Chapter Eleven
ELEVEN
DARIO
In his mess of a morning, Dario forgot to read his grandfather’s letter.
Post chocolate-making lesson and another scrumptious dinner under the stars with his suitors, he sits at the desk in the barn house while Angelo gulps down his own dinner from a noisy, nearby bowl. Dario opens the next envelope in the series.
Caro Tesorino,
Sharing knowledge is an underrated love language.
Every Cotogna has learned the precious art of crafting chocolate, no matter what part of the business they go into. It is a way of linking to our history through our hands.
Take careful note of those who treat the task with interest. Not seriousness. Seriousness can be feigned. Interest cannot. Interest lives in the eyes, the open ears, the posture that says ‘I’m ready to learn.’
If they are willing to learn about Amorina and the storied art of chocolate making, they are willing to learn about you, tesorino.
Have faith that, as in the chocolate tempering process, like crystals link together to create the creamy, rich treat of love, the right ones will flock to you and follow your example.
Has anyone caught your eye? If an interdimensional postal service has been founded since my passing, do write. Sono sulle spine!
His grandfather’s words leap off the page and into the air. He closes his eyes and manifests his nonno’s voice in the room. Missing him hasn’t gotten any easier, but these letters have been such a salve.
To avoid a hearty cry, he pulls a sensible, one-piece men’s swimsuit from his wardrobe and dons a swim cap to keep his hair healthy and free of chemicals. A late-night swim will clear his mind as it always does. And if he sheds a tear or two, his face will be too wet to notice.
As he steps outside, a splash from the pool deck surprises him. Someone else must have had the same idea as him. Minus the crying part. As he gets closer, Charlie’s slim, tattooed frame shows beneath the surface of the water, gliding from one end of the pool to the other in the honeyed light.
Relief caught him by the toe when Charlie accepted his apology during the chocolate lesson.
From his nonno, he learned early that when mistakes are made, apologies must not be withheld.
Damage done to a relationship must be tended to with swiftness, otherwise, the mold of misunderstanding festers until the whole thing must be thrown out with the trash.
He treasures how honest Charlie was with him earlier about high school and that Max fellow. It makes him want to snap off a part of himself like a square of chocolate to share with Charlie.
Charlie holds his breath for a long time, becoming fishlike beneath the soft ripple of the water. Dario submerges slowly. As soon as Charlie comes up for air, he lets out a yelp.
“Scusi. I did not mean to scare you,” Dario says.
Charlie glances from his face to his chest. “Are you wearing a wetsuit?”
“It is a one-piece,” Dario says. Made of black material, the swimsuit has short sleeves and legs that stop above the knee. Around his middle is a white band, and above is a quarter-zipper that he keeps drawn all the way up.
“Once again, I feel severely underdressed,” Charlie says with a nervous-sounding laugh, glancing away. Dario tracks his eyes to the pool deck, where a wet pair of swim trunks lie crumpled in a ball. Is he…
“Naked,” Dario says aloud without thinking. Smooth. Real smooooooth.
Charlie moves to grab them. “Sorry. I didn’t think anyone would be out here this late. I will put them back on—”
“No!”
“No?” Charlie stops, quirking a questioning eyebrow.
Dario huffs out an awkward breath. “I only meant that you should be as dressed or as…undressed as you would like to be.” He attempts to keep his eyes above the water line so as to not seem like some overeager creep.
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Charlie angles away.
Dead puppies. Car crashes. The heat death of the universe.
Dario narrowly avoids popping a boner right there.
“I’m comfortable if you’re comfortable,” Dario says, regaining control of his words and his hormones.
The last thing Charlie needs is an eyeful of Dario’s uncut cock straining against the clinging, black spandex.
“You have a lot of tattoos,” Dario observes, hoping to lead the conversation into safer territory.
Normal territory. Not ‘shouting “Naked!” at his house guest’ territory.
“I do,” Charlie says, smiling with pride and extending his arms.
“How many do you have?” Dario asks after clearing his throat.
“Over the years, I’ve lost count,” Charlie says in a way that almost invites Dario to do the dirty work of searching him head to toe and taking a formal tally.
“What are they of exactly?” Dario asks instead of fantasizing about playing connect the dots along Charlie’s skin with his newly quivering fingers.
“They’re mostly bastardizations of idioms or phrases I find funny,” he says. “I like the interplay of words and illustration.”
There are flames and animals and ghosts parading up and down his body parts. None of which should go together. But on Charlie, somehow, they all tell a twisted, interesting story of an uninhibited mind allowed to run amuck with creativity.
“Which tattoo is your favorite?” Dario asks.
Charlie turns his head a bit to reveal the area right behind his left ear. There at the edge of his buzz cut is a tearful eyeball cartoon. It holds up a hand and in its palm is a lowercase letter i. There’s a bow on top of the dot, as if the letter were a gift.
“Maybe this one?” he says.
“An i for an eye,” says Dario with a low chuckle. It is clever and grotesquely cute at the same time.
“People don’t usually get them,” Charlie says, brushing his hand over the art. Dario imagines what it might be like to run his tongue over the very same spot and how Charlie might react.
“Does that bother you?” Dario asks.
“Not really. They’re not for other people. They amuse me. I think there is this misconception about tattoos that they are meant for the viewer. I could not disagree more. My tattoos are for me, a mode of growing my artistry.”
“These are all your art?” Dario asks.
“Most. Some are collaborations with my local tattoo artist,” Charlie explains. “Every artist has their medium. Some choose canvas or clay, I chose my own skin. Don’t ask me why. I’m no psychiatrist.”
“When do you have time to make your drawings?” Dario asks, desiring a peek behind the curtain of creativity. While his job requires ingenuity and quick thinking, it is not the same as making art. He’s always wished he had a more visual mind.
“I’m bored at work a lot since I do the overnight shift.
I’ve had to become a bit of a night owl because of it.
We’re not supposed to use our phones—the owner has cameras set up after some former coworkers got greasy-fingered—so I play around in my sketchbook,” Charlie says.
“The one you saw back at the factory. All my best ideas come late at night, which is probably why I’m still awake right now. My mind thinks it’s playtime.”
Dario skirts around thoughts of a different sort of playtime with Charlie Moore. “That makes sense.”
“What are you doing up?” Charlie asks.
Dario says, “My routine has been thrown off. I don’t think my body knows what time it is unless we’re eating a meal.”
Charlie nods and waves his hands along the water’s surface, creating small ripples. “D’ya know I’ve never swum in a private pool before?”
“Non esiste! No way. How is that possible?” Dario asks, though he feels like a jerk after doing so. Charlie has already expressed that he doesn’t come from means.
“None of my friends had pools growing up. The only time I got to swim was at the YMCA or at a public pool every now and then, but they get so crowded that there’s no room to really swim.
You just stand there, cool from the waist down, sweating from the waist up,” Charlie says.
He cups his hand and splashes some water across his chest. The beads cling and glisten, sluicing down his torso in tantalizing trails, creating micro magnifying glasses over his ink.
“That sounds…” Dario begins, “different.” He cringes over the word choice, afraid it underlines something he should care less about.
Just because Charlie comes from humble beginnings, and Dario was born into generational wealth, doesn’t mean they are not both human beings who need companionship and care.
“Do you know what else I’ve never done?” Charlie asks. Dario’s mind fills suddenly with filthy fantasies, of first times and fresh experiences. He widens his eyes in lieu of a response, trying to breathe and reroute his traitorous blood flow. “Had a swimming race!”
Dario exhales out a big breath, and hopefully his horniness, too. “Is that so?”
“Back in high school, I always wanted to try out for the swim team, but it involved a lot of traveling and suits and caps that my parents couldn’t afford,” Charlie says in an unguarded way. “There’s a dormant competitive spirit inside of me begging to bust out.”
Something was begging to bust out of Dario as well, and it certainly was not a competitive spirit.
But a race would distract him well enough, so he agrees to it.
They meet in the deep end of the pool where they lay out the rules.
Three laps. First person to slap the tile at the end of the third wins.
“We do not have a judge,” Dario points out.
“We’re adults. I think we can play fair,” Charlie says. “Only I have an advantage.”
“What’s that?” Dario asks.
Charlie gestures to his naked form. “No lag.”
“Right.” Dario wishes Charlie weren’t drawing more attention to the places his eyes have been avoiding.
“You could also shed your suit.”
“I’m good,” Dario says. “Thank you. This is how I’m comfortable.”
Charlie smiles, nods, and doesn’t pry, which Dario appreciates.
After a countdown, they crest through the water like two Olympians. Dario settles into the familiar, rhythmic stroke. He keys into his breathing and does a near-perfect somersault turn in the shallow end to swim back.
The contest churns up memories of childhood and his brother, Emilio, and how much fun they used to have in this pool, back before their father’s death poisoned their relationship.
Back before inheritances pitted them against each other in fiercer ways than any childhood dare ever could.
Winning a chocolate empire was much higher stakes than winning the privilege of naming their pet frog.
On the third lap, they both reach for the edge of the pool at the same time, slamming their hands down under a wave of water that splashes out of the pool and covers their eyes.
“Who won?” Charlie asks.
“I think we tied?” Dario says, jumping on one foot to get water out of his ear.
“Figures,” Charlie says with a laugh.
“Figures, what?” he asks when he can hear right again.
“I was going to suggest that the loser owed the winner a kiss,” Charlie says, scraping his upper teeth along his bottom lip. “If you still enjoy me…”
Dario fights to catch his breath. “Wouldn’t that mean we’d both won?”
Charlie moves closer; their toes touch. “Would it?”
Boldness is an arm to Dario’s back, pushing him toward the tattooed American with the alluring pink lips. “Let’s find out,” he says.
They kiss, and it’s like their hearts are now in a race to see which can beat faster. Charlie’s lips are so soft that the slight taste of chlorine doesn’t bother Dario one bit. It’s the kind of kiss he could never come up for air from. He’d happily drown inside this moment.
Their tongues twist together as Dario gasps against Charlie’s mouth. There is no hiding his erection now as it strains up against Charlie’s inner thigh in search of another’s touch.
Someone else clears their throat from closer to the house. “Do you two mind? Some of us are trying to sleep!” It is unmistakably Selina’s feminine register, and it sends them sailing away from one another.
“Scusa,” Dario calls back.
“Don’t wear your lips out, Dario,” Selina chides, rolling the r in Dario. He flushes hot to know she saw that steamy, legato make-out. “Save some for me tomorrow.”
The door to the house clicks closed behind a satisfied Selina.
He sighs with relief. But then…
Out of the corner of his eye, he spots an orange speck against an otherwise dark yard. “Is someone over there?” Dario calls.
Beau steps into the light, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. He wears pajama bottoms and no shirt. Charlie must become freshly aware of his own nakedness, because he cups his hands in front of his cock.
“My bad, guys. I came out to smoke before bed and wanted to give y’all some privacy, so I went over there. I promise I didn’t see anything!” he says.
“Va bene,” Dario reassures him. “We got…a little carried away.” He is embarrassed now. Nowhere in his grandfather’s letters did he set parameters for what sort of physical connections he should be exploring with his houseguests. Has he crossed an unjust line?
“You do you. I’m off to hit the hay.” Beau stubs out his cigarette on the arm of a nearby chair before slouching inside.
Dario turns back to Charlie to discover the moment they were sharing has fractured.
“I should get to bed, too.” Charlie is already halfway out of the pool. The pale, fuzz-dusted orbs of Charlie’s cheeks are round and bitable in the moonlight as he ascends the ladder. Dario’s teeth aren’t the only thing he could sink into that gorgeous ass.
“Don’t want to go for best two out of three?” Dario asks, half joking. Half wishing they could go back to before when they were making out and a chorus of angels was harmonizing in his head.
Charlie chuckles. “Another night, Candy Man.”
Candy Man. Dario has never had a pet name before. It sends shivers down his spine and he’s not even the one that’s naked against the night air.
“Va bene,” Dario says. “Buona notte.”
“Buo-no…uh, what you said.” Charlie leaves him with a smile and a still-stirring erection.