man feels acid through his gullet, corroding his intestines, and says nothing. A murmur runs through the crowd, quieting as Ursula is assisted into the vat. A crown of leaves adorns her hair and she smiles out at the watchers.

"For this harvest, we honour Ceres. For this wine, we honour Bacchus. And for your labour, we honour you." She gestures to the gathered crowd, who applaud and cheer, exclaiming thanks to the Roman deities.

"Isn't she beautiful," Antonio says, smiling towards his wife with such obvious love.

John has not encountered many happily married couples but seeing the happiness Antonio and Ursula bring to each other makes him pause and consider, perhaps such things are not just found in movies, perhaps a love can last with effort from both sides. He looks across at Hero and his breath stutters to see her staring back. She freezes like a doe in the headlights. In the split-second before she can duck her gaze John makes a decision and offers her a smile, crooked like an olive branch. Hero falters, lips parting, then tentatively she returns his smile.

A thunderous clap rattles John and he looks-around. The gathered crowd claps in-time as musicians strike up a joyful jaunt, Baz among them with his guitar.

"Le donne!" Leonato shouts and then there is a flurry of motion. The women scramble to the wooden vat, men helping to lift them in.

"What is happening?" He asks Antonio.

Just like the rest, the large man claps along to the music. "It is the grape stomping. The honour goes to our wives."

"Hero!" Innogen calls across to her daughter. "Come on! You're a married woman now."

Hero stalls in her clapping, eyes widening as she looks to her mother then John.

Antonio shoves his shoulder, pushing him forwards. "Go! Help your wife."

John's gaze is fixed on Hero as he crosses to her. She stares up at him, the golden green of her eyes sparkling in the sun, and it is an effort to keep from stumbling into memories of last night — how she looked at him then as she is looking at him now.

He holds out his hand. "Wife."

Her face ripples and then her mouth trembles into a grin. She takes his hand, fingers intertwining. "Husband."

Lightning shivers through him where their hands connect and he runs with her to the vat. She kicks off her shoes and he sweeps her into his arms. Her fingers scorch across his neck as she throws her arms around him, her squeal of laughter vibrating through his chest and spurring his own. He lifts her into the vat, grinning ear-to-ear. As soon as her bare feet touch the grapes she is dancing, mirroring the hops and skips of the other women, her movements like water.

A stranger would not know this was her first time participating in the stomping. She bounces, stomping down on the grapes in-time to the strumming of the guitars, twisting one way and then another. Her hair tumbles around her face and she gifts John a sunbeam smile, skipping to join the other women as they move around the vat, trampling the grapes. She twirls, cheering and laughing along with others; her movements are light and joyful, free from the melancholy that has haunted her the past few days. John's gaze is fixed on her, tracking her through the blur of bodies; her laughter bright in his ears over all the other voices and the music.

She ties back the hem of her dress, allowing her to move unrestricted, revealing the long cream of her legs, splattered with dark crimson. As she stomps, she lifts her skirt higher, flashing more of her thighs, twisting her hips in a manner that could be construed as flirtatious, her face radiant with elation as she tosses smile after smile at John. He stares, captivated, and doesn't notice Beatrice whispering in Antonio's ear. As the grapes are crushed into liquid, more and more of the crimson wine is kicked up, raining around Hero and the other women who shriek and laugh, latching onto each and weaving around the vat in a dance.

Hands seize John. He reacts to the attack, but more men grab his arms before he can land a blow and then his legs too, lifting him off the ground and towards the vat.

"Throw him in!" Antonio bellows next to his ear.

It ricochets through John's mind that he may have gotten embroiled in a pagan sacrifice, when the women strip him of his shoes and socks and haul him into the vat with them. He stumbles but they hold him upright, clutching him as they pull him round the circumference of the vat. Opposite him, the women hold Hero in the same way, arms linked behind their backs. Her laughing smile as she looks at him eases the panic in his chest and the corner of his mouth tugs upwards, pulse hammering.

The women push Hero and John towards each other, their bodies near colliding before they are pulled apart, then pushed together again. Hero smiles at John, her nose nearly knocking into his own the next time they meet. Wine-drops speckle her chin and his hands twitch with the urge to wipe them away before he is being ripped from her again. This time, the momentum is too strong and they slip on the wet peels, toppling into the red swash.

John hears his own laughter entwining with Hero's above the roars of the onlookers and the shrieks of the other stompers as they skid and stumble in the slush, bodies crashing down around the pair. Chaos breaks-out as the women crush the grapes between their hands, squeezing the juices over each other and splashing the wine until they are all soaked into the crimson liquid.

Hero crawls to John through the mad scurry of legs, laughing as she pelts him with grapes, smearing the juices into his shirt so it will be impossible for him to wear it again without smelling like a drunk. He defends against her assault, throwing grapes in her face and drenching her in handfuls of wine, rubbing it into her skin.

Someone bumps into Hero and she careens into his chest. He catches her in his arms, his breath hitching as he stares at her face; her hair is matted with the wine, grape-skins cling to her cheeks. He brushes the peels aside leaving a crimson streak across her skin. She gazes up at him, pupils expanding in golden-green starbursts. Beautiful, she is beautiful, and her mouth is the same red as the wine. He wants to know how she tastes.

Around them, the women dance, hiding them from view. Their gazes are locked as his thumb curls under her chin; he tilts his head, his nose brushing her own, and claims her lips. Sweet and soft and utterly intoxicating is her kiss as her mouth welcomes him and she melts against him. He forgets where he is, forgets who he is, and there is nothing but Hero, Hero, Hero—

Something wet and round strikes his ear, his shoulder, his back, another and another. They break apart, finding the other women have surrounded them, giggling as they hurl grapes at them like confetti at a wedding. John's arms fold around Hero, shielding her from the onslaught as she laughs, kicking out at their attackers and chucking grapes back at them.

Outside the vat, the crowd has taken up a chant of "Crush the grapes! Crush the grapes!" and the women return to their stomping. Hero's eyes gleam as she looks at John, her lips scraping his cheek, not quite a kiss, as she clambers to her feet, out of his arms, and joins the others in the dance. For a moment, he remains where he is, watching as she twists and twirls around the vat, kneeling like a supplicant before his goddess, wine and sweat trickling under his collar. Then he lurches to his feet, staggering to catch her.

She sees him, her mouth curving in a coquettish grin, and dances out of his reach. She glides around the vat, ducking under arms and weaving in-and-out of the other women, tossing him a coy smile as she goes, goading him to chase her. He does, the flames stoking in his belly with the flash of her thighs, the wriggle of her hips, a fire crackling in his veins. Now he has had a taste of her, he burns for more.

They go around and around in this game of cat and mouse, slipping and sliding, and those familiar with their Classics may think of satyrs chasing nymphs and Bacchus with his own dear wife, Ariadne. The game lasts until the grapes are pulp and even the scarlet liquid splashing around his calves does not distract John from his pursuit. Yet in the end, it is Hero who catches him, spinning from behind the other women and grasping his wrists.

Her smile dazzles him, as if he were staring straight into the sun. Her fingers entwine with his and she tugs him to the sides of the vat where the other women have lined in a circle. The musicians have finished playing and now the onlookers whoop and applaud; the women curtsey.

John pants for breath, only realising how much energy he has spent. He watches Hero's red, red smile parting around her own gasps, practically glowing as she beams out at the crowd. Beatrice, Baz, and Antonio cheer the loudest, her parents' applause comparatively calmer but their faces no less proud.

Hero squeezes John's hand, looking at him, and a laugh escapes her. His hair is slick with grape juice, the same as hers, dripping under his collar, peels stuck to his skin, and he laughs too, grinning back at her, boyish and carefree (and he doesn't know how this makes her heart stutter).

"Kiss her!" The call doesn't register at first. "KISS HER!"

John's gaze jumps from Hero, sighting Beatrice with an impish grin. Then Baz and Antonio join the chant and soon the rest of the crowd are clapping along.

"KISS! KISS! KISS!"

John's dislike of public spectacle is outweighed by his desire to kiss Hero again. He turns to her. If he saw reluctance, a hint of apprehension in her expression, he would not push — let the crowd be disappointed he doesn't care — but when he looks at her there is nothing but want and — a frisson of heat — hunger in her gaze. She smiles at him, bold and expectant, eyes sparkling as if to say well?

He doesn't leave her waiting, bending his head and kissing her true. The crowd hollers their approval, but their applause is drowned out by the blood pounding through John's ears, each of his nerves alight and buzzing. Nothing feels as right as kissing Hero. There was a time he believed he would die in a ditch, blown to pieces under the barrage of war and good riddance, but now it is as if he was always meant to find her. His mouth slots perfectly against hers. He kisses her deeply, like she is all the air he needs, and he is out of the shallows now, far from the shore, but he has no wish to go back, clutching her closer.

When they cleave apart it is to the hoots and catcalls of the crowd. Oxygen floods into John's lungs, but his chest constricts — what he needs is Hero. He stares, her face is flushed, lips swollen. Her eyes twinkle a question.

His hand tightens on her waist and he feels her shudder. His mouth curves in a promise. He isn't thinking about last night or tomorrow. All he is focused on is what he is going to do to her next.