11.
Laid out on the sand, his fingers greasy from a spicy tripe and mystery meat sandwich that Gracie swore by as a hangover cure, Nate learned about the girls’ exploits the night before. From what he could piece together as Gracie and Thea talked over each other, they had gotten kicked out of the club after Thea had thrown a beer can at a guy for grabbing her ass, sheltered in a McDonald’s until sunup, and then gotten a ride home from a friendly fisherman who saw them wandering along the waterfront. Which explained why they had been home early. And why Thea’s hair smelled like chicken nuggets and saltwater and why she was filled with feminist rage.
“Like it’s my fucking fault that somebody grabbed my ass. I ask you.”
“It’s not fair,” Gracie agreed. “But at least you have a date!”
“A date?” Nate looked up from doodling on the brown paper bag the sandwiches had come in. “Not with ass-grabbing guy?”
“No, no, with boat guy. He’s gonna take me out to see the sunset.”
“Oh, so he was a friendly, hot fisherman.”
“So hot, Nate. I didn’t know you could get muscles like that just from, like, pulling up nets all day.” Thea mimed fanning herself.
“Well, just be careful,” Nate said, sounding exactly like Dave.
“Don’t worry. I’ll kick him off the boat if he tries anything I don’t want him to.” She ran a hand through her hair and readjusted one of the precarious triangles of her bikini top. “So, how was your night? Anything exciting happen?”
Nate cast a sidelong glance at Gracie, who was scrolling through her phone. He tried to ignore the blood rushing to his face as he said, “Nope. Just–watched TV. Washed my hair.”
“Have you seen Jacopo?” Gracie asked. “I think he was feeling very sick yesterday. And the vespa was there this morning, but no lights were on in the cottage.”
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Nate said.
“I tried texting him.” Gracie frowned down at her phone. “I hope he will join us. It was nice to see him get out and have fun. But, knowing him, he’s probably embarrassed now and he’s going to–oh! There he is!” She stood, waving her hands.
Heat bloomed in Nate’s body as he looked over his shoulder. Jacopo had parked the vespa in the little gravel lot at the edge of the sand, and was walking down to them, wearing a white button-up and a faded pair of swim trunks. There was something endlessly endearing about his long, skinny legs, much paler than his arms and face.
Nate swallowed and looked away, focusing aggressively on the shading on a pair of palm trees.
“You’re drawing,” Jacopo said, sitting down next to him.
“Isn’t he good?” Thea asked, sitting up. “He drew his tattoos, too.”
“I know,” Jacopo told her.
“Oh really.” Thea looked at Nate, then back at Jacopo, a grin spreading across her face. “Have you seen all of them?”
“Thea–” Nate sputtered.
She tossed her hair and stood up. “Gracie, let’s go swimming. I bet the boys have a lot to talk about.”
“She’s right,” Jacopo said, once their sisters had wandered off to the edge of the waves. “You are very good at drawing. You should do it more.”
“Yeah, I–I brought my sketchbook. I guess I just felt stupid about it, or whatever.” Nate’s stomach churned, the spicy sandwich from before not sitting well. Somehow, it was scarier to talk to Jacopo about his artwork than it was to be in bed with him. “Anyway, it sounds like the girls had an adventure.” He caught Jacopo up on what had happened, watching Thea and Gracie bob around in the water like seals, their hair slicked to their heads and shining in the sun.
“So you’re free tonight.” Jacopo’s hand was on his back, his thumb rubbing proprietary circles on the scrap of bare skin between Nate’s t-shirt and the waistband of his shorts.
“Yeah, at least while she’s on her date.” Nate wanted to melt into him, but he stayed where he was. “Do you want to try out the bathtub? I think it’s big enough for two. Ooh, or the sitting room? I’ve always wanted to get railed in front of a roaring fire.”
Jacopo’s hand froze, his face turning red. “Cazzo, Nate, you are make me crazy.”
Nate smiled up at him. “Your English gets worse when you’re flustered,” he said.
“I’m–”
“It’s cute.” Nate nudged Jacopo’s foot with his own. “Don’t worry.”
Jacopo sighed, muttering something in Italian. “I want to take you to the Roman town,” he said. “I told you I would. And it’s a good place for art, you’ll see.”
*
The afternoon light had turned the hillsides a deep, brick red and the air was heady with the smell of eucalyptus as they headed out of town, the farmhouses growing sparser and sparser until there was nothing but dry grass and clusters of trees, the occasional goat standing sentry, a splash of white against the landscape. Nate’s arms were locked around Jacopo’s middle, his cheek pressed up against his back, and it seemed like he could stay here forever, absorbing the heat from Jacopo’s body and breathing him in as the road wound away beneath them and the Mediterranean stretched out to the horizon, calm and luminous as stained glass.
Jacopo took them past the ruins of the amphitheater at the island’s southern tip. The sun lingered at the bottom of the arena like butter in a bowl, the columns casting long shadows across the road. Nate felt a little flutter in his stomach, thinking about all the people who had sat in those stands, all the passion and fear and violence in such a beautiful place, and he squeezed Jacopo tighter. They were turning off the main ring road that circled the island, and the foliage was denser here, the land changing from rolling fields to scrub brush and tangled stands of oak and olive trees.
It was quiet here, and though the sun had not yet begun to set, the trees had created their own greenish twilight, specks of dust dancing through the air. Soon the path became too overgrown for the vespa, and Jacopo parked, leaning it up against a tree.
“We’ll have to walk from here,” he said, pausing to light a cigarette, the flame shining bright in the gloom.
Nate checked his phone. No new texts from Thea besides the selfie she had sent with what was a very young and admittedly very hot–and hopefully also very respectful–fisherman. “How did you even find this place?” he asked.
“Everyone knows about it,” Jacopo said, taking his hand. The smell of tobacco mixed with the pungent scent of the eucalyptus was making Nate feel almost giddy, and his heart pounded as Jacopo pulled him deeper into the trees. “Very few people know quite where it is, or bother to come out here. But my uncle told me that he had stumbled upon it while looking for mushrooms, so I wanted to find it myself.”
“Do you think we’ll see the ghost?”
“I don’t know. But there’s something special that I want to show you.”
The ground was sandy volcanic soil, the same iron-rich earth that made up the hillsides, but Nate began to notice signs that a road had been here once; stone cobbles protruding from the dirt, their surfaces worn by footsteps and time. The isolated patches eventually joined together to make a street, and Nate saw the remnants of buildings jutting out amongst the trees, the right-angles of human construction undeniable even under layers of lichen and vines. A crumbling set of stairs led down into what had been the village square, tiles in the earth still retaining a whisper of the designs that had been painted there. At the center of the square, a well, overgrown with moss but still, he saw when he peered down into it, half-full of dark, iron-smelling water.
“It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” Jacopo asked, at his shoulder. “Whatever system of pipes they had, to bring water up from the aquifer. It still works.”
Nate ran his hand over a carving on one of the decorative columns flanking the well. A serpent, or some other fierce creature. “God,” he breathed. “I can see why you kept this to yourself.” Feeling a little shy, he looked up into Jacopo’s face. His eyes were fathomless in the fading light, and there were little specks of copper in them that Nate hadn’t noticed before. “Do you want to make a wish?” There were a few euros in his pocket, and he pulled one out, offering it to Jacopo, but he waved it away.
“No, you should do it.”
So Nate flipped the coin over the edge, watching it flash once, a gold disc in the darkness, before vanishing out of sight to plink softly somewhere at the bottom. The wish that he wanted to make would just be stupid, so he revised it, tried to think up something vague enough that fate couldn’t twist around. I wish to be happy. I wish to figure things out. He squeezed Jacopo’s hand.
“There’s more to see,” Jacopo said. “Come with me.”
At the edge of the town were the remains of a villa, its portico still standing. Traces of paint clung to the columns, and Nate wondered aloud about what pigments they had used. Rust red, robin’s egg blue. Beyond the entrance lay an open-air garden, its fountains cluttered with vines, and the remains of a vast complex of rooms. Even centuries after its prime, there was an air of luxury to the place, and Nate imagined what it would have been like to live here, to walk over the sun-warmed tiles in sandaled feet, to drink wine in the shade of fig trees and palms.
“This is what I wanted to show you,” Jacopo said, leading him into one of the rooms that opened off the garden. Its roof had fallen in long ago, but the walls were still standing. There was a fresco painted on them, immaculately detailed and still clear: revelers at a feast.
“Oh my God,” Nate whispered, careful not to breathe on it. “This could have been painted yesterday. The colors are so bright.”
“I thought you would like it.”
“I love it. People would pay to see this, Jacopo. If I open the castle up to tourists…” he trailed off. It made him a little sad to think of thousands of camera flashes, damaging the paint. Of thousands of other wishes in the well.
“It won’t be the same with many people here,” Jacopo said, as if reading his mind.
“No. Let’s enjoy it while we have it to ourselves.” He sat down, bracing himself against one of the unpainted walls. His knee was still a little stiff, and the walk up the hill hadn’t made it any better.
Jacopo made a concerned noise. “Are you alright? I didn’t think–”
“It’s fine. I probably shouldn’t have been on top so much last night, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Jacopo smiled, a little sheepishly. “We’ll have to–how do you call it? Find a better position.”
He sat too, and pulled a couple of Ichnusa beers and a packet of tomato-flavored chips out of his messenger bag, along with Nate’s sketchbook, which Nate had agreed to bring but hadn’t really intended to use. “Did you want this?”
Suddenly self-conscious, Nate reached for a beer. “I mean, what are you going to do if I’m drawing?”
“I don’t mind to sit here.”
“It feels weird.” Reluctantly, Nate picked up the book. Its paperboard cover still bore dust, all the way from Eugene. “Will you talk to me?”
“What should I talk about?”
“Tell me about yourself.”
Jacopo made a dismissive gesture. “I am not interesting.”
Nate rolled his eyes, flipping to an empty page. “Fine. Tell me another story about the family of Carmosino, then. Are there any other juicy scandals besides Sebastiano and Augusto?”
“Oh.” Jacopo looked at him, eyes lighting up. “Dozens.”
Nate sketched while Jacopo told him about murders and illegitimate children and affairs, about Lady Lucilla, who had hidden herself in a wine barrel and been smuggled out of the castle so she could run away with her pirate lover; about Duke Francesco, who had kept a zebra as a pet and based all of his military strategy on advice from his personal astrologer. It was hard to get back into it at first, his fingers relearning how to translate what he saw onto shapes on the page, and Nate discarded a couple of attempts at copying the fresco before focusing on another subject: Jacopo, his profile strong and classically handsome, his dark hair swept back from his forehead, his hands animated as he talked. He looked good here, the lines of his body long and loose, the tension in his shoulders gone.
“Can you keep your head at that angle?”
Jacopo glanced at him, frowning. “You’re not drawing me, are you?”
“Yeah. I’m drawing you like one of my Italian boys.”
“What?”
“Sorry. I don’t–I mean, you’re my only Italian boy.” Nate felt heat creeping up his neck. He was just digging this hole deeper. “There aren’t other ones. In my sketchbook, or anywhere. It’s a joke. From Titanic? You know what? Forget it, I’ll draw something else.”
“Oh, the Titanic,” Jacopo said seriously. “That movie made me cry for hours.”
“I–” Nate swallowed, and went back to scribbling. Sometimes it seemed like Jacopo was too sweet for this world, and he didn’t know what to do about it.
“Well, can I see?” Jacopo scooted over to Nate, hooking his chin over his shoulder. His arm slipped around Nate’s waist, and Nate leaned back, seeking his warmth despite the closeness of the afternoon. “It’s nice.” Jacopo pressed a kiss to his temple. “Flattering. You’ve been very polite about my nose.”
“I like your nose.”
“I like watching you draw.” Jacopo’s breath caressed his neck, and sparks danced down Nate’s spine. “It’s something I can’t do, so I find it very impressive. And also a little bit sexy.”
“Oh. Well in that case.” He turned, cupping Jacopo’s chin, bringing their lips together.
The kiss melted into something long and luxurious, and the sketchbook slid out of Nate’s lap as Jacopo leaned over him, pressing him back onto the cracked floor of the villa, the tiles warm from the sun. The smell of moss and leaves was everywhere, the afternoon lush and green, and crickets were beginning to chirp as the sun went down. They kissed for a long time, lazy and unhurried, learning how to fit together.
“Have you done this before?” Nate asked against Jacopo’s ear.
“Done what?”
“Just kissing. Making out, like this.” He kissed Jacopo’s earlobe, then sucked it between his teeth, and felt a shudder go through Jacopo’s body in response.
“I haven’t. Like I said, I haven’t really done much. Just–things with my hands. And once with my mouth. But I don’t think I was very good at it.”
Nate nuzzled his nose along Jacopo’s cheek. “I could help you practice.”
Jacopo groaned, and kissed him again, hard, his hand cupping Nate’s cheek. Then his mouth was traveling down Nate’s neck, and across his chest, and Nate’s breath caught in his throat as Jacopo took his time with him, painstakingly undoing the buttons on his shirt one by one. He was kissing Nate’s lower belly, his hip, teeth scraping across the crappy little zodiac sign tattoo that Nate had gotten when he’d turned eighteen, and he was planting kisses along the fly of Nate’s shorts, and Nate let his head fall back and his fingers stroke lazy circles on Jacopo’s scalp, soft sounds of encouragement falling from his lips.
He wondered if they were the first men to do this, under the watchful eyes of the fresco, or if long ago, some Roman general had been laid out here with one of his soldiers, and for a moment it seemed like time could shift and the walls around them would be intact again, the fountain bubbling in the garden outside. Jacopo was sucking him slowly and with care, pausing every now and then to look up at Nate with something like reverence, and the pleasure building in his balls, his thighs, the base of his spine, was so sweet and gradual that it took him by surprise when he finally came, gasping out Jacopo’s name, his face upturned toward the sky.