Thirty-Three Noah
thirty-three
Noah
They headed east through the old town, following the boardwalk before cutting north a bit. They passed little convenience stores and cafés, shops and restaurants, and even a store selling nothing but typewriters.
Sometimes, as they walked, their hands would brush, and Noah would ache with the desire to link them together, but what Ramin had said about safety made sense. He’d never thought much about that before. He was going to learn, but until he did, he was going to let Ramin take the lead.
He also let Ramin take the lead on finding them lunch, following him to a small piazza—Piazza di Fossatello—lined with dark gray stones and full of metal tables clustered beneath large umbrellas. The smell of hot bread and olive oil filled the square.
Noah’s mouth watered.
“Uh-oh.” Ramin pointed to the bakery. The line was out the door and down the block.
“It smells amazing, though,” Noah said. “I’m good to wait if you are.”
The line moved quickly—thank goodness for small blessings—and it was absolutely worth the wait. The golden slabs of focaccia were crisp on the outside but soft and toothsome on the inside. They were practically oozing olive oil, salty and spicy and fruity.
Noah couldn’t help it. He moaned. “This is so good.”
Ramin sighed. “It really is.”
Noah polished off both his slices way too quickly, but good gravy, they were delicious. Ramin took longer, picking at his single slice, as they basked in the crowds, in the flow of life around them.
It was a slower life, like Maria had said. No one was in a hurry. They could take their time, enjoy their focaccia. Ramin leaned over and thumbed a crumb away from the corner of Noah’s mouth. Noah took that as encouragement, leaned in and gave Ramin a quick kiss on the lips.
Ramin smiled at him, eyes twinkling.
Noah could get used to this.
This life—long walks, leisurely lunches, fresh baked bread dripping with oil and coated in flake salt—but this man, too.
Sitting next to Ramin felt as natural as breathing. Maybe it was some distant sense memory of being desk neighbors back in school. Maybe it was pheromones, Ramin’s intoxicating scent gripping Noah’s senses in a vise. Maybe it was the magic of Italy.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was something simpler.
Something exhilarating and frightening, something totally impossible yet utterly inevitable.
“What?” Ramin asked.
“Nothing.” Noah reached across the table for Ramin’s hand. Ramin let him rub it. “Being with you makes me happy.”
Ramin shook his head, blushing hard.
“It makes me happy too.”
They visited the Doge’s Palace, and the Cathedral of San Lorenzo, and the fountain in the Piazza de Ferrari, its water sparkling in the sun, trying to rival Ramin’s earrings. Noah and Ramin stuck to the porticos for some shade.
They lost themselves in the little side streets and alleyways of the city center. They found an old medieval gate, a bronze statue of Elvis on a bench, a gelateria—of course, they stopped in for some.
“There’s one other thing they recommended at the hotel,” Ramin said. “It’s a bit of a walk, though.”
“What is it?”
“The Lanterna, the big lighthouse?”
“I’m game if you are.”
Noah was game, but it turned out Ramin’s definition of “a bit of a walk” was different than Noah’s.
He was properly sweating by the time they reached the wooden path up to the Lanterna.
His underarms were wet, and he was terrified the ballpoint ink on his forearm would stain his shirt.
Or worse, transfer right through, and then everyone would see his notes about blowjobs.
His singlet wasn’t particularly breathable, either. It had been made for looks, not for moisture wicking, so now his sweat was mixing with the remnants of Ramin’s saliva, and he just felt sticky and gross.
Ramin was sweating, too, the exertion making his skin glow a rosy tan-pink. Noah could smell the sun on his skin, and it was getting harder and harder not to drag him into a dark corner and lick him all over.
To his surprise—and utter delight—Ramin had reached over and taken his hand partway through the walk. Noah wasn’t sure what had his heart hammering more: the uphill climb or the feel of Ramin’s hand in his.
They drew closer and closer, the white and red tower growing ever larger, jutting out over the harbor.
The path wound higher, past a security booth, switching back a few times, up a cobbled path and onto the promontory.
It took them through a small (unimpressive, if Noah was being honest) park, a little museum about the history of the Lanterna (more impressive, and Noah was entranced by a display of how Fresnel lenses worked—Jake would’ve loved it), then up to the huge ivory-colored lighthouse itself.
Noah craned his neck to look up, up, up toward the top, where the little viewing deck that was their goal lay.
“There’re a lot of stairs,” Ramin warned.
“I’m good.”
Noah thought he was good, but there were a lot a lot of stairs. One hundred and seventy-two, the sign said.
Their day had been pretty easy so far—no Death March of Fun—but these stairs might give Angela’s travel planning a run for its money.
Noah was in good shape. Great shape, even.
He was at the top of his age bracket in his CrossFit classes.
He could still run an under-seven-minute mile.
He could bench press nearly a hundred pounds.
But these stairs might actually be the death of him.
His right knee gave an awkward crackle as they passed another cramped landing.
“Oof,” Noah muttered, more from surprise than discomfort.
“You okay?” Ramin paused, concern written across his face.
“I’m fine. Don’t you have any spots that just snap-crackle-pop these days? Once I hit thirty-seven I started finding them everywhere.” He sighed, rubbing at his knee. “I can squat four hundred pounds, but apparently I can’t handle a hundred stairs.”
“Wait, really?”
“I mean, yeah.” His personal best was 450, but that had been back in his late twenties.
“No wonder you have such a nice butt.”
“Not as nice as yours.” The one redeeming part of this climb had been the view of Ramin’s behind in those pink shorts of his.
Noah was obsessed.
He wanted to knead it. Kiss it. Worship it. Celebrate Ramin’s whole body the way he deserved. He wanted Ramin to feel precious and beautiful and wanted, because he was all of those things, and Noah needed him to know it.
Ramin was blushing, but he cracked a grin. “My eyes are up here, buddy.”
Noah giggled—which made Ramin laugh—and followed.
He’d read once that the more positive you were about aging, the better you aged, and Noah had taken that to heart. In fact, he was looking forward to being an eccentric grandfather (or even great-grandfather), like a cross between Nonno and a mad scientist.
Still, the last couple years, he’d definitely felt his body changing.
He spent more time with sore muscles after a heavy lifting day.
The younger members at his gym had started finishing their WODs before him, when he used to be one of the first ones done.
Before he’d gotten on the plane to Italy, he’d even plucked a gray eyebrow hair.
But he was wiser now, too. More content.
He had a life. He had Jake.
He had—or at least hoped he had—Ramin.
“Nearly there,” Ramin panted. Noah took no satisfaction that Ramin was finally out of breath, too.
The air had gotten progressively warmer as they neared the top. Blinding sunlight streamed in ahead. A breeze stirred, twisting the ends of Noah’s hair, cooling the sweat on his forehead and the back of his neck.
A few more steps, one last corner, and they stepped out onto the terrace.
“Oh,” Ramin said, so softly it was nearly lost to the wind. He was already moving to the rail, staring south across the docks and out to the endless curve of the blue, blue sea.
Noah shook his legs out before stepping up next to him. From up here they could see the city to their left, climbing up into the mountains, and to their right, the hazy horizon. The clouds had blown away, leaving the sky a brilliant azure canvas that Noah could nearly reach out and touch.
None of that compared to Ramin, though.
His face—his beautiful, awesome face—was totally open as he stared at the water. His pupils had contracted in the sunlight, revealing a broad expanse of green. His cheeks had gone slack, erasing his dimples. He was totally relaxed, lost in the view. The studs in his ears sparkled in the sunlight.
He was perfection.
He was everything Noah had ever wanted.
Noah’s heart squeezed, so suddenly he worried he’d overdone it on the stairs. Despite the climb, his limbs felt light, so light he could float away into the sky, fly like the butterflies fluttering a storm in his stomach.
He stepped behind Ramin, wrapped his arms around him from behind. Rested his chin on Ramin’s shoulder and took in the Ligurian Sea below them, because if he kept looking at Ramin, he was going to say something foolish. Embarrassing. Terrifying.
True.
“It’s perfect,” he said instead. “I love it.”
He couldn’t say the other thing growing inside him.
Ramin sighed and relaxed back against him. His voice was low, reverent, half a prayer.
“My mom grew up in the north of Iran. This city called Rasht. Which is funny, because my dad is from Yazd, and Yazdis are always making fun of Rashtis.”
Noah’s Iranian geography was terrible, but he hummed so Ramin would know he was listening. He could look at a map later.
“That doesn’t matter. Anyway. Rasht is close to the Caspian Sea.
My mom grew up visiting the seaside in summers.
But when she moved to the States, she ended up in Kansas City.
She always said she missed the sea. And my dad always said, ‘We’ll go next year.
’ But they never did. I didn’t see the ocean myself until after college. ”
Noah squeezed Ramin tighter. He knew Ramin was strong, knew he didn’t need Noah’s support—but Noah wanted to give it anyway.
“It makes me think of her, you know?”
“I get it,” Noah murmured against Ramin’s neck. Life had taken so much from Ramin. But he could still look out at the sea and find beauty. Find connection. Find love.
It would’ve broken Noah’s heart if it didn’t bolster it instead.
Ramin sighed. “It’s like every time I see the ocean, a little bit of her gets to see it, too. I’m living her dreams for her.”
Who said things like that? Who thought things like that? Ramin did.
Noah kept his arms tight and swayed a little. Ramin swayed along with him.
Noah had encountered a few perfect moments in his life. Like the day he married Angela, no matter what had come after. Or the day Jake was born.
But this—holding Ramin, with the sea below, and the sun above, and the wind in their hair—this was perfect, too.
He never wanted to let go.