8.
They fell into a routine during the next few days. Nate would listen to music on his phone and type up Jacopo’s notes, and Jacopo would work at the table. Nate learned more about Lady Giulia and her son, Sebastiano, who was definitely banging Augusto and probably one of the chambermaids, too. He learned more about Jacopo: the way he sounded out words to himself silently as he read, a scowl on his face. The studious care he took of all his potted plants. The way he sweet-talked the courtyard cats in Italian when he thought no one was watching.
The orange patriarch of the colony, Pennywise–named after the clown and not the band–was a giant cat with a head like a cinderblock and a rusty meow. Once Nate’s knee had reduced in size enough that he could hobble around the apartment, he insisted on helping Jacopo with the nightly feedings, and after a lavish amount of sardines and compliments, Pennywise finally allowed Nate to pet him. After that, it was easier to get to know the others. A noodly little gray one called Gnocchi was Nate’s favorite, and it would headbutt his shins for attention when they sat outside drinking wine, as the evening haze cleared and the stars came out in the deep velvet sky, breathing in the smell of oaks and eucalyptus and the sea.
Nate tried to help out in other ways, too. He felt guilty being waited on, and he probably could have just gone back to sleeping in the castle at this point. The company was nice, though, so as long as Jacopo let him stay, he was going to ride it out.
“But you really don’t have to do everything for me,” he insisted, as Jacopo once again started dicing vegetables for their dinner, having turned down Nate’s offers to help him cook.
“You still need to stay off your feet.”
“I can chop tomatoes at least.”
Jacopo made a skeptical noise, rinsing a zucchini off at the sink. There was a dish towel tucked in his back pocket, and his sleeves were rolled up, his forearms tan and covered in wiry hair. Nate’s hands would fit perfectly on his slim hips, and Nate pushed away a fantasy of cuddling up to him from behind, pressing his face against the nape of his neck.
“I can sit at the table and chop tomatoes,” Nate amended. “That way I’ll be off my feet.”
“If you really want to,” said Jacopo. But he seemed to regret it a few minutes later, when he leaned over the table to check Nate’s progress.
“Nate.” He poked a mangled tomato slice with one finger. “What did you do?”
“It doesn’t matter, right? They’re going into a sauce.”
“There’s a way to–” he sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Do you cook often?”
“Not really, no,” Nate admitted. He felt himself wilting under Jacopo’s gaze. “In Eugene, I kind of lived on hot pockets and protein powder and green juice.”
“Green juice? Nate. Just–let me do the cooking, okay?”
“I want to help you. I hate feeling useless.”
“You’re not useless.” Jacopo put a hand on his shoulder, and Nate pressed into it like one of the cats, surprised at being touched. “You can open the wine. And talk to me while I cook.”
Nate watched him re-chop the tomatoes and dump them into the sautee pan. The kitchen was fragrant with the smells of garlic and olive oil. “You know, when I first got here, I thought it was your mom leaving all the food in the fridge for me,” he said, uncorking a bottle of Pinot Grigio. “I didn’t realize you were such a good cook.”
“She taught me,” Jacopo said. “She’s from the north, and it was important for her that her children know all the local recipes as well as the recipes of her own mother back home. She spent years studying with Zia Grazia, perfecting her arancini.”
“You’re a lot like her, I think,” Nate said. “And like Gracie. You all love learning.”
Jacopo’s shoulders stiffened, and he took the pan off the heat noisily. “No. I’m very different from them.”
Nate swallowed, drawing little circles in the condensation on his wine glass. He changed the subject. “Do you remember the last duke very much? I wonder if I’m like him.”
“I never spend much time around him. He died when I was seventeen,” Jacopo said, setting a plate down in front of him. Nate had never known fresh vegetables could smell so good, before moving here. His mouth started watering immediately. “He really only came into town during festivals. And he was at the church sometimes, for Christmas and Easter. But he was–nice, I suppose? Maybe a little bit scary, because he was so old and he lived up here all alone.”
“Oh, ok. Nice but scary.”
Jacopo shrugged. “Maybe mysterious is the better word.”
“And I’m, what, his great-nephew? But illegitimate.”
“I believe so. Your whole line is–illegitimate. The duke didn’t have any recorded brothers or sisters, but my father must have known, or at least suspected, that there were some out there. Otherwise he would never have spent money on preserving the DNA.”
“So I come from a big bunch of bastards, huh?”
“Nate.” Jacopo frowned.
“No, it’s okay. I never met my dad, but I’m sure he was a bastard. In more ways than one. Anyway, I must not be like the duke, then.” Nate smiled a little, but it felt false. “I’m as boring as they come. No mystery here.”
Jacopo sat down, studying Nate as if he were really considering what he’d said. “I don’t agree,” he said at last. “You are anything but boring.” He gestured with his fork. “Eat.”
Outside, after dinner, the dishes washed and put away and the cats all ears-deep in their trays of kibble, Jacopo smoked luxuriantly, eyes fixed on the sky, not talking. Nate looked out over the hills, the black silhouettes of the trees. The sea was a sheet of ink, the last traces of sunset lingering in a pale band of light along the horizon.
“God, it’s quiet out here,” he said, the hair standing up on the back of his neck. “Spooky. I don’t know how you can stand to read those books.”
Jacopo was silent for a moment, cigarette perched between two fingers, eyes cast down at his glass of wine. “It’s a thrill,” he said finally. “But it’s fictional. Safe.”
“I don’t know, man. I would have a hard time not believing it’s real.” Nate gestured to the night around them, the distant lights of the town. “It’s so dark. Too easy to imagine all sorts of creepy stuff in the shadows. It’s the same out at Mom and Dave’s, in Veneta. There’s so much open country around.”
“It’s good that you could move to the city,” Jacopo said.
“Eugene is hardly a city. But it’s not out in BFE, at least.”
Jacopo frowned. “What is a … BFE?” he asked, sounding it out.
“Uh.” Nate rubbed a hand over his face, glad it was dark out. He could feel himself blushing. “It’s actually pretty offensive. I shouldn’t have said it.”
“Nate,” Jacopo said seriously. “Now I have to know.”
Nate’s stomach squirmed, and he took another drink of wine. “It stands for butt-fuck Egypt? I don’t know why. But it just means the middle of nowhere.”
“You have so many slang words,” Jacopo murmured. “I need to make a dictionary.”
Nate poured himself more wine from the bottle on the wall between them. A very American part of him was still flabbergasted by the idea of just casually sitting on something the ancient Romans had built, but he tried to pretend it was no big deal. “Well, you’ll get to move away too,” he said. “You can go wherever you want. Rome. London. Wherever.”
“Yes.”
“Where do you want to go, do you think? Do you have a plan?”
Jacopo grunted, taking a drag off his cigarette. “For many years, I thought we’d never find another relative of the duke. I thought I would be here for my entire life. So I did not bother to think about it.” He stared off into the night. “I don’t know. Maybe London.” He must have noticed Nate’s expression, because he added, “But I can stay a bit longer, after September third. I’ll help you with the paperwork and the accounts and then–and then I’ll begin to make plans. And my family will be able to help you after I leave. My sisters. Gracie is very smart, and Mirabella is good with figures.” Jacopo lit another cigarette. He seemed unwilling to say more.
“Well, I don’t blame you for wanting to get away,” Nate said, picking at a scrap of moss on the wall. He thought of what Gracie had said, and for a second he hated Papà Brunetti, even though he had never really even talked to him, hardly knew him.
“Yes,” Jacopo agreed. “It’s a very small place. Everyone knows each other’s business. And it is BFE.”
Nate laughed. “Stop.” He started to pour himself another glass of wine, before realizing the bottle was nearly empty. “We should open another.”
“We should go in,” Jacopo said. “It’s getting late.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? I know–I know you don’t sleep,” Nate confessed. He heard him moving around at night.
Jacopo looked away.
“I won’t be able to sleep, either.” Nate picked at a scrap of moss on the wall. “Thea gets in tomorrow.”
“Are you worried about her?”
The thought hadn’t crossed his mind. “No. Thea can handle herself. By now she’s probably like five vodka sodas in and has made friends with all the flight attendants. But–” but it was oddly sweet of Jacopo to care.
“It will be nice for you. To have family here. You must have missed her.”
“I did.” Nate chewed a cuticle, a jittery feeling in his stomach. “But it’ll be weird. I mean, you met my family, some of them. We’re weird. And–and she’s so much more fun than me, so I’m sure everyone will like her better than me.”
Jacopo looked at him. “I won’t.”
Nate shoved his shoulder, hoping the darkness hid the flush rising in his cheeks. “You haven’t met her yet.”
He wanted to keep Jacopo talking, but the other man had begun to gather up the wine glasses and the empty bottle, and suddenly Nate was staring down the barrel of another lonely night, lying awake in the narrow twin bed and trying to pretend that Jacopo wasn’t also awake, trying to ignore the way the small room felt steeped in his presence.
“Watch TV with me,” Nate said in a rush. “I have Ghost Hunters. Remember, from Eugene? You liked that show.”
Jacopo pressed his lips together, looking at him.
“Just for a little bit. Please? Keep me company.”
“For a little bit,” Jacopo agreed.
A few episodes later, after about a billion jump scares and some EVP recordings that sounded nothing like a Civil War general saying his wife’s name, despite the insistence of the hosts, Jacopo had migrated from awkwardly perching on a chair at Nate’s bedside to sharing the mattress. Even though they weren’t touching, the weight of him on the bed was comforting.
“Ok, but did you hear the name Abigail?” Nate asked. “Because if I heard anything, it was the tail end of a Burger King commercial.”
“I am not sure how real this show actually is,” Jacopo said, brow furrowed.
“Oh wow, you think?”
Jacopo took a sip of wine. They had opened another bottle after all. “I’ve read about these Civil War battlefields, though. And I do believe that energy can stick around, in places like that.”
“Man, you sound like my mom. So you do believe in ghosts?” Nate snuck a glance at him.
“Oh, yes. I’ve seen one.”
Nate rolled his eyes. “No you haven’t. Where was it?”
“In this very castle.”
“Fuck, Jacopo. No way.” Nate grabbed Jacopo’s arm, his voice ratcheting up an octave. “There’s a ghost? Why wouldn’t you tell me that, where–” But he broke off, because Jacopo was laughing.
God, his smile. His smile was the crescent moon and the stars and the sparkling sea below, and Nate felt himself sway a little.
“You’re joking,” he said, mouth dry.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.”
“You asshole! I was actually scared!” Nate realized he was still holding onto him, and let go reluctantly. “I didn’t know you even made jokes,” he sniffed.
“Sometimes.” Jacopo was still smiling slightly, his eyes bright.
“You keep surprising me,” Nate said, smiling back. “I like it.”
Jacopo’s cheeks turned red, and he looked away. “I really did see one, though. I’m not joking about that. Not in the castle,” he said quickly. “Out on the western side of the island, in the old Roman town.”
Nate watched Jacopo’s face instead of the screen, taking him in. “What did it look like?”
“A person. Or, the shape of a person. But unclear, like the television when a channel can’t come in. What is it called? Static.” Jacopo shrugged. “Perhaps I imagined it. It was during the day, and I was alone. I had gone off to read, and to smoke my father’s cigarettes.” He looked at the laptop, but his eyes were distant, as if he weren’t really watching what was on it. “I’d like to take you there. To the Roman town. When your knee is better.”
“What, so I can see the ghost?” Nate tried to keep his voice light.
“No, so you can see the ruins. It’s a special place. Not many people go there.”
“I’d like that,” Nate said, heart twisting in his chest. “Thank you.”
*
He woke in the gray light of pre-dawn, his face pressed up against Jacopo’s neck and his hand somehow underneath his shirt, glued to his hot skin. The laptop had made its way onto the floor and was still muttering faintly about mysterious apparitions, and any distance between Nate and Jacopo’s bodies had evaporated in the night.
Jacopo’s cock was hard and unmistakable between them. Before his sleepy brain could put on the brakes, Nate was snuggling up to it, his hips wriggling and his hand creeping further up Jacopo’s chest.
Jacopo let out a soft little noise and slid his fingers around Nate’s wrist.
Shit. “I–” Nate fumbled for words, but his head felt full of feathers and heat, his nerves fizzling like sparklers. He didn’t dare pull back to look at Jacopo’s face, to see if he was awake.
“Nate,” Jacopo murmured. His stubble scraped Nate’s cheekbone, sending a cascade of desire through his body.
“I’m sorry,” he said helplessly, mouth dry.
“Nate,” Jacopo repeated. He was nuzzling Nate’s hair, his breath hot, and then his lips were skimming Nate’s forehead, his cheeks, his jaw, everywhere but his mouth. “I can’t.” Their noses grazed, and Jacopo pressed his forehead to Nate’s, eyes squeezed shut as if in pain, his thumb tracing over Nate’s lips.
“It’s okay,” Nate heard himself say. Stupid. Desperate to please, even now. His free hand was knotted in the blankets, squeezing so hard that it hurt.
Jacopo rolled over, pinning him to the mattress, and Nate gasped. “I can’t do this,” Jacopo said, lips hovering millimeters above his.
Nate licked his lips. He had never been this hard, and his pulse was slamming in his head. “It’s fine,” he whispered. “I get it, really–”
And before he could finish the sentence, before he could even breathe, or think, Jacopo’s mouth was on his, and their tongues were melting against each other and everything was friction and fury and fingers undoing belt buckles and Jacopo’s teeth against his bare chest and–
The blare of the alarm on his phone, going off. The morning ferry would be leaving soon, and they needed to go pick up Thea.