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Chapter Text

Florence, late autumn. The city wore its usual contradictions: pale Renaissance stone drenched in golden light, students hurrying beneath porticoes with espresso cups in hand, bicycles rattling over cobblestones. Professors too young to be quite dignified and too old to be truly reckless carried leather satchels through the university’s cloisters, while the bells of Santa Croce chimed the hour with ancient indifference.

Aldo Maria Bellini, professor of political history, sat in his office with his reading glasses perched low and a piece of mail in his hand that soured the coffee on his tongue.

Another letter from his landlord. Another increase.

He leaned back in his chair with a weary sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. The rent had already been high; Florence, beautiful Florence, had long since learned to price herself like a jewel. Inflation was the unkind guest who never left. Alone, Aldo could not shoulder the rising costs without sacrificing either dignity or sanity. The flat he had kept all these years—the one with the narrow balcony overlooking a street where children played calcio at dusk—was about to slip beyond his grasp.

And so, for the first time since his student years, Aldo Bellini found himself uttering words that felt almost scandalous:

"I may need a flatmate."

Raymond O’Malley listened patiently, as he always did, over a quiet coffee in the university courtyard. His presence, tall and steady, was a comfort. Where Aldo’s voice dipped into resignation, Raymond’s carried a warmth that refused to let despair take root.

“You’ve carried that flat alone for decades, Aldo,” Raymond said, stirring his cappuccino. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Times are hard for everyone.”

Aldo gave him a dry smile. “Yes, but not everyone is a sixty-four-year-old professor who has grown accustomed to silence.”

“You don’t need silence. You need relief.” Raymond’s pale blue eyes crinkled with kindness. “Let me help. I know people. Younger colleagues, fellows—someone decent, steady. You deserve someone who won’t make your life more difficult.”

Aldo arched a brow. “Raymond, I would rather not invite chaos into my living room.”

“Not chaos,” Raymond said with quiet certainty. “A friend.”

And when Raymond O’Malley promised help, help had a way of arriving—whether one asked for it or not.

That evening, at home, Raymond relayed the story to his husband.

Giulio Sabbadin did not so much listen as stalk about the kitchen, opening cupboards with the impatience of a man who believed pasta should already be boiling. His dark brows furrowed, his expression one part irritation, one part interest.

“So,” Giulio said, uncorking a bottle of wine with unnecessary force, “Bellini is finally caving to reality.”

“Be kind, Giulio,” Raymond murmured, though his lips betrayed a smile.

Giulio poured the wine, gesturing sharply with the bottle. “He should have done this years ago. That flat of his is too much for one man. He needs someone who won’t let him wither into solitude.”

“And you have someone in mind, don’t you?” Raymond asked, amused.

Giulio’s smirk was thin, sharp. “As it happens, yes. There is a man—old colleague, friend. He’s just been transferred from Venice to a new teaching post here in Florence. Brilliant, insufferable, loud as thunder but loyal as the saints. He needs a place.”

Raymond tilted his head. “Name?”

“Goffredo Tedesco,” Giulio declared, savoring the sound. “And before you frown, sì, he is… a storm. But storms clear the air. He will keep Bellini sharp. Better sharp than lonely.”

Raymond chuckled softly. “Or better sharp than strangling each other in the kitchen after three weeks?”

Giulio’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, they will clash. Of course. But tell me, amore, wouldn’t you rather see Aldo sparring with a Venetian tempest than sighing into an empty flat? Trust me. It will work.”

Raymond raised his glass. He had long ago learned not to argue with Giulio when his tone suggested fate had already been decided.

“To Goffredo Tedesco,” he said, half-resigned.

Giulio clinked his glass with a victorious smirk. “To Aldo Bellini’s new flatmate.”

The next day, Raymond brought the proposal to Aldo with the same careful tone one used to introduce a wounded bird to the idea of flight.

“Aldo,” he said in the corridor, “I may have found someone.”

Aldo, carrying a stack of essays, narrowed his eyes. “Already? Raymond, I asked you yesterday.”

Raymond only smiled. “Efficiency is not a crime. His name is Goffredo Tedesco. He’s being transferred to Florence to teach ecclesiastical history. Needs housing immediately. Giulio knows him well. Speaks highly of him.”

“Giulio speaks highly of no one,” Aldo muttered.

“Exactly,” Raymond said, lips twitching. “Which is why you should consider it.”

Aldo sighed. The essays in his arms felt lighter than the decision pressing on his shoulders. “Tedesco,” he repeated, as though tasting the name.

Raymond placed a reassuring hand on his friend’s arm. “At least meet him. No commitment yet. Think of it as… an interview.”

An interview. As if one could possibly interview fate.

The first time Aldo met Goffredo Tedesco was in the staff lounge later that week.

He heard him before he saw him: a deep, gravelly voice rolling through the room, laughter that shook the walls, a cloud of peach-scented vapor curling in the air. Goffredo stood broad-shouldered, silver-streaked, gesturing wildly with one hand while holding a battered book in the other. His presence was thunderous—impossible to ignore.

When their eyes met across the room, Aldo felt something shift.

Goffredo’s gaze was sharp, amused, assessing. He smiled—wide, daring.

“You must be Bellini,” Goffredo said, striding over without hesitation. His handshake was firm, his grin irreverent. “So. Word is you need a flatmate. Lucky for you, I need a flat.”

Aldo blinked, caught between indignation and reluctant fascination. “This is hardly a negotiation yet, Professor Tedesco.”

“Oh, it will be,” Goffredo said, smirk widening. “You make the rules. I break them. Balance.”

Raymond, watching from the corner, tried not to laugh. Giulio, had he been present, would have lit a cigarette in smug satisfaction.

The flatmate agreement had not yet been written, but its failure was already inevitable.

That night, Aldo returned to his too-expensive flat. The letter from the landlord still sat on the table, but his eyes kept drifting to the scrap of paper where he’d scribbled a name during their meeting:

Goffredo Tedesco.

A storm on the horizon. A choice pressed into his hands by fate—and by meddlesome friends who always seemed to know too much.

Aldo set the kettle on the stove, poured himself tea, and stared out at the Florentine night. Somewhere in the distance, bells tolled softly. He thought, absurdly, of balcony plants and stolen sweaters—things he had never wanted, yet might soon have.

And for the first time in years, Aldo wondered if home might change shape again.

A few days later, the University of Florence assembled its faculty in the grand Aula Magna. It was one of those ceremonies meant to be practical but dressed in grandeur: polished wood, high windows that let in too much Tuscan sun, the president of the university at the lectern extolling “new beginnings” with all the enthusiasm of someone who had given the same speech every year for twenty years.

At the end, with his usual sweeping charm, the president spread his arms.

“And now, colleagues, we are pleased to welcome Professor Goffredo Tedesco to our faculty. He will be joining us in ecclesiastical history. Professor Tedesco is no stranger to Italian academia, but as he is newly arrived in Florence, perhaps one of you would be so kind as to show him around our university—its halls, libraries, courtyards—so he may settle in quickly.”

There was a pause, a murmur of shifting chairs. No one volunteered at once. Professors were busy, reluctant to add unpaid labor to their schedules.

And then Giulio Sabbadin’s voice rang out, dry and sharp as a blade:

“Bellini will do it.”

Heads turned. Aldo, who had been pretending to read his notes, froze.

“Excuse me?” he said, voice clipped.

Giulio arched a brow, entirely unrepentant. “You know the place better than anyone, Aldo. And you are a gracious colleague, no?”

Raymond, seated beside his husband, tried and failed to suppress a smile.

Aldo inhaled through his nose. “If the president wishes it…”

The president, delighted to have a volunteer, clapped his hands. “Splendid. Professor Bellini, you will accompany Professor Tedesco after our session.”

And Goffredo—seated three rows back, broad-shouldered, arms crossed, grinning like the cat that had just been offered cream—leaned forward enough to catch Aldo’s eye.

“Looking forward to it, bello ,” he said under his breath.

Aldo’s ears went warm. He muttered, “Rule number two will need to be written sooner than I thought.”

The tour began at the cloisters, sunlight slicing between stone columns. Students lounged in the grass, the murmur of Latin recitations mixing with the hum of scooters beyond the walls.

Aldo walked with deliberate precision, his hands clasped behind his back, posture impeccable. He pointed out lecture halls, seminar rooms, the archives.

“This is the main library,” he said, tone crisp. “Do not be fooled by its beauty. The cataloging system was last updated sometime in the seventies, and the archivist guards manuscripts like family heirlooms.”

Goffredo, beside him, did not take notes. He strolled with infuriating ease, occasionally blowing a curl of peach-scented vapor into the sun. His gaze lingered less on the stone and more on Aldo himself.

“You walk these halls like you own them,” Goffredo remarked.

“I respect them,” Aldo corrected.

“Mm. Same thing, in your case.”

Aldo shot him a look. “Do you intend to mock me the entire tour?”

“Mock? No. Admire, perhaps.” Goffredo’s grin widened at Aldo’s exasperated huff.

They passed through the faculty garden, where lemon trees lined the path. Goffredo paused, plucked a leaf, rolled it between his fingers.

“Venice is all water and salt,” he said, almost softer. “But Florence—Florence has roots. I could get used to this.”

Aldo studied him, unsettled by the sudden sincerity. “You should focus on your new post first.”

“Perhaps. But every storm needs an anchor, Bellini.”

Aldo decided not to answer that.

At last, the tour ended in the north wing, where new faculty offices had been prepared. Aldo opened the heavy wooden door with a key borrowed from administration.

“Here,” he said, stepping aside. “Your office.”

The room was simple but dignified: a high ceiling, tall shelves waiting for books, a desk angled toward the window that overlooked terracotta rooftops. Dust motes swirled in the light.

Goffredo walked in, placed his hands on the desk, and exhaled slowly, as if claiming the space already. He turned, leaned back against the desk with casual command, and regarded Aldo.

“Not bad,” he said. “But the view could use improvement.”

“The view is of the Duomo,” Aldo said dryly.

“Exactly. Still not as interesting as you.”

Aldo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Rule number two. No flirting. It will be written. It will be enforced.”

Goffredo laughed, deep and gravelly, echoing off the shelves. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to see how long that lasts.”

Aldo set the key on the desk with deliberate care. “Welcome to Florence, Professor Tedesco.”

“Grazie, bello. I have a feeling this is going to be… entertaining.”

And Aldo, though he would never admit it, had the same sinking feeling.

“Bellini,” Goffredo’s voice rumbled from behind him before he could step into the hall.

Aldo turned back, brows arched. “Yes?”

Goffredo pushed himself off the desk, crossing the room with deliberate ease, beard catching the last shaft of sunlight from the window. His grin was infuriatingly wide, infuriatingly certain.

“Do you have time for a coffee?” he asked, casual as if they were old friends already. “There’s a bar on the corner near Piazza San Marco. Decent espresso, terrible cornetti. I’ll buy.”

Aldo hesitated. He had papers to grade, errands to run, every excuse at the ready—yet none seemed to leave his mouth.

“Coffee,” he repeated, careful.

“Coffee,” Goffredo echoed. “It won’t kill you. Besides…” His gaze lingered, warm brown eyes gleaming with that storm-borne mischief. “I’d like to ask if you’re still interested in a flatmate.”

Aldo felt the words hit like a stone dropped into still water.

So. That was how quickly Giulio’s meddling bore fruit. That was how easily Raymond’s gentle hand and fate’s cruel humor had set the stage.

He should have said no. Should have explained he valued quiet, solitude, order. That sharing his flat with a man like Goffredo Tedesco was like inviting thunder into a study lined with fragile glass.

Instead, he heard himself say—soft, resigned, but not without a trace of something else—

“Perhaps we should discuss it. Over coffee.”

And Goffredo, grinning like the storm that he was, gestured toward the door. “After you, bello. ”

Aldo ignored the provocation, striding down the corridor with practiced composure. Goffredo fell into step beside him, easy, relaxed, as though he’d been doing so for years.

The late afternoon light poured into the cloisters as they left the university. Students trickled out of lecture halls, laughter and chatter carrying across the stone arches. Aldo walked briskly, hands in his coat pockets, every inch the efficient Florentine academic.

Goffredo, on the other hand, ambled. He glanced up at frescoed ceilings, squinted at the lemon trees in the courtyard, paused to greet a passing colleague with a booming “Ciao!” that echoed off the walls.

“You walk like you’re late to everything,” Goffredo observed.

“And you walk like you have nowhere to be,” Aldo replied, not unkindly.

“Exactly,” Goffredo said with a grin. “Balance.”

Aldo muttered something that sounded like Dio ci salvi.

They reached the corner café near Piazza San Marco, a narrow bar with brass rails, marble counters, and a few small tables on the pavement. The air smelled of espresso and warm pastries.

Goffredo pushed open the door for Aldo with an exaggerated flourish. “After you, Professor Bellini.”

Aldo rolled his eyes but stepped inside. The barista looked up with practiced familiarity. “Professore Bellini, the usual?”

“Yes, grazie,” Aldo said.

“Make it two,” Goffredo added, thumping a large hand against the counter. “And two cornetti, though you’ll tell me they’re terrible.”

“They are terrible,” Aldo muttered, but his lips twitched.

They carried their cups and pastries to a small table by the window. Outside, scooters buzzed, and the late sun gilded the piazza.

Goffredo leaned back, already stirring too much sugar into his espresso. “So,” he said, fixing Aldo with a steady look. “Tell me about this flat.”

Aldo adjusted his glasses. “Before we discuss anything, you should know—I’m not agreeing yet. If you’re serious, you should at least see the place before you decide.”

Goffredo inclined his head. “Fair. But you didn’t say no.”

“I said—” Aldo exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I said we’ll discuss it.”

Goffredo grinned into his coffee. “Which is Bellini-speak for I am curious but too dignified to admit it. ”

Aldo took a measured sip of espresso, letting the silence rebuke him.

Still, it was Goffredo who broke it, voice a little lower now. “Tell me, though. Why do you need a flatmate? You don’t strike me as the type who likes sharing space.”

Aldo’s eyes darkened, a flicker of resignation there. He set his cup down with care. “My landlord increased the rent. Inflation doesn’t forgive sentiment. Unless I find someone to share the costs, I’ll be forced to give up the flat. And I’m not ready to leave it.”

Goffredo studied him—really studied him—for the first time. “So it’s not just a flat. It’s… home.”

“Yes,” Aldo admitted quietly. “It has been for many years.”

“Then we’ll keep it yours,” Goffredo said simply, as though it were already decided. “Let me see it. If it suits, we’ll make an agreement. You get to stay, I get a roof. Balance.”

Aldo looked at him across the table, at the storm wrapped in a Venetian frame, peach-vape-scent clinging to his coat. It was madness. It was impractical. It was—he realized with a reluctant thrum in his chest—already set in motion.

He straightened. “Fine. Tomorrow evening, after lectures. You’ll see the flat.”

Goffredo raised his cup in mock salute. “To tomorrow, bello. ”

Aldo clinked his own cup against it, soft but inevitable.

Outside, Florence moved on with its usual rhythm—bells ringing, scooters weaving, light slipping across the Duomo. Inside the café, two professors sat over terrible cornetti and good espresso, and what began as a necessity was already reshaping itself into something far more complicated.

That evening, Aldo found himself drawn into one of Giulio’s not-so-gentle invitations: a table at a small osteria tucked away near Piazza della Signoria, the kind of place with checked tablecloths, Chianti in carafes, and waiters who knew Giulio by name.

Thomas Lawrence had just returned from a seminar in Naples and looked faintly travel-weary, but as dignified as ever in a pressed shirt, a pipe tucked discreetly into his pocket. He was seated beside Raymond, who was patiently explaining the specials. Giulio, predictably, was already pouring wine before Aldo had even taken his seat.

“Finally,” Giulio drawled, sliding a glass toward him. “We’ve been dying to hear how your little coffee went.”

Aldo set his coat on the back of the chair with deliberate calm. “Good evening to you too, Giulio.”

Raymond chuckled softly. “Be kind, love. Let him sit down first.”

Thomas, ever the diplomat, leaned forward with interest. “I appear to have missed several days’ worth of drama. Coffee? With whom?”

Giulio smirked. “With his prospective flatmate. Our dear friend Goffredo Tedesco.”

Thomas arched a brow. “Tedesco? The Venetian? Loud, silver beard, frighteningly charming?”

“The very one,” Giulio said. “Transferred here last week. And as fate—or my wit—would have it, he and Aldo may soon share an address.”

Aldo sighed, taking his glass. “It is not yet decided.”

“Which,” Giulio said smoothly, “means it is already decided.”

Raymond, merciful as always, offered Thomas the background. “Aldo’s landlord increased his rent again. With inflation, it’s become… unreasonable. He’s considering a flatmate.”

Thomas blinked. “Aldo? A flatmate? My word.” His blue eyes crinkled, fond but incredulous. “I thought you prized solitude.”

“I do,” Aldo replied, voice dry. “Unfortunately solitude does not pay rent.”

Thomas’s lips curved in amusement. “No, but it keeps one sane.”

“That is debatable,” Giulio muttered into his glass.

Raymond turned back to Aldo, his voice gentle. “And how did coffee go this afternoon?”

Aldo hesitated, then adjusted his glasses. “We met. We spoke. He inquired about the flat. I agreed to show it to him tomorrow.”

Giulio clapped his hands once, victorious. “Ha! Tomorrow. You see? Done.”

“It is not done,” Aldo snapped, though his lips twitched at the corners. “He has not even seen the place yet.”

“Details,” Giulio said, waving a hand.

Thomas tilted his head, studying Aldo. “And what did you think of him?”

There was a pause. Aldo reached for his fork, poked absently at his plate of ribollita. “He is… thunderous.”

Giulio barked a laugh. “Perfect word. He is a storm. But storms have their use. They clear the air.”

Raymond’s pale eyes softened. “And perhaps he will keep you from shouldering everything alone.”

Aldo gave him a look equal parts fond and exasperated. “You and Giulio seem very determined about this arrangement.”

Giulio smirked, raising his glass. “We are invested in your survival, Bellini.”

Thomas’s smile was faint, but his eyes gleamed with quiet humor. “Well, I for one am eager to see how long before the two of you drive each other mad—or something else entirely.”

Aldo did not dignify that with a response.

As the night wore on, the four men ate and drank, the conversation slipping between work, travel, and gossip. Giulio’s barbs were sharp, Raymond’s laughter soft, Thomas’s observations precise, and Aldo, despite himself, found the knot in his chest loosening.

But every so often, when the conversation lulled, his thoughts returned to the café that afternoon: Goffredo leaning across the table, storm-brown eyes steady, saying simply Let me see it. Balance.

And though Aldo told himself nothing had been decided, he could feel the inevitability rising like the Tuscan night—slow, steady, impossible to ignore.

The plates had just arrived — steaming bowls of ribollita, platters of tagliatelle al ragù, a carafe of Chianti already half-emptied under Giulio’s aggressive pouring. The four of them were mid-conversation, Aldo’s defenses gradually worn down by food and wine, when the door swung open with a gust of cool Florentine air.

A booming voice rolled in with it.

“Buonasera! I’m here for my order!”

Aldo froze, fork halfway to his mouth. He knew that voice already, gravel and warmth braided together.

Sure enough, there he was: Goffredo Tedesco, broad-shouldered, silver-streaked, beard catching the lamplight, filling the osteria doorway as though he owned it. He was dressed not in faculty formality but a dark open-collared shirt under a heavy coat, casual and commanding all at once.

He leaned across the bar to speak to the waiter. “I called ahead — two bistecche, bread, some olives? Goffredo Tedesco.”

And before Aldo could melt into his chair, Giulio Sabbadin’s booming voice betrayed him.

“Professor Tedesco!”

Aldo’s head snapped toward him, horrified. “Giulio.”

But it was too late. Giulio was already lifting a large hand, waving cheerfully. “Over here!”

Goffredo turned, eyes catching the table, and broke into a grin so wide Aldo could feel it in his bones.

“Well, well,” he said, striding over like a storm crossing the piazza. “I thought I smelled Bellini in the air.”

Giulio actually laughed out loud, delighted. “Of course you did.”

Thomas, ever the gentleman, half-rose from his seat to offer his hand. “Thomas Lawrence. A pleasure, Professor Tedesco.”

“Likewise,” Goffredo said warmly, shaking it before clapping Raymond on the shoulder in greeting. His eyes, though, never left Aldo. “Didn’t expect to see you twice in one day, bello. Must be fate.”

Aldo, staring fixedly at his glass of Chianti, muttered, “Coincidence.”

“Coincidence is just fate pretending not to meddle,” Giulio purred, smirking into his wine.

Raymond, for all his gentleness, was grinning too. “Why don’t you sit with us while you wait for your food? Plenty of wine.”

Goffredo wasted no time, pulling out a chair beside Aldo. He sat with the easy sprawl of a man perfectly at home anywhere, one arm draped over the back of his chair.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, voice rumbling low.

Aldo closed his eyes briefly, whispering a prayer to whatever saint handled impossible situations.

The waiter brought another glass without needing to be asked; clearly Giulio had been here enough times to establish a reputation. Goffredo filled it himself, sloshing Chianti into the stemware with the ease of a man who had never measured a pour in his life.

“To new beginnings,” he toasted, looking squarely at Aldo.

Aldo’s lips pressed thin. He clinked only out of politeness.

Raymond, ever the peacemaker and yet secretly the greatest menace, leaned forward with a bright smile. “So, Goffredo, Aldo was just telling us about your coffee earlier.”

Aldo nearly choked. “Raymond.”

But Goffredo’s grin widened, beard catching in the candlelight. “Ah, yes. The terrible cornetti, the excellent espresso. We discussed… important matters.”

Giulio snorted. “Important matters. You mean his flat.”

Goffredo raised his brows, delighted. “Oh, you’ve all heard already?”

“Of course we’ve heard,” Giulio said dryly. “Bellini’s rent has grown teeth. He needs a flatmate before it devours him.” He swirled his wine with surgical precision, then arched a brow at Aldo. “And now here you are, a solution conveniently wrapped in Venetian thunder.”

Thomas, quiet until then, folded his hands neatly, his pale blue eyes fixed on Goffredo. “And what makes you interested in this arrangement, Professor Tedesco? Surely a man of your… presence has options.”

Goffredo leaned back in his chair, utterly unbothered by the scrutiny. “Options, yes. But not good ones. Temporary rooms, soulless flats. I prefer something lived-in. Something with roots. And Bellini’s flat—” he turned his gaze on Aldo, warm and mischievous—“already feels like it might be worth the trouble.”

Aldo’s jaw tightened. “You have not even seen it yet.”

“No,” Goffredo admitted, smirk deepening. “But I’ve seen you.”

Raymond nearly spit out his wine, covering it with a cough. Thomas’s lips curved faintly, as though filing the remark away for later. Giulio rolled his eyes. “Saints preserve us.”

Thomas tilted his head. “And you think the two of you could live together peacefully?”

Goffredo chuckled, a low thunder. “Peacefully? No. But balanced, perhaps. He makes the rules, I break them. Keeps life interesting.”

Giulio arched a brow at Aldo. “How long before you strangle him?”

“Three days,” Aldo muttered into his glass.

“Generous,” Giulio said, smirking.

Raymond, feigning innocence, leaned on his elbows. “But think of it, Aldo—you’ll have company. Someone to share the burdens. Someone who might even cook.”

“I cook,” Aldo retorted.

“Yes,” Raymond said softly, “but you do not laugh while you cook.”

And to Aldo’s horror, Goffredo barked a laugh loud enough to turn a few heads from nearby tables. “Then it is decided. I’ll cook, I’ll laugh, and I’ll steal his food. Balance.”

“Rule number three,” Aldo muttered. “No stealing food. It will be written.”

Giulio smirked into his wine. “Write what you like, Bellini. He’ll break it.”

Before Aldo could marshal another argument, the waiter appeared with a paper bag heavy with bistecca and bread. “Professore Tedesco, your order is ready.”

Goffredo rose, lifting the bag in one hand and his glass in the other. “Grazie. Gentlemen.” His eyes lingered on Aldo. “Until tomorrow evening, bello. Don’t forget your keys.”

And with a wink, he was gone, leaving behind a swirl of peach vape and the echo of his laughter.

The table sat in silence for a beat.

Thomas finally cleared his throat, voice mild as ever. “He’s… quite a presence.”

“Presence?” Giulio scoffed. “He’s a natural disaster.”

Raymond only smiled into his glass. “Perhaps exactly what Aldo needs.”

Aldo, staring into his Chianti, muttered, “I am doomed.”

The following afternoon, Aldo returned home earlier than usual, a stack of essays under his arm, the tension of the day pressing against his temples. The flat, familiar in its quiet dignity, seemed suddenly vulnerable—as if the walls themselves knew they were about to be inspected.

He tidied more than necessary: straightened books on shelves, aligned the chairs at the dining table, folded the blanket over the couch. He even watered the balcony plants, muttering at the basil for looking too wilted.

When the doorbell rang, his pulse betrayed him.

Aldo opened it to find Goffredo Tedesco filling the doorway, coat open, scarf loosened, that storm-bred grin already in place. He carried nothing but a battered notebook and the scent of peach vape that clung stubbornly to him.

“So,” Goffredo said, voice low and amused. “Show me what I might be calling home.”

Aldo led him in, every step measured.

“This is the sitting room,” he said crisply, gesturing at the bookshelves that lined the wall. “No smoking.”

Goffredo glanced at the shelves, eyes catching on a few titles, then turned back with a smirk. “No smoking . Noted. But vaping?”

“On the balcony only,” Aldo snapped.

“Ah, already making the rules,” Goffredo teased. “I feel safer already.”

They moved through the kitchen—bright, orderly, copper pans polished. Goffredo opened a cupboard without asking, whistled low at the neat rows of spices.

“You alphabetize them,” he observed.

“I organize them,” Aldo corrected sharply.

“By alphabet. Bell pepper before basil,” Goffredo said, grinning. “You’re adorable.”

Aldo shut the cupboard firmly. “Rule number two,” he muttered. “No flirting.”

Goffredo only chuckled.

The tour wound through the dining room, the bathroom, finally into the small study that doubled as a guest room.

“This would be yours,” Aldo said, gesturing at the space. “Modest, but functional.”

Goffredo stepped inside, surveyed the desk, the wardrobe, the narrow bed. He set his notebook down on the desk, ran a hand along the windowsill, then turned back.

“I’ve lived in worse,” he said. “And it has a window. I like windows.”

“You like to shout through them, more like,” Aldo muttered under his breath.

Goffredo heard. He laughed, warm and loud, the sound filling the little room as if it belonged there.

They ended on the balcony, where the street below bustled with evening life: children kicking a ball, neighbors hanging laundry, a Vespa rattling past.

Goffredo leaned on the railing, inhaled deep, exhaled peach-scented vapor into the open air. “Good view,” he said. “Good air. Basil looks thirsty.”

“I watered it,” Aldo replied curtly.

“Then it’s dramatic,” Goffredo said with a shrug. “I like it. Fits here.”

Aldo folded his arms. “So? Do you find it acceptable?”

Goffredo turned, leaning his elbows on the rail, gaze fixed on him. “It’s more than acceptable. It feels like a place people live. That matters.” He paused, grin softening into something almost sincere. “I’d be glad to share it—with you.”

Aldo’s throat went dry. He looked away, down at the children’s football bouncing against the curb.

“Think carefully, Professor Tedesco,” he said quietly. “I value order. I value boundaries. Living with me will not be easy.”

Goffredo chuckled, low and thunderous. “Living with me won’t be easy either. But maybe that’s the point.”

The words hung there, heavy and unshakable.

Aldo inhaled, steadying himself. “Very well. If we do this… there will be rules.”

“Write them down,” Goffredo said, pushing off the railing with a grin. “Put them on the fridge. I’ll sign. Then I’ll break them.”

Aldo pressed his lips into a thin line, already regretting.

And yet, as he closed the door behind them, the flat didn’t feel smaller with Goffredo in it. It felt louder, warmer—already shifting beneath his feet.

Aldo thought the tour complete when they stepped back from the balcony. He was ready to usher Goffredo to the door, ready to salvage what remained of his peace. But Goffredo lingered in the corridor, eyes flicking toward the one door Aldo had not opened.

“And that one?” Goffredo asked, voice low and teasing.

Aldo’s jaw tensed. “That is my room. Private.”

Goffredo tilted his head, silver-streaked hair catching the last of the afternoon sun. “You’ve shown me every other corner of this place. If we’re to live together, don’t you think I should see the whole map?”

“It is not a museum,” Aldo said sharply. “It is my bedroom.”

“Exactly,” Goffredo said, softer now, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. “The heart of the house. If I’m to share your walls, I should at least know where the thunder ends and the silence begins.”

Aldo considered him for a long beat. Logic told him to refuse. Dignity told him to escort this man to the door. And yet, perhaps from some deep instinct that this arrangement was already decided, Aldo’s hand found the doorknob.

He opened it.

The room was not extravagant, but it was distinctly Aldo: a neatly made bed with crisp white linens, books stacked in careful towers by the bedside, a wardrobe of pressed shirts, a crucifix above the headboard. The evening light poured through the half-drawn curtains, warm and quiet.

Goffredo stepped in with surprising restraint. He did not sprawl or touch, not here. He stood at the threshold, gaze sweeping over the space. Then he nodded once, solemnly.

“Orderly. Grounded. Just like you,” he said. Then, with a smirk: “Though I imagine it looks different when you’re not hosting a Venetian storm in the corridor.”

Aldo’s lips twitched despite himself. “It will remain private. You will keep to your room, and I will keep to mine.”

Goffredo chuckled, deep and warm, as he stepped back into the hall. “Of course, bello. Two rooms, one flat. Boundaries.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “And rules. Don’t forget the rules.”

Aldo shut the bedroom door with care, but his pulse was not as steady as he wished.

By the time Goffredo finally left, promising to return with his things in a few days, Aldo stood alone in the quiet flat. The furniture was the same, the rooms unchanged, yet the air felt different — as though Goffredo’s laughter still lingered in the walls, his grin still pressed against the doorframes.

Aldo set his essays on the desk, exhaled, and whispered to himself, half in dread, half in resignation:

“Dio mio. What have I done?”

Three days later, late afternoon, Aldo heard the honk first. Short, bright, irreverent — like everything else about the man.

When he leaned out over the balcony, he nearly groaned aloud.

There it was, parked with absolutely no concern for parallel lines: a little red convertible Mini Cooper, shining like a cherry dropped in the middle of the cobblestone street. Behind the wheel sat Goffredo Tedesco, one arm draped over the side, silver hair tousled by the wind, grin wide enough to scandalize half of Florence.

The car overflowed with life: boxes crammed in the backseat, a battered record player strapped down with questionable bungee cords, vinyls stacked in milk crates, one very large suitcase, and a small army of paper bags that clearly contained snacks.

And, of course, his vape tucked between his fingers, peach-scented cloud drifting upward toward Aldo’s balcony.

“Bellini!” he bellowed. “I’ve arrived with my sins and my saints! Come help!”

Aldo muttered a prayer for patience under his breath and went down.

The two of them wrestled the boxes up the narrow stairs, Goffredo narrating each one like an emcee.

“This one is books — theology, poetry, some questionable philosophy. Careful, it bites.”

“This one, more books. You’ll find I believe in fortifying walls with knowledge.”

“This—ah, my records. Treat them gently, they’ve survived more lovers than I have.”

Aldo, face flushed from exertion, snapped, “You could have hired movers.”

“And miss watching you carry my chaos up three flights? Never.”

By the time the last suitcase thumped onto the sitting room floor, Aldo’s tidy flat looked as though it had inhaled a storm. Books spilled from boxes, vinyls leaned precariously, and Goffredo was already sprawling across the couch like it had been waiting for him all his life.

Aldo, however, had prepared.

From the kitchen counter, he produced a freshly printed document, pages crisp and neatly stapled. He laid it on the coffee table between them like a priest laying down scripture.

“The Flatmate Agreement,” he announced.

Goffredo leaned up on his elbows, eyes gleaming. “Oh, magnificent. Read me my commandments.”

Aldo cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and began:

1. No smoking.
   — “Fine, fine. I vape,” Goffredo interrupted. “On the balcony. Where Nigel lives.”
   
   

Aldo blinked. “Nigel?”

Goffredo gestured toward the basil plant perched proudly on the balcony rail. “Your basil. I’ve named him Nigel. He looks like a Nigel. You must water him with respect.”

Aldo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Rule One, amended: no smoking; vaping only on the balcony, away from… Nigel.”

“Excellent,” Goffredo said, smirking.

1. No flirting.
   — Goffredo’s grin widened. “Define flirting.”
   — “Any unnecessary compliments, pet names, or suggestive remarks.”
   — “Then you should know, everything I say will be unnecessary and suggestive.”
   
   

Aldo glared. “Rule Two: no flirting. Non-negotiable.”

1. No stealing food.
   — Goffredo pressed a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “Bellini, you wound me. I would never steal. I merely… redistribute.”
   
   

“Rule Three,” Aldo said firmly, “absolutely no stealing food. Ever.”

By the end, the Agreement sat signed at the bottom in two very different handwritings: Aldo’s neat, precise script, and Goffredo’s sprawling scrawl that took up half the page.

Aldo pinned it to the fridge with the lemon-shaped magnet.

Goffredo stood back, arms crossed, surveying it with mock solemnity. “History will remember this moment.”

Aldo sighed. “History will remember me for my lectures, not this nonsense.”

“On the contrary,” Goffredo said, slinging an arm casually around his shoulders, peach-vape sweetness clinging to the air. “It’ll remember you for putting up with me. Which, frankly, is a miracle.”

And to his horror, Aldo felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

Once the Agreement was posted to the fridge, Aldo assumed there might be a pause. A moment of silence to adjust.

Instead, Goffredo seized the first box under his arm and disappeared into his bedroom.

Aldo followed reluctantly, lingering in the doorway.

It had once been the second master bedroom of the flat — large, high-ceilinged, with enough space for both a wide bed and a generous desk beneath tall windows that overlooked the street. White walls stood bare, save for faint shadows where old frames had once hung, and the wardrobe loomed empty, its polished wood echoing with absence. It was the kind of room that waited — patient, untouched, belonging to no one.

By the time Goffredo finished with it, it was already beginning to breathe.

Books spilled from boxes in uneven stacks — onto the desk, the chair, even the floor. Heavy theology tomes sat cheek-by-jowl with battered novels, dog-eared poetry, and slim volumes of history. His suitcase lay open across the bed, shirts and dark trousers folded with none of Aldo’s meticulous precision. A carved wooden rosary tumbled loose atop the pile, half-hidden beneath a wool scarf that smelled faintly of incense and sea air.

But at the center of it all, like a heart laid reverently on an altar, he set down a battered record player.

He plugged it in, balanced the speakers on the desk, and without hesitation drew out a vinyl sleeve worn soft from years of use: Perry Como . He slid the record free with surprising care, set it on the turntable, and lowered the needle.

The first warm crackle filled the room, followed by the smooth velvet of Como’s voice:

“And I love you so…”

The notes seeped into the flat, drifting down the hallway, curling into the sitting room, sliding under Aldo’s skin before he had time to build his defenses.

Goffredo hummed under his breath as he unpacked, swaying slightly, placing books in uneven stacks, lifting framed photographs out of paper—family, colleagues, one of Venice’s canals at dawn. He propped them casually against the wall, as if roots could be planted simply by leaning against plaster.

The room, though still half in boxes, was already taking on a pulse. The desk bore the first signs of his presence: books spread open at odd angles, an ashtray perched in the corner, the speakers vibrating softly with Perry Como’s croon. Across the room, the wardrobe door stood ajar with a dark coat hanging from it, pockets bulging with forgotten receipts. The bed had been claimed instantly, suitcase spilled wide across the white linens, a black wool sweater tossed onto the pillow like a flag staked into new territory. And the tall window, left cracked, let in the cool Florentine air, blending with the sweet haze of peach vape and the dusty perfume of vinyl.

It was chaos. It was loud. It was so very Goffredo.

Aldo stood there longer than he intended, watching.

At one point, Goffredo looked up from a box of vinyls, catching Aldo’s gaze in the doorway.

“You don’t like Perry Como?” he asked, a grin tugging at his beard.

Aldo adjusted his glasses, voice too steady. “I prefer silence.”

Goffredo gestured to the record player, to the music that filled the room like warm smoke. “This is silence. Just louder.”

Aldo didn’t answer. He only turned away, muttering something about correcting essays.

But even from his study, he could hear the song’s refrain drifting down the hall, soft and insistent:

“…and yes, I know how lonely life can be…”

And Aldo, though he would never admit it, did not find the sound entirely unwelcome.

Aldo, against all better judgment, stepped inside. “You’ll never finish at this pace,” he muttered. “Those books should at least be in order before you clutter the rest of the room with frames.”

Goffredo leaned back on his heels, grin widening. “Ah, here we go. The librarian in you couldn’t resist.”

“It’s called efficiency,” Aldo retorted, already crouching by an open box. He lifted a thick volume, brushed the dust off the spine. “ St. Augustine, Confessions. This edition is years out of print. Where did you even find it?”

“Venice,” Goffredo said, pulling another frame from paper and setting it against the wall. “A little shop by the canals. The owner wanted it gone; I wanted it kept. Balance.”

Aldo hummed under his breath, fingers trailing the margin notes scrawled in a younger hand. Then he set it carefully on the desk and pulled the next book.

Before long, the piles grew into neat rows, Aldo muttering titles under his breath as he alphabetized: Aquinas beside Augustine, Dante tucked between two dog-eared volumes of Donne, a stray Camus sandwiched stubbornly among Italian philosophers.

“You’re alphabetizing,” Goffredo observed with mock solemnity, balancing on a chair to hang a photograph of Venice at dawn.

“Of course I am. Otherwise it’s chaos.”

“Chaos has charm,” Goffredo said, hammering the nail with the heel of his palm. “Besides, if you alphabetize them, you’ll know where to steal from me.”

Aldo shot him a dry look over the rim of his glasses. “I do not steal.”

“Then borrow,” Goffredo corrected, climbing down with the photo hung crooked. “Which is worse, because it implies intent.”

Aldo sighed, reached up, and straightened the frame without a word.

By the time they were through, the room had transformed again: books lined in crisp order across the desk and shelves, frames hung in slightly imperfect symmetry, a rosary looped over the bedpost, and records stacked neatly by the player.

It was still Goffredo’s chaos, but softened—shaped by Aldo’s quiet hand.

Goffredo looked around, hands on his hips, then at Aldo. “You know, bello , this feels dangerously like cooperation.”

Aldo didn’t look up from adjusting a stack of poetry. “Call it survival.”

“Mm.” Goffredo grinned, dropping into the chair with a satisfied sigh. “Then here’s to survival.”

Perry Como crooned in agreement, the needle circling steady and low.

The record needle slid across, the first song fading into another. The warm crackle of vinyl gave way to the soft, velvet sadness of Perry Como singing “For The Good Times.”

“Don’t look so sad… I know it’s over…”

The song wrapped itself around the room like an embrace. Low, aching, tender in its resignation.

By then, the boxes had dwindled to half their number, the floor cleared in patches of order. Aldo and Goffredo worked in quiet rhythm: Aldo stacking books into alphabetical order on the shelves, Goffredo unwrapping frames and placing them on the desk, the wardrobe, the narrow mantle above the bed.

Aldo reached into the next box, expecting shirts, or papers, or—he hardly knew what. Instead, his hand closed around another spine. He drew it out, frowning faintly.

“You brought… more books,” he said.

“Of course,” Goffredo replied from the desk, where he was leaning a photograph against the wall. “What else would I bring?”

Aldo peered into the box. All of them. Every single one. Volumes in Italian, Latin, English. Poetry and history. Hardcovers scarred with age, slim paperbacks with cracked spines. Every crate, it seemed, was filled to the brim with words.

“You brought only books,” Aldo corrected, adjusting his glasses.

“And vinyl,” Goffredo said, gesturing lazily at the turntable. “Priorities.”

Aldo stared at the stacks already overtaking the shelves, the desk, the floor. “There is not enough space for all of these.”

“Then we’ll make space,” Goffredo said simply, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world.

As Aldo returned to the next box, his hand brushed against something wrapped in paper. He opened it carefully and found a framed photograph: a family portrait, sun-faded, with a young Goffredo in the center. Black hair thick and unruly, grin wide, eyes already storm-bright. Around him stood his Venetian parents, siblings crowded in like a tide.

Aldo blinked, startled by the youth in the image.

“You were… handsome,” he said before he could stop himself.

“I still am,” Goffredo called from across the room, smirking.

Aldo set the frame down with more care than he intended.

Another photo followed: a candid shot of Goffredo with Raymond, younger, both laughing at something out of frame. Raymond’s arm was thrown across his shoulder, Goffredo’s head tilted back mid-laugh. The warmth of it was startling—alive, unguarded.

And another still: Goffredo with Giulio. They stood side by side, both younger but already carved by the sharpness of their characters—Giulio severe, Goffredo grinning with a cigarette caught between his fingers.

Aldo stared a moment longer than he meant to, then set that frame down too.

Together, they found places for the photographs: family on the mantle, Raymond on the desk, Giulio on the shelf by the window. The room absorbed them quickly, the white walls softening with memory.

By the time the last box was opened, the transformation was undeniable. The once-empty master bedroom was no longer anonymous. It was lived in. Alive.

Books in precise rows where Aldo’s hand had touched them. Vinyls stacked carelessly beside the player where Goffredo had tossed them. Photographs leaning against the wall, some crooked, some straightened by Aldo’s quiet adjustments.

The song kept spinning, Como’s voice steady, melancholy:

“Hear the whisper of the raindrops, blowing soft against the window…”

Aldo stepped back, arms folded, surveying the space. He had expected clutter, disorder, maybe even disdain. He had not expected… this. A life, unpacked in little fragments, pressed into his flat until the walls seemed to stretch to hold it.

He did not say so aloud, but the thought crept in, unwelcome and undeniable:

It already feels like home.

By the time the last frame was leaned against the wall and the final book tucked into place, the light outside had begun to dim. Florence’s evening bells drifted through the open window, low and solemn.

Aldo, ever the host despite himself, retreated to the kitchen. He told himself it was nothing more than practicality: a simple dinner, something to mark the arrival, to keep the storm at bay while it settled into its new room. He filled a pot with water, set it to boil, and began chopping garlic with precise, efficient strokes.

The basil on the balcony—Nigel, absurdly christened—offered a few fresh leaves for the sauce. Aldo plucked them with the same dignity with which one might receive an unwelcome nickname: resigned but not entirely unwilling.

Tomatoes simmered, garlic softened, olive oil hissed low in the pan. The flat began to smell of warmth, of comfort, of something Aldo rarely admitted aloud: care.

The scrape of footsteps behind him made him glance over his shoulder.

There was Goffredo, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair still tousled from unpacking, filling the doorway with his broad-shouldered ease. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, the faint haze of peach vape curling after him.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and amused. “I thought I smelled heaven.”

“It’s just pasta,” Aldo replied, turning back to stir the sauce.

“ Just pasta,” Goffredo repeated, stepping closer. He peered over Aldo’s shoulder with the curiosity of a cat. “You didn’t tell me dinner was included in the Agreement.”

“It is not,” Aldo said sharply. “This is an act of courtesy. A welcome. Nothing more.”

“Ah,” Goffredo murmured, lips curving. “So I am your neighbor, not your flatmate? Good to know.”

Before Aldo could retort, Goffredo reached forward, dipped a large finger straight into the pot, and stole a taste of the sauce.

Aldo froze.

“Rule number three,” he snapped. “No stealing food.”

Goffredo licked his finger, closed his eyes, and groaned low in approval. “Saints above, Bellini. If breaking rules tastes like this, I’ll be a criminal forever.”

Aldo’s glare should have been enough to cow a lesser man, but Goffredo only grinned, leaning casually against the counter as if he’d been standing in that kitchen his whole life.

In the end, Aldo served two plates, muttering under his breath about good neighbors and small mercies. They sat at the little dining table by the window just as the record player clicked softly into the next album. Andy Williams’ voice rose, rich and soaring, carrying through the flat:

“To dream the impossible dream…”

The sound mingled with the clink of their forks, the laughter of neighbors in the street below, the faint rattle of glasses from the osteria across the piazza.

It was quiet between them, strangely so, though every silence seemed to hum like a wire drawn too tight.

And though Aldo told himself it was nothing—just a meal, just courtesy—he could not help but notice the way Goffredo’s shoulders eased, the way his storm seemed to soften into something almost tender as he ate what Aldo had placed before him.

On the balcony, the basil plant—Nigel—swayed gently in the night air, as if bearing witness.

The plates were scraped clean, the basil leaves that had flavored the sauce now nothing but green smudges on the cutting board. Aldo, ever the man of order, insisted on tidying. He rinsed the dishes, lined them neatly in the rack, wiped the counters with brisk efficiency. Goffredo, half-heartedly drying a glass, kept humming along with Andy Williams as though he were the one orchestrating the evening.

“…two drifters, off to see the world…”

Wine breathed in the decanter on the table, the second half of the bottle waiting in their glasses. Goffredo filled his to the brim, Aldo’s only halfway, ignoring the scowl he earned for it.

And then—before Aldo could retreat into the safety of his study, before he could declare the evening finished—Goffredo caught him by the wrist.

“Dance with me,” he said, grinning, voice all velvet thunder.

Aldo blinked. “Absolutely not.”

But Goffredo only drew him closer, eyes glinting. “It’s my favorite song.”

Aldo frowned. “Moon River?”

“Mm.” Goffredo’s grin softened into something almost boyish. “My parents used to dance to it every time they went out on their little dinner dates. Right there in the kitchen, coats still on, my mother’s heels clicking on the tile. Then they’d leave me and my eleven siblings to burn the house down while they enjoyed their evening.” He laughed, shaking his head. “The song stuck. Every time I hear it, I think—why not dance, even if it’s inconvenient?”

Before Aldo could muster a retort, Goffredo spun him, slow and unrelenting, into the small space between the kitchen table and the balcony door. His hand pressed firmly against Aldo’s back, guiding him with far too much ease for someone who claimed to be a historian.

“Goffredo—this is ridiculous,” Aldo hissed, glasses slipping down his nose as he tried to pull away.

“Ridiculous?” Goffredo laughed, low and booming, the sound vibrating through the room as Williams crooned “…there’s such a lot of world to see…” He held Aldo steady, swaying them in time with the music.

Aldo scowled fiercely, his mouth set in tight refusal, but his body betrayed him: his steps followed, reluctant but precise, like a man arguing with himself in two languages.

Goffredo leaned down, close enough for Aldo to catch the mix of wine and peach vape on his breath. “See? You can’t get away.”

“I am trying,” Aldo muttered, wriggling in a way that was entirely ineffective.

“Trying and failing, bello,” Goffredo teased, laughter softening into something warmer, steadier. “Moon River’s got you now.”

The song carried them through a turn, Aldo’s hand still caught in Goffredo’s broad palm, their movements half-dance, half-struggle. By the final lines—

“…we’re after the same rainbow’s end…”

—Aldo’s scowl had faltered into something that looked suspiciously like defeat. Or maybe, just maybe, the smallest flicker of enjoyment.

On the balcony, Nigel swayed again in the night breeze, as though the basil plant were laughing too.

The final notes of Andy Williams lingered like smoke in the air, the turntable humming softly before the needle clicked into silence. Goffredo slowed them to a stop, his hand still steady on Aldo’s back, eyes bright with amusement.

Aldo pulled away at once, sharp enough to nearly trip on the rug. He straightened his glasses, tugged at his cuffs, and cleared his throat with the exaggerated dignity of a man trying to erase what had just happened.

“Well,” he said briskly, “that was unnecessary.”

Goffredo’s grin was wide, shameless. “Unnecessary, yes. But not unpleasant.”

Aldo shot him a look that might have felled a lesser man. “I am not here to indulge your sentimentalities, Professor Tedesco.”

“Mm,” Goffredo mused, pouring himself the last of the wine. “Funny, because you were keeping very good time.”

Aldo’s ears betrayed him, flushing pink. He gathered the empty plates as though the act might shield him, marched them into the sink, and muttered, “That’s enough.”

Goffredo chuckled low in his throat, leaving the remark to settle between them.

It was Goffredo, sprawling back into his chair with the air of a man who already lived there, who broke the silence.

“One practical matter, Bellini.”

Aldo, stacking cutlery with surgical precision, did not look up. “Yes?”

“There’s only one bathroom.”

“Yes,” Aldo said, cautious.

“And one shower,” Goffredo continued, swirling his glass. “How do you propose we manage that? Do we arm-wrestle for it in the mornings?”

Aldo turned, lips pressed thin. “Absolutely not.”

“Then what? First come, first served?”

“No,” Aldo snapped, already heading to his desk for paper and pen. “I’ll draft a schedule. Our lectures at the university differ by day. It will be arranged fairly, according to our timetables.”

Goffredo’s grin widened. “Of course. Very Bellini of you.”

“Until then,” Aldo said crisply, “you may have it first tonight. I will not quibble over one evening.”

“Ah, magnanimous,” Goffredo teased, lifting his glass in salute. “Aldo Bellini, patron saint of plumbing.”

Aldo ignored him, setting his notes down with deliberate care.

But later, as Goffredo disappeared into the bathroom with a towel slung over his shoulder and the faint tune of Moon River still humming in his throat, Aldo sat alone in the kitchen, flushed and restless, telling himself that he had not enjoyed the dance.

Not one bit.

Nigel, from the balcony, seemed unconvinced.

The flat grew quiet after dinner, the wine glasses emptied, the record player spinning into silence. Aldo retreated to his room with the solemn dignity of a man who had already decided this had been too much for one day. He undressed with care, folded his clothes neatly over the chair, and sat for a moment on the edge of his bed, glasses set aside, fingers pressed to his temple.

The basil on the balcony swayed in the night air. The walls, which had always held nothing but silence, now seemed to breathe with someone else’s presence.

Then, faintly, it began.

Water running. Pipes humming. And over it, a voice.

Goffredo’s.

Low, gravelly, but unexpectedly tender, carrying through plaster and paint, warm as velvet even muffled by the bathroom door. He was singing.

“The night is like a lovely tune…”

Margaret Whiting’s “My Foolish Heart” rose and fell, each line laced with a strange ache that threaded into the quiet.

Aldo sat very still, listening despite himself.

“Beware, my foolish heart…”

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. It was absurd, it was inconvenient, it was already too much. And yet the sound seeped into him, softening something he hadn’t known was tense.

When the song trailed off, swallowed by running water, Aldo lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.

“Dio mio,” he murmured into the dark, half-prayer, half-surrender. “What have I invited in?”

The pipes quieted. The flat settled. And somewhere down the hall, the storm of Goffredo Tedesco kept singing to himself, unaware that Aldo Maria Bellini was lying awake, listening.

Chapter Text

The first morning of their life as flatmates began not with Aldo’s alarm, but with music. He had always been an early riser, accustomed to waking before the city shook itself awake, padding into the kitchen in slippers and silence. But when he opened his eyes that morning, he realized, to his irritation and his reluctant surprise, that someone had already beaten him to it.

Matt Monro’s voice was drifting down the hallway, warm and melancholy, filling the flat as though the walls themselves had learned to hum. “Walk away, please go…” The sound mingled with the aroma of coffee, the sweetness of fruit, the faint scrape of a knife against a cutting board.

Aldo frowned, rose, and followed the music.

The sight that met him in the kitchen was so unexpected that, for a moment, he could only stand in the doorway and stare. Goffredo was barefoot, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, a dishtowel slung over his shoulder like he had been born to command kitchens. The counter was crowded with plates—crostini neatly arranged, biscottata spread with jam, bowls of yogurt waiting at the side. On the cutting board lay a half-sliced pear, juice glistening against the blade of the knife. The moka pot hissed on the stove, filling the air with the promise of cappuccino.

And through it all, Goffredo sang. His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet, not smooth but rich, filling every corner of the flat as though Monro himself had been invited in. He swayed slightly as he worked, humming between verses, pausing only to take a long draw from his ever-present vape before returning to the fruit with the precision of someone who had done this many times before.

Aldo cleared his throat, perhaps louder than necessary. Goffredo glanced up, grinned, and pointed with the knife. “ Buongiorno, bello. You’re late. ”

“It’s six o’clock,” Aldo said sharply. “Hardly late.”

“For me, it is,” Goffredo replied, turning back to the cutting board as though it were the most natural thing in the world to be serenading pears at dawn. “First mornings deserve ceremony. You’ll thank me later.”

Aldo stepped further into the kitchen, eyes sweeping over the spread. He had expected chaos—burnt toast, dirty pans, a trail of destruction. But instead, everything had an almost alarming order to it, though in Goffredo’s hands it looked careless, thrown together, alive. Crostini lined in uneven rows, jam spread too generously but invitingly, yogurt bowls sprinkled with nuts and fruit like offerings.

“You intend to feed an army?” Aldo asked.

Goffredo chuckled, plating another crostino. “Two professors, one flat. Might as well eat like kings before we argue like bishops.”

The song played on, Monro’s voice aching and tender, “…why build a dream that cannot come true…” Aldo found himself watching as Goffredo plated the last crostini, frothed the milk, poured the espresso into cups thick with crema. The man moved like a storm but with a rhythm, as though even his chaos had its own strange music.

When Goffredo finally set a plate in front of him—crostini, a little bowl of yogurt, slices of pear arranged like petals—Aldo opened his mouth to thank him, only to see Goffredo’s hand dart out and swipe one of the pear slices straight off the plate.

“Rule number three,” Aldo snapped at once.

Goffredo popped the fruit into his mouth, grinning shamelessly. “I served you the plate, bello . That entitles me to a tax.”

“There is no such thing as a tax ,” Aldo retorted, bristling.

“There is now,” Goffredo said cheerfully, already reaching for his own crostino. “Call it a taste test. Quality assurance.”

Aldo’s glare was sharp enough to cut through glass, but it only made Goffredo laugh, his voice rumbling into the last lines of the song, filling the flat with something Aldo had not known he had been missing.

And so Rule #3, on its very first morning, already stood in peril.

They sat at the small table by the window, the city just beginning to stir outside. Bells tolled faintly in the distance, scooters coughed to life on the street below, and in their flat, Matt Monro’s voice drifted on into the background.

Aldo ate with the precise silence of a man determined not to give ground. Every movement was orderly: the knife spreading jam, the fork lifting yogurt, the napkin folded neatly by his plate. He did not look up. He did not comment. He pretended as best he could that across from him was not a Venetian storm disguised as a professor.

Goffredo, of course, was incapable of silence.

He leaned forward as he ate, talking between bites, humming along with the record, punctuating every remark with a grin. He stole a crust of crostino from Aldo’s plate as though it were his right, then a spoonful of yogurt with a shameless shrug when Aldo frowned.

“Rule number three,” Aldo said through clenched teeth.

“Already invoked,” Goffredo replied cheerfully, licking jam from his thumb. “But I maintain that sharing is not stealing.”

“It is theft,” Aldo corrected sharply, setting his fork down. “Plain and simple.”

“And yet,” Goffredo said, leaning back in his chair, “you let me get away with it. That’s not theft. That’s indulgence.”

Aldo’s jaw tightened. “That is rule number two.”

Goffredo arched a brow, amused. “Rule number two?”

“No flirting,” Aldo said, voice like a gavel. “Which you are doing. Relentlessly.”

Goffredo laughed, low and warm. “Flirting? This? Bello, if I flirted with you, you’d know. This is breakfast. Banter. Civilized companionship.”

Aldo’s eyes narrowed. “You were also vaping while preparing food. Which violates rule number one.”

“On the balcony,” Goffredo protested, grinning wider. “Nigel and I shared a moment. Ask him if you don’t believe me.”

“The vapor followed you into the kitchen,” Aldo snapped.

“Then Nigel carried it,” Goffredo said, spreading his hands as though absolved. “That basil is a terrible gossip.”

Aldo pinched the bridge of his nose. “We have lived together less than twelve hours, and already you have broken every rule.”

“And yet,” Goffredo said, reaching across the table to pluck the last slice of pear from Aldo’s plate with infuriating nonchalance, “you’re still sitting here, eating with me.”

For a moment, silence held. The kind that hummed, taut and unsteady, full of all the things Aldo refused to admit.

Then Aldo picked up his cup, sipped his cappuccino with exaggerated calm, and said, “You are insufferable.”

Goffredo only smiled, biting into the stolen pear. “And yet, bello , you fed me.”

Aldo sipped the last of his cappuccino, determined not to look at the empty space where the final slice of pear had vanished into Goffredo’s mouth. He placed his cup down with precise care, folded his napkin, and told himself this breakfast had been nothing more than a polite formality.

Goffredo, of course, ruined the thought immediately. He leaned back in his chair, stretching like a man perfectly at ease, then pushed himself up to clear his plate. As he passed the fridge, his eyes caught the neatly pinned sheet beneath the lemon-shaped magnet.

“The schedule,” he said, smirking, tracing the tidy columns of Aldo’s handwriting with a broad finger. “Of course you’ve already drafted it.”

“It’s practical,” Aldo said firmly, not looking up from gathering the crumbs on the table.

“Practical, yes. Fascist, maybe.” Goffredo’s eyes scanned down the list. “Ah. And look—first slot this morning goes to me. How generous, bello .”

“That was agreed last night,” Aldo said, voice clipped.

“Then I won’t waste it,” Goffredo replied, grinning as he reached over and, with infuriating calm, stole one last piece of fruit from Aldo’s plate. He popped it into his mouth, winked, and padded down the hall toward the bathroom, humming Matt Monro’s refrain as though it were his own anthem.

Aldo sat alone at the table, jaw tight, the air still carrying the scent of coffee and peach vape, and wondered how many more mornings it would take before his carefully drafted rules collapsed entirely.

The faculty lounge smelled faintly of espresso and paper, the kind of mingled scent that clung to every corner of the university. Professors came and went with trays, newspapers, small plates of food, their voices hushed under the weight of the vaulted ceiling.

Aldo had chosen his usual corner table, tray neat before him: a plate of penne al pomodoro, a small salad, one slice of bread. He was midway through cutting the pasta into more manageable bites when the atmosphere shifted.

The door swung open, laughter spilled in with it, and Goffredo Tedesco strode into the lounge like it was his personal dining room. Behind him trailed the others—Thomas, composed and unruffled; Raymond, already smiling; Giulio, eyes sharp and knowing; Mario, tall and elegant, pausing to greet a colleague with a nod.

They descended upon Aldo’s table as though it had been reserved for them. Goffredo dropped into the seat beside him without asking, his tray landing with a thud. He didn’t even glance at his own plate before his fork stretched across the invisible boundary and speared a neat bite of pasta straight from Aldo’s dish.

Aldo swatted his hand with the quick reflex of a man long accustomed to defending his meals. “Rule number three,” he hissed under his breath.

Goffredo only chuckled, withdrawing his fork with the stolen bite intact. “Rules collapse in public, bello . That’s democracy.”

He popped the pasta into his mouth, grinning as though the theft were a shared joke.

Across the table, Thomas raised a brow, eyes glinting with amusement as he stirred his tea. “Bold of you, Goffredo. Some men would lose a hand for less.”

“Not Bellini,” Goffredo said around the mouthful, grinning at Aldo. “He just scolds me.”

“Scolds you,” Giulio muttered, dry as ever, “as if you were a disobedient schoolboy.”

Raymond laughed softly, shaking his head. “And you enjoy it far too much.”

“Of course I do,” Goffredo said, already reaching across to Aldo’s salad with an ease that was almost daring.

Aldo slapped his hand again, sharper this time. “Eat your own lunch.”

But Goffredo only leaned back in his chair, fork twirling idly, smile wide and infuriating. “Why would I, when yours is better?”

Mario, dignified and quiet until then, leaned in with a subtle smirk. “Bellini, you’ll never win. Men like him do not obey rules—they bend them.”

Aldo muttered something under his breath about insufferable Venetians and stabbed his fork decisively into his pasta.

But the corner of his mouth twitched, just once, and Goffredo caught it. His laughter rumbled low, the sound of a man thoroughly at home—even in someone else’s meal.

It became a rhythm before Aldo could stop it. Breakfast belonged to Goffredo, who rose even earlier than he did, filling the kitchen with music and smoke, fruit sliced, coffee brewed, crostini laid out with uneven generosity. And always, before Aldo’s fork could touch his plate, Goffredo’s hand darted in. One slice of pear. One spoonful of yogurt. One corner of crostino, stolen with the shameless declaration: “Taste tax, bello. Nothing in life is free.”

Dinner, however, was Aldo’s domain. He cooked with precise intent, every plate portioned, every herb balanced. And still, as soon as he set a dish down, Goffredo’s fork would slip sideways, spearing something from Aldo’s plate before touching his own. Aldo swatted him every time; Goffredo laughed every time.

Weekends were worse. If Aldo cooked something for himself, a quiet indulgence—a small pan of lasagna, a stew, a lemon tart—he would return to the kitchen later only to find the leftovers vanished. Sometimes the dish was scraped clean and washed as though nothing had ever existed. Sometimes, infuriatingly, a single bite was left behind, as if Goffredo wanted him to know exactly who had stolen the rest.

Food gifted to Aldo met the same fate. Raymond’s careful tin of scones, Mario’s elegant biscotti, even a wrapped sandwich from a grateful student—all disappeared within a day, crumbs or wrappers the only evidence. Goffredo would shrug when confronted, mouth already full. “You shouldn’t leave temptation lying around, bello. It’s unkind.”

And yet, Goffredo wasn’t stingy. He bought groceries, more than Aldo would ever admit to needing. He brought home take-out in fragrant paper bags, pastas and pizzas and fried supplì, meals large enough for two. Aldo, in principle, never touched them. It was the line he drew: my food is mine, yours is yours . Goffredo, of course, ignored the boundary altogether.

Eventually, Aldo resorted to labeling things in the fridge. Property of A. Bellini. Do Not Touch. Carefully written, neatly underlined. He thought it would end the theft.

Instead, it made it worse.

The next day, beneath his note, another appeared in bold scrawl: Confiscated for quality assurance — G.T.

Another time, beneath Do Not Touch, came: Too late. Delicious.

And once, after Aldo had labeled a tin of Raymond’s shortbread Mine, he found a sticky note stuck beside it: Ours.

By then, Aldo had stopped muttering “Rule number three” under his breath. The rule had collapsed entirely, drowned in laughter, sticky notes, and the scrape of forks across shared plates.

And somewhere along the way, meals no longer felt like his or Goffredo’s. They simply felt like theirs.

It was over coffee in the faculty lounge one late afternoon, the sun slanting across the polished tables, the air thick with the low hum of tired professors. Aldo sat with Thomas, Raymond, Mario, and Giulio, his tray untouched before him save for a single cup of espresso. His expression was the picture of long-suffering patience, though his hands moved with unusual sharpness as he stirred sugar into the cup.

“I tell you,” Aldo said, voice tight, “Rule number three is dead. Morto. He steals everything. Biscuits, fruit, even a sandwich gifted to me by one of my students. Nothing survives.”

Giulio smirked into his cup, his eyes sharp with delight. “Everyone knows by now never to give you food, Bellini. They might as well hand it straight to Tedesco and save the trouble.”

Raymond chuckled, soft and warm. “It’s true, Aldo. I gave you a tin of scones last week. Never saw you eat a single one.”

“I never had the chance,” Aldo muttered darkly.

Thomas, blue eyes amused, laid a hand lightly against his chin. “I can’t imagine anyone actually surviving against Goffredo once he’s decided he wants something. He’s… unstoppable.”

Mario, who had been quiet until then, spoke up with a thoughtful weight to his voice. “At least you’re spared his cooking.”

Aldo glanced up, confused. “Spared?”

Mario nodded. “He’s one of the best cooks I know. Could make almost anything you wanted. Risotto, roasts, stews, pastries—even a proper Tuscan ribollita that would make your grandmother weep. But he doesn’t anymore.”

Aldo frowned, curiosity overriding his irritation. “Why not?”

Mario shrugged, broad shoulders shifting with a kind of reluctant softness. “He stopped when his mother died. Said it was too painful. Cooking had always been hers first, and he never touched the kitchen the same way again.”

Aldo’s lips parted, surprise catching in his throat.

Giulio leaned back, arching a brow. “Not entirely true. He started cooking again, for a while. Wasn’t he always cooking for… what’s his name?”

Mario tilted his head, eyes narrowing in recollection. “Nigel.”

At that, Aldo nearly choked on his coffee. “Nigel? Like the plant?”

The table went silent for a beat.

“What plant?” Giulio asked, suspicion creeping in.

Aldo blinked, then confessed stiffly, “He has a basil plant. Named Nigel.”

Mario stared, then scratched the back of his head, baffled. “That’s… strange. But no, Nigel was his ex-lover. The one he cared for deeply. They lived together for a time. And when they broke up, he stopped cooking again. Almost entirely.”

Aldo sat frozen, shock prickling along his spine.

Giulio smirked, savoring the moment. “So, Bellini. He names his basil after his dead romance. That doesn’t trouble you?”

Aldo swallowed, throat tight. He adjusted his glasses with mechanical precision, but the motion did nothing to hide the storm that had just cracked open inside him.

Raymond, gentle as ever, reached for Aldo’s hand with quiet humor. “Don’t look so stricken, Aldo. It only means he cared. And perhaps still does. That isn’t a threat—it’s only… history.”

But Aldo, staring into his untouched espresso, could not shake the image: Goffredo in their kitchen, humming as he sliced fruit, the plant swaying on the balcony, and the name whispered to the leaves as though it had belonged to more than basil.

Nigel.

And suddenly, Aldo wasn’t sure if Rule number three was the only one in danger.

The evening found Aldo in the kitchen, apron tied crisply at the waist, sleeves rolled neatly, a pan simmering low on the stove. The air was fragrant with garlic and rosemary, olive oil catching the light in slow golden ripples. Cooking had always steadied him — the careful rhythm of chopping, the measured order of salt and herbs — but tonight, his thoughts were anything but orderly.

Nigel.

The name repeated in his mind as he stirred the pot. Mario’s voice, matter-of-fact. Giulio’s smirk. The shock that had lodged in his chest when he realized that the basil on his balcony shared its name with a man Goffredo had once loved.

Behind him, Goffredo wandered into the kitchen as though he owned it, already plucking a slice of carrot from the cutting board before Aldo could slap his hand away. He leaned against the counter, humming something low and tuneless, the scent of his vape still clinging faintly to his shirt.

“You’re tense tonight,” Goffredo observed, stealing a glance at the pot. “What’s for dinner?”

“Osso buco,” Aldo said shortly, giving the pot a deliberate stir. “And if you touch it before it is finished, Rule number three will be reinforced in blood.”

Goffredo laughed, holding up both hands as if in surrender. “Noted.”

Silence stretched for a moment, broken only by the soft simmer of the stew. Aldo’s eyes flicked toward the balcony, where the basil plant swayed gently in the night air. The question burned at the edge of his tongue. He tried to bite it back. Failed.

“Why Nigel?” he asked suddenly, keeping his voice even, casual.

Goffredo blinked. “Nigel?”

“Yes,” Aldo said, lifting his chin toward the balcony. “The basil. You named it Nigel. Why?”

For a moment, Goffredo simply looked at him. Then he grinned, slow and unrepentant. “He looked like a Nigel.”

Aldo’s lips pressed into a line. “That is not an answer.”

“It is my answer,” Goffredo replied, leaning closer, voice dropping to that low rumble that always seemed to shake something loose inside Aldo. “Some things you don’t explain. You just name them, and they’re yours.”

Aldo turned back to the stove quickly, stirring the pot with unnecessary force. His pulse betrayed him, fluttering high in his throat.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered.

But later, when they sat down to eat and Goffredo stole the first bite straight from Aldo’s plate, all Aldo could think was that the plant swaying on the balcony bore a name that was no longer only a joke.

And he hated how much it unsettled him.

After a while, Aldo had stopped swatting Goffredo’s hand away. At first he had tried — sharp smacks against wandering forks, muttered reminders of Rule number three — but after weeks of breakfasts, lunches, and dinners shared in the flat, the theft had become as natural as breathing. A pear slice gone before his teeth could touch it. A crust pinched from the edge of his crostini. A forkful of pasta lifted mid-conversation in the faculty lounge, as if Goffredo had been born with the right to take whatever was on Aldo’s plate.

And Aldo, maddeningly, had adapted. He glared, he sighed, but he no longer fought. He told himself it wasn’t worth the effort, that yielding a bite here or there was simply the price of living with a storm. Somewhere along the way, he had stopped calling it stealing. It was simply what Goffredo did.

Which was why the lasagna — painstaking, deliberate, promised to Raymond — was different.

The weekend sun poured through the kitchen windows, gilding every surface in warm light. Aldo had been there since morning, apron tight at his waist, assembling the lasagna with the deliberate care of a craftsman. Layers of fresh pasta sheets, béchamel, ragù slow-cooked with herbs, cheese grated fine — each part measured, precise, a harmony of patience and pride.

It wasn’t for him. It wasn’t even for Goffredo. It was for Raymond’s potluck dinner that evening, a contribution Aldo had promised and one he meant to deliver with dignity. A dish that spoke of effort, of thoughtfulness, of Bellini order.

When the tray finally came bubbling out of the oven, its golden crust crackling at the edges, Aldo set it on the counter to rest. The smell filled the flat, rich and comforting. He left it there to cool while he went to the pantry to gather the tin and linen he meant to pack it in.

When he returned, he froze.

A corner piece was gone.

Not just missing — cut out cleanly. Knife still warm, plate abandoned, a fork resting on the counter with crumbs clinging to its prongs.

Aldo’s breath caught in his throat. His pulse thudded hot and furious. And from the sitting room, he heard it: the unmistakable sound of Goffredo humming low, pleased with himself, as though the world had no rules at all.

Aldo stormed out of the kitchen.

“GOFFREDO!”

The humming stopped. Goffredo looked up from his chair, plate in hand, a square of lasagna nearly finished. His brows rose in innocent surprise. “Yes, bello?”

Aldo’s voice thundered before he could temper it. “That was not for you! That was not for us! That was for Raymond, for the dinner tonight! I spent the entire morning preparing it, every hour, every—” His words broke off in fury. “And you—you just help yourself like a thief in my own kitchen!”

Goffredo blinked, fork halfway to his mouth. “I didn’t know—”

“You never know!” Aldo shouted, voice sharp, eyes flashing. “Because you never ask! You take, you steal, you laugh as if it were nothing, as if my work, my order, my rules mean nothing.”

Goffredo set the plate down slowly, his grin faltering. “Aldo…”

“No!” Aldo cut him off, louder than he had ever spoken to him. His hands trembled at his sides. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t—don’t smile at me like this is some little joke. I am sick of your chaos, of your noise, of you thinking you can walk through my life and take whatever you please because you’re too loud to be told no!”

The words hung there, harsher than he had meant, sharper than he could take back. Goffredo’s expression shifted, the storm in him stilled to something unreadable, almost wounded.

But Aldo couldn’t bear to see it.

He turned on his heel, snatched his coat from the rack, and stormed out of the flat. The door slammed hard enough to rattle Nigel on the balcony.

By the time he crossed the piazza, his breath was still ragged, his chest tight. He walked straight into the trattoria at the corner and ordered whatever was ready — trays of roasted chicken, a loaf of bread, bottles of wine. It wasn’t lasagna. It wasn’t what he had promised Raymond. But it would have to do.

And behind him, in the flat that already felt less like his than it should, the golden tray of lasagna sat on the counter, one corner missing.

Aldo arrived with his arms full, balancing trays of roasted chicken, vegetables glistening with olive oil, and a tiramisu dusted generously with cocoa. He gave the door a polite rap with his elbow, and it swung open to reveal Raymond’s genial face.

“Ah, you made it!” Raymond said, stepping aside to let him in.

“I did,” Aldo replied, setting his burden down on the nearest sideboard with exaggerated care. “And I come bearing gifts. Chicken, vegetables, tiramisu… but no lasagna.” His voice took on a tragic note. “Goffredo imposed his ‘taste tax’ while it was cooling—just carved off a corner, didn’t even ask. So, alas, what was promised is no more.”

Raymond’s smile was warm and forgiving. “It’s quite all right, Aldo. You’ve brought more than enough. Don’t fuss over it.”

By the time everyone had gathered, pleasantries were exchanged and wine was poured. Giulio, Thomas, and Mario wasted no time circling Aldo with good-natured groans.

“We’ve been talking about that lasagna all week,” Thomas said, wagging his wine glass.
“And now—nothing. A tragedy,” Mario added with mock gravity.
“Who do we thank for this grievous loss?” Giulio prodded, eyes glittering.

Aldo threw up his hands. “Blame Goffredo Tedesco. The man’s a menace. Came into my kitchen, didn’t say a word, just hacked off a piece like he was levying tribute. My own lasagna, conquered before it even left the pan!”

The three of them burst out laughing, their disappointment softened by wine and Aldo’s theatrical misery.

Later that night during the actual dinner while plates had been passed, wine poured, and the room was warm with laughter when Giulio, sharp as ever, turned his gaze back to Aldo. His smirk was wolfish.

“So, Bellini,” he said, swirling his wine, “tell me—where’s the thief? Where’s our lasagna bandit tonight?”

Aldo stiffened, eyes narrowing. “I don’t know.”

Giulio’s smirk deepened. “Don’t look so put upon. I invited him. Thought if Mario is here—who, let’s be clear, isn’t even in the department but gets to sit at my table because he’s Raymond’s friend—then Mario’s best friend might as well come too.” He tipped his glass toward Mario, who chuckled low into his fig tart.

“Goffredo isn’t my responsibility,” Aldo snapped.

“No?” Giulio purred. “Funny. He eats like he is.”

Before Aldo could form a retort, a knock sounded at the door. The table stilled, heads turning. Raymond rose at once, kind as ever, and went to answer.

But when the door opened, it wasn’t Goffredo filling the frame. It was a boy, no older than twelve, the neighbor’s son, balancing two steaming trays of lasagna in his arms.

The smell hit the room immediately—cheese bubbling, ragù rich, herbs rising in clouds of comfort. Giulio blinked, startled, then strode over and took one tray from the boy’s hands.

“Where did these come from?” Giulio asked, brows sharp, voice like a scalpel.

The boy shrugged, shifting the weight of the second tray. “A man with a beard and curly hair gave them to me downstairs. Said to bring them here. Knock on this door. Deliver them. Nothing more.”

The room fell into a hush.

Giulio’s eyes flicked at once to Aldo, dark and glinting. “Curly-haired, bearded man?” he repeated slowly, voice dripping with irony.

Aldo closed his eyes, pressing a hand to his temple. “Dio mio.”

Raymond, kind even in his bemusement, took the second tray from the boy, thanked him warmly, and pressed a few coins into his hand before sending him back into the courtyard.

The lasagna was set down in the center of the table like an offering, steam curling into the warm, wine-heavy air.

Giulio’s smirk returned, sharper than ever. “Well, Bellini… it seems your thief is also your provider.”

Aldo said nothing, only poured himself more wine and stared at the bubbling lasagna as if it had personally betrayed him.

The trays steamed in the center of Raymond and Giulio’s table, golden crust bubbling, the smell rich enough to make half the professors sigh. Aldo sat rigid, as if he could fend it off by posture alone, while the others leaned in, eyes glinting with curiosity.

“It was kind of him,” Raymond said gently, serving out slices, his voice always soft enough to take the sting out of anything. “To send this. Thoughtful, even.”

Giulio let out a sharp snort, raising a brow so high it nearly vanished into his hairline. “Kind? Thoughtful? Don’t be absurd. Goffredo Tedesco wouldn’t buy lasagna if you paid him. Not when he can cook it.”

Mario chuckled, already cutting into his portion. “No, Giulio’s right. Knowing him—he made it. He hasn’t cooked in years, but if there’s one thing he’d never forget how to do, it’s lasagna.”

Aldo stiffened, fork poised mid-air. “He doesn’t cook.”

“Doesn’t anymore,” Mario corrected, pointing his fork like an oracle. “But when he did? Dio mio. The best lasagna you’ll ever taste. No hard feelings, Bellini—your food is very good. But his lasagna is something else.”

“Campaigning,” Giulio muttered.

“Testimony,” Mario corrected.

And as Aldo finally, reluctantly, brought the fork to his mouth, the room hushed with expectation. He chewed, slow, deliberate, the flavors melting against his tongue — béchamel impossibly smooth, ragù layered with depth, herbs balanced so perfectly he couldn’t even name them.

His brow furrowed. His lips pressed tight.

They were right. It was good. Infuriatingly good.

Giulio’s smirk sharpened. “Well? Verdict?”

Aldo set his fork down with surgical precision. “It’s… edible.”

The table erupted in laughter. Even Thomas, polite and reserved, hid his smile behind his glass of wine.

“Edible, he says,” Mario repeated, shaking his head. “That lasagna is a miracle. And you know what? He hasn’t cooked in years. If he made two pans tonight…” Mario trailed off, eyes narrowing. “Something must have pushed him.”

The laughter softened into curiosity. Giulio leaned forward, eyes glinting with suspicion. “Yes. What, Bellini, could possibly make Tedesco break his exile from the kitchen? Two trays? That’s not cooking. That’s penance.”

Aldo’s throat tightened. He adjusted his glasses, glanced down at the lasagna as though it could swallow him whole.

“I may have…” He cleared his throat, voice dropping. “I may have said things. Shouted. Perhaps… more than I should have.”

Raymond’s gentle hand touched his arm, steadying. “Aldo.”

Thomas tilted his head, blue eyes calm and piercing all at once. “What did you say?”

Aldo swallowed hard, the lasagna on his tongue turning to ash in memory of his own words. “That I was sick of his chaos. That he takes and takes, and that he means… nothing of mine ever matters.”

The table stilled.

Giulio, merciless as always, leaned back with a satisfied hum. “Ah. And so the calm finally shouted back.”

Raymond’s hand stayed, warm and kind. “He answered you with this.”

Aldo’s eyes flicked toward the trays, the lasagna steaming like a quiet confession. He hated it. He hated that it was good. He hated that, somehow, it tasted like apology.

It was late when Aldo finally left Raymond and Giulio’s, Barolo still warming his chest, the echo of laughter clinging to him like smoke. He carried a tray of fig tarts carefully wrapped in foil, Raymond’s insistence that he not go home empty-handed. The streets were hushed, Florence muted under the soft hum of streetlamps and the distant toll of midnight bells.

When he unlocked the flat and stepped inside, the silence was immediate. No music. No humming. No smoke curling from the balcony. Just stillness.

And on the kitchen table, two trays sat side by side.

One was his own — the tray of lasagna that he had made, the corner piece missing. The other was unmistakably Goffredo’s lasagna, still warm under its foil, steam fogging the metal lid. Beside it, in Goffredo’s sprawling scrawl on a scrap of paper:

Sorry, bello. For the corner. For everything.

Aldo stood there, coat still on, hand tightening around the strap of his bag. The flat felt strange without him — too quiet, too orderly, as though the storm had passed through and left nothing but the echo of thunder.

He glanced toward the hallway. The door to Goffredo’s room was closed. No light glowed beneath it, not even the faintest line. Aldo knocked once, softly.

No answer.

He knocked again, firmer. “Goffredo?”

Silence.

Aldo bent, peered at the thin sliver beneath the door. Dark. Utterly dark. He was not there.

For a moment, Aldo simply stood in the hall, hand resting against the frame. He told himself it was nothing — that Goffredo had gone out, that he would return, loud and shameless as ever. And yet, as he turned back to the kitchen, the lasagna waiting on the table seemed heavier than the silence.

He pulled the note closer, fingers brushing the ink. His throat tightened.

He had shouted. He had crossed lines. And now, in the space where laughter and stolen food had always filled the air, there was only stillness.

Nigel swayed on the balcony in the night breeze, as though even the basil plant felt the absence.

Dawn seeped pale and golden through the shutters, the bells of Santa Croce tolling softly in the distance. Aldo rose at his usual hour, the rhythm of years pulling him from bed before the city was properly awake. He dressed slowly, each gesture measured, though his eyes flicked toward the closed door down the hall more than once.

He expected to hear it — the faint hiss of the moka pot, the scrape of a knife, the thread of some old song humming through the flat. But the silence held.

When he stepped into the kitchen, the quiet was almost unbearable. No music, no laughter, no storm. Only the table, already set: a tray waiting for him.

Crostini on a plate. A small bowl of yogurt. Fruit sliced carefully — pears, apples, a scattering of berries — and covered with cling wrap so they would not dry in the morning air. Beside it, a cup already filled with coffee, still faintly warm as though poured not long before dawn.

Aldo froze in the doorway.

Aldo's breakfast that Goffredo makes everyday. But no Goffredo.

He moved slowly, setting down his glasses, pulling the wrap from the fruit. The smell of basil drifted faintly from the balcony, Nigel swaying in the early breeze, but the flat itself felt hollow, echoing without its thunder.

His eyes slid to the refrigerator. The bathroom-and-class schedule sat pinned there with its lemon magnet, his neat handwriting slicing through the paper. Wendesday. According to the chart, Goffredo’s first lecture wasn’t until ten. It was barely six. He should have been here. He was always here.

But the door to his room was still closed, no light beneath it, no sound behind it. And Aldo knew — he wasn’t there.

He sat at the table, hands tightening around the warm cup, staring at the breakfast prepared for him like a peace offering left in absence.

For the first time since Goffredo had arrived, Aldo found himself wishing for the chaos. For the noise. For the theft of his food right under his nose.

Instead, he chewed in silence, the fruit far too sweet, the coffee bitter in his throat, and the chair across from him painfully empty.

The morning stretched into mid-day with no sign of him. Aldo checked the schedule again, as if his own careful chart might conjure Goffredo back into the flat. Ten o’clock lecture. He should have seen him by then, passing in the corridor, booming in the faculty lounge, leaving a trail of smoke and stolen fruit behind him. But when Aldo arrived at the university, the corridors felt strangely empty of thunder.

Still, when he asked—casually, or so he told himself—Goffredo’s students insisted they had had class. “Oh yes, Professor Tedesco was there. Lecture as usual.” They said it with the shrug of those who had sat in his presence, notebook pages filled with his gravelly digressions.

Aldo blinked, baffled. How? He had not seen him. Not in the courtyard, not in the lounge, not at the lectern. It was as though Goffredo had ghosted in and out, teaching and vanishing before Aldo could catch him.

By lunch, the faculty lounge was full: Raymond with his sandwiches neatly wrapped, Giulio glaring at a colleague across the room, Thomas sipping his tea with quiet elegance, Mario deep in conversation with one of the younger professors. The table was warm, voices comfortable. But Goffredo’s chair remained empty.

And Aldo felt it.

He sat with his tray, penne and salad untouched, and every bite turned to dust in his mouth. The lasagna at Raymond’s, the untouched tray left waiting on his own table, the breakfast prepared in silence—all of it pressed against him now, heavy, insistent. He had shouted. He had crossed lines.

And now Goffredo was elusive, absent when he wanted to be, a storm gone out to sea but leaving the air thick and restless behind it.

Aldo’s fork scraped the plate, hands tight. Around him, the others talked and laughed, the afternoon carrying on as though nothing had shifted. But Aldo sat in silence, guilt settling into his chest like stone, wondering if perhaps this time the storm had chosen not to return.

The following morning was the same. Dawn broke, bells tolled, the shutters glowed pale with the rising sun. Aldo rose, expecting—hoping—for the familiar scrape of the moka pot, for humming, for smoke curling from the balcony.

But the flat was silent.

On the table, another breakfast waited. Crostini, fruit, yogurt, cappuccino poured into his cup and left cooling. Aldo stood in the doorway a long moment, glasses in hand, staring at the spread. It was careful, it was kind, it was unmistakably Goffredo—and yet the flat was empty, his door still dark, his presence a ghost.

By the time Aldo reached the university, the day was already unfolding, students spilling into lecture halls.

And in one of those halls, long before the corridors filled, Mario found him.

Goffredo sat at his desk in the classroom, breakfast spread before him like a monk’s rations: a roll, a pear, an apple, a bowl of yogurt, some berries, a thermos of coffee. No music. No storm. Just silence and the scrape of his fork against the plate.

Mario paused in the doorway, tall and watchful. Then he stepped inside. “What are you doing here so early?”

Goffredo looked up, eyes ringed with shadows, but he smiled—smaller than usual, gentler, resigned. “Avoiding breakfast at home.”

Mario sat in the chair across from him, arms folded. “And why is that?”

“Because if I sit at that table,” Goffredo said, voice low, “I’ll take something from his plate. And he’ll look at me like I’ve ruined his world again.” He shrugged, fork tapping idly against his roll. “So I come here. It’s easier.”

Mario studied him, the answer cutting deeper than he expected. He opened his mouth to reply, but Goffredo, with that practiced deflection, simply lifted the thermos and said, “Coffee?” as if nothing had been said at all.

By midday, the faculty lounge buzzed again. Aldo sat with Thomas, Raymond, Giulio, and Mario. His tray was neat, as always, though his fork had hardly touched it.

Still no Goffredo.

Thomas spoke of the morning’s lectures, Raymond smiled kindly at something a colleague said, Giulio scowled over his espresso. Mario, however, sat quieter than usual, his sharp gaze darting between Aldo and the empty space beside him.

Aldo caught it eventually: the odd weight of Mario’s silence, the way he studied him as though judgment sat heavy on his tongue.

Finally, unable to bear it, Aldo set down his fork with a clatter. “Has anyone,” he asked, voice edged sharper than intended, “seen Goffredo?”

The table stilled.

Raymond blinked. Thomas tilted his head. Giulio smirked faintly, as if amused by Aldo’s sudden urgency.

And Mario only leaned back in his chair, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes fixed on Aldo with something between pity and reproach.

Aldo’s stomach turned.

The table was still, the clatter of cutlery and the hum of colleagues around them fading into the background. Mario leaned forward, resting his broad forearms on the table, his eyes steady on Aldo.

“Why do you ask?” he said simply, his Florentine lilt low, deliberate.

Aldo hesitated. His hand tightened around his fork before setting it down again. He adjusted his glasses, buying time, but there was no way to soften the truth. “Because I haven’t seen him since yesterday. Not in the evening. Not this morning. Not even in passing.” His throat worked. “It’s… unusual.”

Giulio let out a dry snort, swirling his espresso. “Unusual? Tedesco is the definition of unusual.”

Thomas, gentler, tilted his head. “So you haven’t crossed paths since…?”

“Since before dinner the other day,” Aldo admitted stiffly. “And the flat was… empty.”

Mario said nothing. He only watched Aldo, gaze unflinching, as if weighing him. He remembered the sight of Goffredo in that quiet classroom, the way his voice had carried something rawer than usual. Avoiding breakfast at home. The words rang in Mario’s head, but he didn’t repeat them. That wasn’t his to give.

Instead, he leaned back, folding his arms. “If it’s unusual, you’ll see him soon enough. Men like Goffredo don’t disappear for long.”

Aldo bristled faintly at the dismissal, but there was nothing more to press. He picked up his fork again, though he hardly ate.

Mario’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, sharp and unreadable, before he turned the conversation elsewhere.

But beneath the table, the unspoken hung heavy: Aldo’s admission, Mario’s silence, and Goffredo’s absence stretching between them like a shadow neither man was ready to name.

By the third day, the silence felt heavier than noise.

Aldo woke early, and as before, breakfast waited for him on the kitchen table: crostini, fruit sliced neatly, yogurt in its bowl, cappuccino cooling in his cup. But there was no Goffredo. Only the trace of him. The flat breathed absence.

At the university, the pattern held. Lectures, colleagues, papers — all of it unfolded with mechanical precision, but no Goffredo at lunch, no booming laugh in the lounge, no storm cutting through the day.

By evening, Aldo cooked for one. A simple risotto, its steam curling into the stillness, its taste already dulled before he even set the fork to his mouth. He was halfway through when the door opened.

He looked up at once.

There, in the soft light of the entryway, stood Goffredo. Coat slung over his arm, hair mussed, eyes shadowed with something quieter than exhaustion. He paused, meeting Aldo’s gaze across the flat, and for a long moment neither of them moved.

It was Aldo who spoke first, his voice low, uncertain but steady. “Have you eaten?”

Goffredo’s lips curved into the faintest smile. His answer came gentle, almost apologetic. “Not yet.”

“Sit,” Aldo said after a pause, softer than he meant to. “There’s plenty.”

Goffredo’s gaze flickered to the table, to the second place setting that wasn’t there. He hesitated, then shook his head with a rueful smile. “Thank you, bello. But… not tonight. I’m too tired. Another time, perhaps.”

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t meant to wound. They carried the careful edges of someone who wanted to step close but didn’t know how.

Aldo’s throat tightened. He set his fork down, fingers resting on the table, the ache of three days pressing in. “Goodnight, then.”

Goffredo inclined his head, warmth flickering briefly in his eyes. “Goodnight, Aldo.”

He turned, retreating down the hall. His door closed softly, the kind of quiet that wasn’t absence but restraint.

Aldo sat alone, staring at the risotto cooling on his plate. He did not know what ached more: the fact that Goffredo had declined his invitation, or that for the first time since he’d arrived, he had let Aldo’s food sit untouched.

The next morning was the same. Aldo rose at dawn, moving through the ritual that had always steadied him. The flat was hushed, heavy with quiet. When he stepped into the kitchen, the table was already set: fruit sliced and covered, yogurt waiting, coffee poured. The same as yesterday. The same as the day before.

But still, no Goffredo.

What Aldo did not see was the way the morning had begun hours earlier. Long before Aldo’s alarm stirred him awake, Goffredo had padded into the kitchen, hair still mussed, beard unkempt, sleeves rolled with practiced ease. He hummed under his breath as he worked—not songs, not crooners, only scraps of melody, too low for even the walls to catch.

He set Aldo’s breakfast out carefully, the way he always had, but this time he also reached for another container, packing away his own: a pear, a roll, fruits, yogurt, a bowl, some honey, and a thermos of coffee poured with steadier hands than he felt. He tucked it into his worn leather satchel, beside lecture notes and books, and glanced once toward the closed door at the end of the hall. He did not knock.

By the time Aldo woke, Goffredo was already gone.

At the university, Mario was the first to find him. Passing an open classroom before the bells, he spotted Goffredo seated at his desk, breakfast unpacked neatly on the corner: bread half-eaten, coffee steaming in the thermos lid, a pear sliced into clean wedges. Alone, quiet, not the man who usually filled a room with storm and laughter.

Mario lingered in the doorway. “Again here? Early?”

Goffredo looked up, smile tugging weakly at his mouth. “Best way to start the day. Quiet. Peaceful.”

Mario tilted his head, sharp eyes narrowing. “Peaceful, or avoiding?”

Goffredo chuckled low, leaning back in his chair. “What’s the difference?” He speared another slice of pear with his fork and let the silence answer for him.

By lunchtime, when the faculty gathered in the lounge, Aldo sat with his tray among Thomas, Raymond, Giulio, and Mario. Still no Goffredo. Aldo didn’t say anything this time, though his eyes flicked more than once to the door, his fork tapping quietly against his plate.

Elsewhere in the building, Thomas happened to pass through a smaller common room and saw him. Goffredo was alone at a back table, a packed lunch spread out before him — bread, cheese, a bit of prosciutto, a few slices of parma ham, olives from a small tin. No colleagues at his side, no booming conversation. Just him, hunched slightly over his meal, as though solitude itself was something he had chosen.

By evening, the pattern continued. Aldo cooked a small plate for himself — soup, bread, a little salad. Alone. The flat was silent, except for the muffled click of the lock later, the soft sound of a door opening, then closing again at the end of the hall.

Where was Goffredo? Sometimes in trattorie, sitting at the bar with a glass of red and a plate of tagliatelle, eating slowly while reading from a battered book. Sometimes in the osteria two streets over, where the owner knew him well enough to send over a second basket of bread without asking. Once, even at a quiet corner table in Raymond and Giulio’s favorite wine bar, where the two of them stumbled upon him one evening. Giulio had raised a brow at the sight, Raymond gently asked why he wasn’t at home, but Goffredo only smiled, lifted his glass, and deflected with a joke.

And so the days bent themselves into a new rhythm: two men living in the same flat, but circling each other like ghosts. Breakfasts left behind, lunches packed away, dinners taken elsewhere.

The rules had not broken. They had simply dissolved into silence.

The next day, the air was warm enough that the boys carried their lunches out into the courtyard, away from the crowded lounge. They looked almost like students again—sandwiches unwrapped from paper, bottles of fizzy drinks clinking as they sat beneath the colonnade. Giulio had rolled up his sleeves, Raymond leaned comfortably against the stone bench, Thomas perched neatly at the edge, Mario sitting tall with his long legs stretched in front of him.

From the far side, Aldo crossed the cloister with his lunch bag in hand, intending to join them. But as he approached, a pillar intercepted his path, and just beyond it he heard his name—or rather, the name that made his chest seize.

“Tedesco,” Giulio said, dry as smoke, “has been haunting every osteria and trattoria in Florence this week. I’ve seen him twice. Alone. Always alone.”

Mario huffed. “I found him in his classroom. Breakfast at his desk. Who does that? He said it was peaceful, but—” Mario broke off with a shrug. “He looked like a monk in penance. It was sad.”

Thomas, gentle but precise, added softly, “I passed him at lunch the other day. Eating by himself, tucked in a corner like a student who doesn’t want to be noticed. That’s not the Goffredo I know. Not the man who fills every room.”

Raymond’s voice, warm but edged with concern, followed: “Giulio and I stumbled on him in the osteria, remember? He smiled, but… it was a mask. He didn’t want to be asked why he wasn’t home.”

Giulio snorted, though even his sarcasm was subdued. “Home. If you can call Bellini’s neat little prison home. The man’s starved of chaos—no wonder he’s eating alone.”

There was a ripple of low laughter, but it faded quickly into silence.

From where he stood in the shadow of the pillar, Aldo’s grip on his lunch bag tightened. The words pressed hard against his chest—sad, alone, not home. They weren’t cruel, not really, but they landed like stones all the same. He had shouted. He had drawn the line. And now Goffredo was eating in corners, filling his mornings with solitary breakfasts, haunting trattorias and osterias instead of stealing from his plate.

Aldo stayed hidden, unmoving, listening as their conversation trailed into softer things. The sandwiches crinkled in their paper, bottles hissed open, laughter rose again, warm and easy.

But for Aldo, the sound only deepened the ache. He turned away quietly, unseen, his appetite gone before he had taken even a single bite.

The courtyard conversation clung to Aldo all afternoon. He moved through his lectures as though by rote, but the words alone, not home echoed under every line of Greek he recited. By the time evening fell, his stomach was knotted so tightly that even the thought of dinner felt like duty, not appetite.

The flat, when he entered, was silent as it had been every night since the lasagna incident. He hung up his coat, set his bag neatly aside, and went to the kitchen. He chopped vegetables with mechanical precision, stirred a pot of soup, and laid a single place at the table. Dinner for one. Again.

He had just settled into his chair, spoon poised, when the sound of a key in the lock caught his breath.

The door opened.

Goffredo stepped in, the familiar silhouette framed in the dim hallway light. He looked tired but not undone: his coat over one arm, his beard a little unkempt, his eyes flicking briefly to Aldo before softening with a small smile.

“Buonasera, Aldo,” he said, warm but fleeting, like a greeting given in passing.

And passing was all he meant to do. Without pausing, he moved straight down the hall toward his bedroom, his footsteps steady, leaving no space for conversation.

Something in Aldo twisted. He set down his spoon with a sharp clink and called, “Goffredo.”

The older man paused, hand on his doorframe, half-turned.

“Would you…” Aldo’s throat caught, and he had to steady himself. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”

For a heartbeat, silence hung. Goffredo looked at him, and the smile that touched his lips was soft, almost kind, but it did not reach his eyes.

“Grazie, bello,” he said gently. “But I’ve already eaten.”

The excuse came easily, offered with no sharpness, no jest. Just distance. He gave a nod, almost tender, and added, “Another night.”

Then he slipped into his room, the door closing softly behind him.

Aldo sat at the table, soup cooling in front of him, his chest hollow. He did not know what hurt more: the polite refusal, or the fact that for the first time since they’d begun sharing a flat, Goffredo no longer stole even a bite from his plate.

The flat was hushed, long past midnight, when the faint sound of clinking pans drifted down the hall. Aldo stirred in his bed, frowning. He hadn’t heard the front door, hadn’t heard the usual music or humming — only the quiet scrape of a fork against a skillet, the low hiss of oil on the stove.

He rose, face mussed from sleep, glasses in hand, and padded barefoot into the kitchen, wearing only a plain white tee and boxers.

There, under the dim yellow light, stood Goffredo. Shirtless, broad chest silvered with hair, boxers slung low on his hips, a dishtowel tossed carelessly over one shoulder. A basket of laundry sat half-folded on the counter beside him. He moved with uncharacteristic care, cracking eggs into a bowl, the smell of guanciale sizzling filling the air. Steam rose from a pot of pasta, the midnight ritual of a man who had gone hungry while the world slept.

For a moment, Aldo only watched from the doorway. The storm, subdued, humming quietly as he whisked eggs with pepper, his body easy in the low light, the kitchen filled with warmth it had not held in days.

When Goffredo finally noticed him, he stilled, spatula in hand. “Can’t sleep?”

“Could ask you the same,” Aldo murmured, stepping further in, face red from the pillow. He looked less like Professor Bellini, more like the man who had once been twirled reluctantly across this same kitchen floor.

“Laundry,” Goffredo said with a shrug, nodding at the basket. “Got hungry. Old habits.”

Aldo approached the counter, drawn in by the smell. The pasta was tossed, the eggs folded in, the guanciale crisped perfectly. Goffredo plated it in two bowls without thinking — one for himself, one set gently on the counter beside.

Aldo, before Goffredo could protest, leaned in and stole a forkful straight from the steaming dish.

Goffredo blinked, then barked a low, surprised laugh. “Rule number three, bello. Broken by you.”

Aldo chewed slowly, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “Consider it… quality assurance.”

For the first time in days, the silence between them cracked — not with thunder, but with the soft clink of forks, the warmth of midnight carbonara, and the fragile reminder of what it felt like to share a table again.

They carried the bowls to the table, bare feet soft against the tiles. The flat was still, the only sound the clink of forks and the low hiss of laundry still tumbling in the next room.

Goffredo dropped into his chair with a sigh, setting his bowl down, broad shoulders catching the dim light. Aldo sat beside him, close enough that their knees brushed under the table — a spark of warmth in the cool midnight air. Neither of them shifted away.

They ate quietly at first, the pasta rich and comforting, the silence strangely easy. Until Aldo’s fork darted sideways, spearing a crisped piece of guanciale from Goffredo’s plate.

Goffredo turned his head, one brow arched, lips tugging into something between amusement and disbelief. “Rule number three,” he rumbled.

Aldo chewed slowly, eyes flicking down, and for the first time in days, his voice softened, breaking through the hush like something fragile.

“Sorry.”

It wasn’t about the guanciale.

Goffredo’s hand stilled on his fork, his chest tightening around the word, but he only leaned back in his chair, let out a quiet hum, and nudged his bowl closer as though to say: take what you need, bello.

The storm was still there, but in that moment, it had folded itself small, enough to sit quietly at Aldo’s side, knees touching, in the hush of midnight.

And just like that, all was right in the world again.

Chapter Text

The apology had been no more than a single word, almost swallowed by steam and silence. Yet it was enough to shift the air between them. From that night onward, the stillness that had settled over the flat began to lift. Not all at once — not like the storm of Goffredo’s laughter or the abrupt slam of Aldo’s anger — but slowly, like sunlight creeping back after rain.

The next morning, there was breakfast again. Not a lonely tray abandoned on the table at dawn, but a spread laid out with the faint strains of music drifting from Goffredo’s speaker, the storm humming low as he buttered toast. When Aldo entered, coffee already in hand, Goffredo had greeted him with a grin and stolen a piece of his crostino without ceremony.

Dinners resumed too. Aldo cooked, methodical as ever, but set out two plates instead of one, sliding the second across the table without a word. Goffredo stole from both, laughing when Aldo bristled, the rhythm so familiar that the ache of the past days felt like a dream.

At the university, the distance dissolved. In the faculty lounge, Goffredo dropped himself at Aldo’s side as though his chair had been reserved, fork darting boldly across trays. He laughed too loud, argued too sharp, drew Thomas and Raymond into debates that lasted far beyond coffee. Mario only raised a brow, and Giulio muttered, “He thrives on chaos, Bellini. You’ve no one to blame but yourself for feeding him.”

It was as if the silence had never been. As if, having drifted apart, they had circled back into each other’s orbit — only now, the pull was stronger.

And then there was the music. Always the music.

On one particular morning, the sun still low, the kitchen smelled of coffee and ripe pears. Goffredo stood at the counter shirtless, boxers hanging low, a knife glinting in his hand as he sliced fruit into uneven wedges. His voice, gravel softened by warmth, filled the flat with the velvet tones of Nat King Cole.

“The very thought of you… and I forget to do… the little ordinary things… that everyone ought to do…”

He sang as though it were nothing, casual as breathing, his hand pausing now and then to push the moka pot off the flame. He hummed through the pauses, swayed slightly as if the music moved in his bones.

Aldo stood in the archway, leaning against the frame, mug cupped in both hands. His white tee clung faintly to his shoulders, boxers loose at his hips, his glasses catching the pale light streaming in from the balcony. He told himself he was simply waiting. That it was practical to stand there. That he wasn’t staring at the way Goffredo’s shoulders moved with each note, the way his voice wrapped around the lyrics like something intimate.

But he was.

He was staring.

And worse — he was listening.

“Maybe I’m making plans… for two…”

The knife stilled. Goffredo’s head tilted just slightly, as if he could feel eyes on him. Slowly, deliberately, he turned toward the archway, grin curling at his lips when he found Aldo caught in the act.

“You’ll burn holes in me if you keep looking like that,” he drawled.

Aldo flushed, straightened at once, scoffing into his mug. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was… only making sure you weren’t butchering the fruit.”

Goffredo’s grin widened, wolfish, teasing. “Ah. Inspecting me, then. Even worse.”

“I was not—”

“Bello,” Goffredo cut in, voice rich, gaze lingering far too long. “Rule number two.”

Aldo bristled, jaw tightening. “I am not flirting.”

Goffredo laughed, low and knowing, turning back to the counter as though victory were already his. “Then I’ll let you believe that.”

The song played on, Nat King Cole crooning through the kitchen, and Aldo, sipping his coffee, told himself firmly that he had not just lost a battle he’d never intended to fight.

But deep down, he knew: Rule number two was already catastrophically ignored.

The fruit was arranged in a half-hearted pattern, pears and figs tumbled together with little regard for symmetry. Goffredo carried the plate to the table along with crostini, butter, jam, and two steaming cups of coffee. He sat down across from Aldo, the chair creaking beneath his weight, and for a moment, they simply ate in silence.

But silence never lasted long with Goffredo.

He speared a slice of pear and popped it into his mouth, eyes glinting as he caught Aldo watching again. “You should be careful, bello. Keep staring like that, and I might start thinking you’re the one breaking rules.”

Aldo’s fork paused midair. “I’m not staring.”

“You are. And you’re blushing. Which is charming, really.”

Aldo scoffed, reaching for his coffee to hide the warmth rising in his cheeks. “Charming is not the word I would use.”

“Ah, no,” Goffredo leaned back, grin widening. “You’d use something very serious. Improper. Unacceptable. Against the agreement.” His voice dropped into an exaggerated imitation of Aldo’s measured tones.

Aldo set his cup down with deliberate calm. “At least one of us respects the agreement.”

“And yet,” Goffredo said, reaching across the table with shameless ease to snatch the fig from Aldo’s plate, “you’re letting me steal your breakfast again. Rule number three, shattered. Rule number two, dangling by a thread. If you’re going to enforce them, piccolo, you’re doing a terrible job.”

“Piccolo?” Aldo’s brow shot up, though his lips twitched against his will.

“What? You prefer bello?” Goffredo teased, leaning forward, his grin softened by something almost fond. “Or maybe tesoro?”

Aldo’s pulse betrayed him. He pressed his lips together, firm, but the heat at the tips of his ears gave him away.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

“And yet here you are,” Goffredo said easily, stealing another bite from Aldo’s plate. “Sharing breakfast with me. Again. You must like suffering.”

Their knees brushed beneath the table — not by accident, not anymore. Neither of them moved.

Nat King Cole crooned on in the background, velvet and warm, as if the music itself was conspiring with Goffredo.

And for the first time, Aldo didn’t bother to correct him.

The lounge was its usual midday chaos — papers scattered, espresso machines hissing, the hum of too many conversations bleeding into one another. Thomas and Raymond had claimed their usual corner table; Giulio sat like a sentinel with his espresso, Mario looming at his side like a Florentine statue.

Aldo arrived first, tray neat and precise as always. He chose his seat with care, unfolding his napkin, adjusting his glasses. He was halfway through cutting into his pasta salad when the storm arrived.

Goffredo strode in, all swagger and noise, balancing his tray in one hand. He didn’t hesitate — simply dropped into the seat beside Aldo with a grin, their chairs knocking together, his arm brushing Aldo’s shoulder.

“Bello,” he greeted, voice warm enough to draw attention. “You saved me a seat.”

“I did no such thing,” Aldo muttered, though he didn’t move.

Within seconds, Goffredo’s fork was darting across the table, stealing a bite of Aldo’s pasta salad.

Aldo swatted his hand sharply. “Rule number three.”

Goffredo laughed, shameless, fork already raised in triumph. “And yet you let me sit beside you. Rule number two.”

Raymond nearly choked on his tea. Giulio arched a brow so sharp it could have cut glass. Thomas smirked into his cup. Mario leaned back, watching like a man at the theater.

“You two are unbelievable,” Giulio said flatly. “Every rule you wrote — already gone.”

“They’re not gone,” Aldo insisted, voice tight.

“They’re dead,” Raymond corrected kindly, blue eyes crinkling at the edges.

Mario chuckled low. “How fast do we think it’ll crumble entirely? A week? Two?”

“Days,” Giulio said without hesitation. “At this rate, hours.”

Thomas lifted his glass. “I’ll give it until Sunday.”

Raymond, ever the gentle one, shook his head. “No. They’re stubborn men. I say two weeks.”

“Generous,” Mario teased. “I’ll take ten days. That’s the limit.”

The laughter at the table rose as the bets were made, but Aldo sat stiff beside Goffredo, who only leaned back, grinning, utterly delighted. He twirled Aldo’s fork between his fingers before handing it back with exaggerated gallantry.

“See, piccolo? Even our friends know the rules don’t stand a chance.”

Aldo snatched the fork back, glaring. “You’re insufferable.”

But the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward as their knees brushed under the table — and everyone at that table saw it.

The faculty lounge chatter carried on for days — whispered jokes, sidelong glances, the occasional pointed cough whenever Goffredo’s fork strayed into Aldo’s plate. The “betting pool” had been established in earnest; Raymond swore it was all in good fun, while Giulio sharpened his smirks with every passing hour. Aldo pretended not to hear any of it, though his ears burned scarlet each time Goffredo leaned too close.

But it wasn’t only at the university where rules bent and broke. At home, their rhythms tangled tighter still.

Aldo had long since noticed Goffredo’s peculiar choice of wardrobe: in public, he looked like a rich Italian uncle on permanent holiday — silk shirts undone to the chest, linen trousers, loafers worn without socks. But at home, stripped of pretense, it was always the same: boxers, bare chest, and little else. Shirts appeared rarely, and when they did, they seemed to vanish by midday. The laundry basket in his room, Aldo suspected, was simply a graveyard of discarded fabric.

And Aldo, against his better judgment, had noticed more than once how the absence of a shirt lent the flat a strange intimacy. Cooking breakfast, humming over the record player, or padding down the hall with coffee in hand — Goffredo was chaos incarnate in his boxers, and Aldo was left bristling, sipping his own coffee far too quickly, as though speed could erase awareness.

One thing became clear: Goffredo did his laundry at midnight. Always at midnight. Aldo would hear it — the faint thrum of the washing machine, the shuffle of baskets, the muffled sound of a man humming to himself as he folded shirts that he rarely wore. The rhythm was so consistent that Aldo had come to expect it, the hum through the walls part of his own nights.

Until one Saturday morning.

Aldo was meant to teach that morning, but the seminar had been canceled. For once, he allowed himself a slower rise, slipping into his slippers, mug of coffee in hand, intending to check the laundry room for clean towels. He pushed open the door—

—and froze.

There, in front of the washer, stood Goffredo. Naked. Entirely, gloriously naked. Mid-throw, boxers dangling from his hand like a flag of surrender. Broad chest, wide shoulders, olive skin mapped by age and life, every line carved into him by years of storm.

The sound that escaped Aldo’s throat was somewhere between a gasp and a strangled curse. His mug nearly slipped from his hand.

Goffredo turned, equally startled for a heartbeat — then he laughed. Loud, unabashed, head thrown back, as if the whole scene were a joke designed by the gods themselves.

“Dio mio, bello!” he barked, grinning. “You should’ve warned me you were skipping class.”

Aldo, scarlet to the roots of his ears, spun half-away, stammering, “I—You—Good God, Goffredo—”

But laughter rolled through the laundry room, echoing off the tiles, as Goffredo tossed the last of his clothes into the machine and leaned back against it, utterly unbothered, utterly bare.

“Relax,” he said, voice rich with amusement. “You look like you’ve never seen a naked man before.”

Aldo’s response was lost in his own muttered Italian, his face aflame, as he clutched his coffee like a lifeline and fled the room before the storm could tease him further.

Behind him, Goffredo’s laughter followed, warm and relentless.

And somewhere, though he would never admit it, Aldo knew: the rules were not just ignored. They were ash.

Aldo fled the laundry room as though the very devil himself had risen from the washing machine. His slippers slapped against the tiles, his coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. By the time he reached the kitchen, his ears were burning scarlet, his face flushed as if he had run a mile.

He set the mug down harder than intended, pressing both palms flat against the counter, trying to will the color out of his cheeks.

You’ve never seen a naked man before, Goffredo’s laughter still echoed in his ears, maddening and warm.

He was muttering to himself—half in English, half in Italian, all of it curses—when he heard the soft pad of heavier footsteps behind him.

“Aldo.”

He turned.

Goffredo filled the doorway, still very much naked from the laundry room, save for a white towel slung low around his hips. His broad chest was bare, olive skin traced with silver hair, sweat still glistening at his collarbone. His beard was a little damp too, drops sliding down into the curve of his smile.

But the grin had softened now into something closer to sheepish.

“I didn’t mean to—” he gestured vaguely back down the hall, “—surprise you like that. I was only throwing in the last bit before I showered.” His voice was gentle, unusually so, the apology threaded through his words. “You weren’t supposed to be home. I swear I wasn’t… trying to scare you.”

Aldo’s jaw tightened. He crossed his arms over his chest as if to form a barrier, though it did little to hide the heat still creeping up his neck. “You could have… at least worn—” He gestured, exasperated, his hand flailing toward Goffredo’s towel. “—something.”

Goffredo’s grin threatened to return, but he tempered it, leaning against the archway, the towel riding lower than decency should allow. “At home, bello, I don’t usually wear anything for laundry. Midnight, no witnesses—why bother?” He shrugged, broad shoulders rolling easy. “You caught me in the middle of routine.”

Aldo pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “Routine. Dio mio.”

“Truly, Aldo,” Goffredo said, softer now, stepping closer, the humor giving way to sincerity. “I wasn’t trying to shock you. You startled me as much as I startled you.”

Their eyes met — Aldo’s dark and flustered, Goffredo’s warm, apologetic, though the corner of his mouth still twitched like he was fighting laughter.

Aldo huffed, snatching up his coffee again like a shield. “Just… finish your shower, Goffredo. Please.”

Goffredo inclined his head, mock-solemn. “As you wish.” He turned toward the hall again, towel swaying low on his hips, but glanced back once with a mischievous glint. “For the record, you look very handsome when you’re flustered.”

Aldo sputtered into his coffee, redder than ever.

And somewhere down the hall, Goffredo’s laugh rang again — low, thunderous, but threaded with apology still.

After Goffredo disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water muffled through the flat, Aldo gathered himself with a steadying breath. He wasn’t going to sit red-faced in the kitchen while his laundry lay waiting. No — order had to be restored somewhere.

He carried his basket into the laundry room, kneeling on the cool tile floor. Carefully, methodically, he began to sort: whites in one pile, colors in another. Shirts folded back, sweaters smoothed, trousers set aside. It was grounding, the rhythm of it. The domestic ritual that gave shape to his days.

By the time he set the last pair of trousers down, the washer beeped. Goffredo’s load was finished.

Aldo hesitated, lips pursed. It wasn’t his business. He could wait.

But then he thought of the chaos if Goffredo left the damp clothes sitting there until midnight again. The smell. The mildew. No, better to handle it now.

He opened the washer and began transferring the clothes into the dryer. One by one. Sweaters, dark and rumpled. Shirts still warm with the faint trace of bergamot and smoke. Trousers, socks — patterned socks, mismatched, loud. And then—

A pair of red socks.

Aldo froze.

He knew those socks. He owned those socks. He had worn them last week with his loafers. His eyes narrowed as he held them up, the betrayal burning in his chest.

Before he could march down the hall, the bathroom door opened, steam curling out, and Goffredo came tumbling in.

Fresh from the shower, hair damp and curling at the edges, his broad chest still glistening. And on his hips, clinging like sin, a pair of red boxers.

Aldo stared. Socks in hand. Boxers in sight.

Goffredo blinked, then grinned, sheepish but utterly unrepentant. “Ah. You found them.”

Aldo’s jaw worked. “Those—” he shook the socks for emphasis, voice sharp, “—are mine.”

“Yes,” Goffredo admitted, leaning against the doorframe, towel tossed carelessly over his shoulder. “But they looked better on me.”

Aldo went scarlet, sputtering, clutching the socks as if they were evidence in a trial. “You cannot—”

“—steal from you?” Goffredo cut in, grin widening. “Rule number three, bello. Catastrophically ignored. And food specific too.”

And then, with a wink and a flourish, he sauntered past Aldo, red boxers bold as a banner, leaving the storm of laughter trailing behind him.

Aldo stood rooted in place, socks clenched in his hand, wondering not for the first time if moving in with Goffredo Tedesco had been a grave and irreversible mistake.

Or something else entirely.

At first, Goffredo didn’t notice.

The navy cashmere was gone, but he shrugged it off, assuming it had slipped to the back of a drawer or into the laundry basket he hadn’t touched in days.

It wasn’t until a Tuesday at lunch in the faculty lounge that the truth finally hit him.

The room buzzed with chatter: Thomas and Raymond talking softly in one corner, Giulio scowling at his espresso, Mario scribbling something on the betting pool slip he kept tucked in his notebook. Aldo entered quietly, as he always did, tray in hand, and took his usual seat.

And there it was.

The navy blue cashmere. On Aldo.

The sweater hung a little loose on his smaller frame, sleeves just a fraction too long, shoulders slipping wider than they should — but he had rolled the cuffs neatly, collar crisp beneath it, and somehow, impossibly, it suited him. The soft navy against his olive-toned skin, the clean lines of his glasses, the quiet way he carried himself…

Goffredo froze mid-step, tray half-forgotten in his hands.

Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.

“Well, well, bello,” he drawled, dropping into the seat beside him, eyes fixed on the sweater. “I was wondering where that had gone.”

Aldo looked up, fork poised, tone dry as ever. “Perhaps you should take better care of your things.”

“Oh no, no, no,” Goffredo laughed, leaning closer, his voice warm enough to make Mario glance over curiously. “That’s my navy cashmere. And you’ve been hiding it from me.”

Aldo straightened, cheeks heating despite himself. “I wasn’t hiding anything. It was—” He hesitated, lips pressing into a thin line. “—folded into my pile by mistake.”

“By mistake?” Goffredo’s grin widened, wolfish. “Mm. I don’t believe you.”

Thomas coughed into his tea. Raymond hid a smile behind his glass. Giulio muttered something in Italian that sounded suspiciously like finally.

Aldo’s jaw tightened, but Goffredo wasn’t finished. He leaned back, eyes sweeping over him slowly, appreciatively.

“I’ll tell you what, piccolo.” His grin softened into something almost fond. “You look better in it than I ever did. Keep it. In fact—” he lowered his voice just enough for Aldo to hear, “—maybe I’ll start leaving more behind.”

The flush that rose up Aldo’s neck was immediate, his fork clattering against the plate.

And across the table, Mario quietly wrote something new on his betting slip, smirking like he’d just secured a win.

The table erupted the moment Aldo’s fork clattered against his plate.

Thomas, ever composed, lifted his tea with both hands, eyes dancing. “Well,” he said mildly, “if that isn’t the clearest evidence yet that Rule number two is in tatters, I don’t know what is.”

Raymond, lips curved with gentle amusement, leaned back in his chair. “It’s sweet, really. He cooks for you, you steal his clothes… there’s balance in it.”

Giulio snorted, sharp as ever. “Balance? No. Chaos. He looks like he’s drowning in that sweater, and yet—” he gestured with his espresso cup, brow raised, “—I haven’t seen him look more alive in months.”

Mario chuckled, jotting something down on his folded slip of paper. “And that’s the pot for me, gentlemen. Whoever bet they’d start trading clothes first — pay up.”

Aldo bristled, muttered something about dignity under his breath, and pushed his glasses higher on his nose. But the flush on his cheeks betrayed him, and the boys’ laughter followed him long after lunch was over.

The walk back to the flat was cool, Florence washed in gold from the late sun. Aldo walked briskly, hands in his coat pockets, head ducked slightly as though hoping the evening air might cool the warmth still burning on his face.

Beside him, Goffredo strolled easily, coat slung over his arm, entirely unbothered. His grin hadn’t dimmed since lunch.

“You know,” he began, tone light, almost conversational, “I wasn’t lying. That sweater does look better on you.”

Aldo’s jaw tightened. “It is hardly worth discussing.”

“It’s worth admiring, at least.” Goffredo’s eyes slid toward him, slow, deliberate. “The navy brings out your eyes. The sleeves — a little long, yes, but charmingly so. And the fit…” He let out a low hum, wickedly amused. “Loose, but not sloppy. Elegant, like you.”

Aldo shot him a glare sharp enough to kill. “It is your sweater.”

“Was my sweater.” Goffredo smirked. “Now it’s ours.”

Aldo stopped short on the cobblestones, turning to face him, outrage tightening his voice. “It is not—!”

“—ours?” Goffredo leaned down, just enough to let the word linger between them, teasing, intimate. His grin softened, eyes warm. “It looks like it wants to be.”

For a moment, Aldo was struck silent. The city moved around them — bicycles rattling past, students laughing across the square, bells tolling from a nearby church — but between them, there was only the hum of tension, the brush of possibility.

Then Aldo straightened, smoothed the cuff of the navy sleeve with deliberate precision, and marched on, muttering, “You’re insufferable.”

Goffredo’s laugh rang through the street, rich and unrepentant, as he fell into step beside him. Their shoulders brushed. Neither of them moved away.

By the time they reached the flat, the light outside had softened into dusk, the air cool enough that Aldo pulled the navy sweater tighter around himself as he set about dinner. The smell of garlic and tomatoes filled the air, the familiar rhythm of chopping and stirring steadying him after the chaos of the day.

Goffredo had disappeared down the hall with a towel slung over his shoulder, calling something about needing to rinse off the dust of the day. Aldo half-expected him to emerge in one of his loud, linen shirts, smug and unbothered as always.

But when the sound of the shower faded and footsteps returned, it wasn’t linen at all.

It was Goffredo. Boxers, nothing more. Skin still damp from the shower, silver-streaked hair curling at the ends, the towel now carelessly draped around his neck. He walked straight into the kitchen, bare as ever, humming low, utterly comfortable in his own skin.

And he stopped short.

Because at the stove, stirring the sauce with careful precision, stood Aldo — not in his usual pressed shirt, but in plaid pajama trousers and the grey university sweater that most certainly wasn’t his. The fabric hung a little loose, sleeves rolled up neatly at the wrists, collar tugged close against his neck. His glasses caught the glow of the overhead light, his focus entirely on the pot before him.

Goffredo’s chest shook with a chuckle, warm and surprised, his voice low with amusement. “Madonna santa, bello… first my cashmere, now my university sweater?”

Aldo turned sharply, wooden spoon in hand, brows knitting together as he caught him leaning in the doorway, bare-chested and grinning.

“Put on a shirt,” Aldo said firmly, though the faintest flush betrayed him. “Dinner’s ready.”

Goffredo only laughed, richer this time, stepping forward into the kitchen as if he belonged there — as if he always had.

And if Aldo’s hands lingered just a little too long on the sleeves of the sweater after that, smoothing the knit like it truly was his… well, Goffredo noticed. And he smiled.

It started with sweaters, but soon it became something else entirely.

Aldo found himself slipping into Goffredo’s things as if it were the most natural act in the world. At first it was the navy cashmere, then the grey university jumper, then a plain white t-shirt he had folded into his laundry by “mistake.” He told himself it was practicality — a matter of what was at hand, nothing more. But the truth was softer, stranger: the fabric was warm, worn, faintly scented of smoke and bergamot. They felt lived-in, alive.

And Goffredo never complained. In fact, sometimes he encouraged it — casually tossing a clean shirt onto Aldo’s bed, humming as though he knew it would look better there than in his own closet.

The thefts, of course, did not remain one-sided.

More and more, Goffredo left the flat in Aldo’s things: one of his scarves, knotted casually around his throat; an oversized shirt that hung loose on Aldo but fit him neatly; even one of Aldo’s ties, pulled snug at his throat for a faculty dinner, the silk entirely out of place against his broad chest.

The boys noticed immediately.

Thomas was the first to point it out, voice mild but eyes amused. “That scarf suits you, Goffredo. Though I seem to remember it belonging to Aldo.”

Giulio snorted into his espresso. “They’re raiding each other’s wardrobes now. Next, they’ll be trading shoes.”

Raymond smiled softly, shaking his head. “No shoes. But look at them—don’t they look… comfortable?”

Mario grinned, pen scratching across his folded betting slip. “This isn’t comfort, ragazzi. This is domesticity. Food, clothes—next it will be keys, then rings.”

It wasn’t just the boys’ imagination. In the lounge, the evidence was blatant. Aldo would appear in one of Goffredo’s button-downs, the cuffs rolled high, the fabric soft where it draped over him, looking better on his compact frame than it ever had on Goffredo’s broad one. Goffredo, in turn, would saunter in with Aldo’s scarf, or sit at the table with a tie everyone knew he hadn’t owned a week ago.

And through it all, neither man offered excuses. If anything, they leaned into it — Aldo tightening the knot of Goffredo’s “borrowed” tie before a lecture, Goffredo tugging the sleeves of his jumper up Aldo’s arms with a grin.

The boys exchanged looks over their lunches, the betting pool alive with scribbles.

“Domestic,” Thomas observed, sipping his tea.

“Catastrophic,” Giulio muttered.

“Adorable,” Raymond corrected, eyes twinkling.

Mario only smirked and tapped his pen. “My money’s still on next Sunday.”

And at the center of it, Aldo and Goffredo carried on as though stealing from one another — food, clothes, space — was as natural as breathing.

The rules weren’t just ignored anymore. They were gone.

It was late afternoon, the kind of hour when the sun slanted low through the tall faculty windows and turned the lounge golden. The kettle hissed on the sideboard, cups clinked against saucers, and the boys had gathered for their usual respite between lectures.

Goffredo was still in class, holding court over his students somewhere across the campus, which left Aldo alone with the others. A dangerous position.

He had just settled into a chair, tea in hand, when Giulio’s eyes narrowed over the rim of his espresso. “Is that another one of his sweaters?”

Aldo stiffened, glancing down at the soft grey cable knit draped across his shoulders. He adjusted his glasses. “It’s… comfortable.”

Thomas smirked, stirring his tea with practiced ease. “Comfortable, yes. But belonging to you? That’s debatable.”

Raymond leaned forward, smile kind but mischievous. “I seem to recall seeing that very sweater on Goffredo last winter. He wore it with that dreadful scarf, remember, Giulio?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Giulio muttered. Then, dry as ever: “Now it’s on Bellini, and it looks better. I’d say that’s theft, not borrowing.”

“I am not stealing,” Aldo snapped, sharper than he intended, his cheeks heating. “We live together. Things… get mixed in the laundry. It’s nothing more than—than convenience.”

Mario, lounging tall in his chair, arched a brow. “Convenience, eh? So that explains the scarf Tedesco’s been wearing. And the tie. And that oversized shirt of yours he wore like it was tailored for him.”

Aldo bristled. “He—he doesn’t ask! He just takes!”

Giulio smirked, wicked. “And you just happen to take back. Very balanced arrangement, no?”

The table chuckled, laughter spilling warm into the golden light. Aldo set his cup down with a clatter, lips pressed thin, ready to argue further. But before he could, Mario’s voice cut through the mirth, softer, steadier.

“It’s alright, Aldo.”

The room quieted, eyes turning to the Florentine. Mario’s gaze was steady, a faint smile softening his usual sharpness.

“I haven’t seen Goffredo this happy in years,” he said simply. “Not since…” He shook his head, leaning back. “It doesn’t matter when. What matters is now. And now—he’s lighter. He laughs. He sings while cooking. He makes an ass of himself over your rules, but he’s happy. It’s about time.”

Raymond’s eyes warmed. Thomas nodded faintly. Even Giulio’s expression softened, though he masked it quickly behind his cup.

Aldo, caught in the weight of their gazes, swallowed hard. His hands tightened on his knees beneath the table, but his voice, when it came, was quieter. “You think so?”

Mario’s smile widened, fond and unshakable. “I know so.”

And for the first time, Aldo didn’t argue. He only sat back, silent, the sweater warm against his skin — and in that silence, the truth settled heavier than any rule ever could.

Mario’s words still lingered in the air when the door creaked open.

The storm breezed in, all heat and presence — Goffredo Tedesco, fresh from class, his satchel slung over one shoulder, beard still damp from where he’d splashed water on his face. He glanced once around the table, caught the faintly guilty silence, and grinned like a man who knew exactly what they had been discussing.

“Talking about me again?” he boomed, shameless.

Before Aldo could cut in, Goffredo had already dropped into the seat beside him, thigh brushing his, the bench groaning under his weight. Without hesitation he reached for the cup nearest him — Aldo’s — and drained it in one long swallow.

Aldo scrunched his nose, appalled. “That was mine.”

“There was hardly anything left,” Goffredo said cheerfully, licking the last taste from his lips. “You didn’t need it.”

The boys were smirking now, exchanging glances over the rim of their cups.

Unbothered, Goffredo leaned back, draping one arm along the back of Aldo’s chair as if it belonged there. “Well then, bello, ready to go home?”

Aldo gathered his notes, muttering, “Yes.”

The word was simple. Ordinary. But the effect was immediate.

Across the table, Raymond’s brows lifted slightly, eyes twinkling. Thomas coughed into his tea to disguise his smile. Giulio arched a razor-sharp brow, the corner of his mouth twitching as though biting back a remark. And Mario — Mario leaned forward, eyes narrowing with satisfaction, as though the bet had just doubled in his favor.

Home.

The word glowed in the air between them like a spark catching dry kindling.

And Aldo, slipping his arm into his coat, didn’t even realize he had set himself on fire.

They left the lounge together, the boys’ knowing smiles following them out into the corridor. Aldo adjusted his coat, his steps brisk, while Goffredo ambled beside him with his satchel bouncing against his hip, humming low under his breath.

The evening light stretched long across the flagstones as they crossed the courtyard. Students passed in groups, laughing, bicycles clattering over the cobbles, the distant bells tolling vespers. And through it all, Goffredo kept close, shoulder brushing Aldo’s every few steps, as if proximity itself was an unconscious habit.

When they reached the street, Goffredo turned to him with that same wolfish grin, the one that seemed to burn straight through Aldo’s composure.

“Home,” he repeated softly, tasting the word. “Nice to have one, isn’t it?”

Aldo stopped mid-step, brows knitting, but before he could respond, Goffredo was already striding ahead, calling cheerfully over his shoulder, “I’m starving, bello. What’s for dinner?”

Aldo followed, lips pressed tight, the echo of Mario’s voice still warm in his ears: I haven’t seen Goffredo this happy in years.

At the corner, their shadows stretched together across the stones, indistinguishable from one another.

The rules, Aldo thought grimly, were gone.

And yet, for the first time, he wasn’t sure he minded.

They left the lounge together, the boys’ knowing smiles following them out into the corridor. Aldo adjusted his coat, his steps brisk, while Goffredo ambled beside him with his satchel bouncing against his hip, humming low under his breath.

The evening light stretched long across the flagstones as they crossed the courtyard. Students passed in groups, laughing, bicycles clattering over the cobbles, the distant bells tolling vespers. And through it all, Goffredo kept close, shoulder brushing Aldo’s every few steps, as if proximity itself was an unconscious habit.

When they reached the street, Goffredo turned to him with that same wolfish grin, the one that seemed to burn straight through Aldo’s composure.

“Home,” he repeated softly, tasting the word. “Nice to have one, isn’t it?”

Aldo stopped mid-step, brows knitting, but before he could respond, Goffredo was already striding ahead, calling cheerfully over his shoulder, “I’m starving, bello. What’s for dinner?”

Aldo followed, lips pressed tight, the echo of Mario’s voice still warm in his ears: I haven’t seen Goffredo this happy in years.

At the corner, their shadows stretched together across the stones, indistinguishable from one another.

The rules, Aldo thought grimly, were gone.

And yet, for the first time, he wasn’t sure he minded.

Chapter Text

It had been months since Goffredo first moved in, months since the rules — no smoking, no stealing food, no flirting — had been drafted, posted to the fridge, and then promptly dismantled one by one. Now, the paper still hung there, curling at the corners, less a code of law and more a joke between them, a relic of intentions long abandoned.

By now, their routines had melted into each other. Breakfasts were always Goffredo’s domain, dinners always Aldo’s. Sweaters, scarves, socks, and ties had migrated freely across wardrobes without further argument. Music trailed from one room into another like incense. They had stopped circling one another, and stopped avoiding each other. Now they moved together as if they’d been doing it for years.

Which was why, on a quiet Saturday morning, Aldo found himself at the kitchen table, glasses sliding down his nose, coffee in hand, while Goffredo — humming Sinatra, shirtless as usual, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants slung low on his hips — announced, with great seriousness, “I need a new bed.”

Aldo looked up, unimpressed. “Your bed is fine.”

“It squeaks,” Goffredo replied, dramatically stabbing a piece of melon with his fork. “Like an old church door. Every time I roll over, it sings. I can’t live like this, bello. I need a new one.”

“You don’t roll over,” Aldo muttered, sipping his coffee. “You sprawl.”

“Exactly,” Goffredo grinned, delighted. “Which is why I also need another bookshelf. The books are taking over. If I don’t contain them soon, they’ll breach the walls and take your room next.”

Aldo pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re being ridiculous.”

But Goffredo only leaned back in his chair, lazy and victorious, and declared, “We’re going to IKEA.”

Aldo set his cup down with a sigh, already dreading the flat-packed chaos that awaited them. “IKEA is chaos.”

“And so am I,” Goffredo said cheerfully, spearing another melon slice. “It’s destiny.”

“Fine,” Aldo relented, knowing resistance was pointless. “But if we’re signing treaties about furniture, I’m the one writing the fine print.”

Goffredo’s grin widened. “Ah, the Ikea Treaty. Excellent. Shall we shake on it, Professor Bellini?”

Aldo rolled his eyes, but when Goffredo extended his hand across the table, warm and calloused, he took it. Their fingers lingered longer than a treaty required.

And so the negotiations began.

They parted after breakfast to get ready, each retreating to their rooms. When Aldo emerged first, Goffredo nearly dropped his mug.

Aldo wore his dark denim button-down — technically, Goffredo’s dark denim button-down, stolen weeks ago and folded neatly into Aldo’s drawer as if it had always belonged there. The shirt hung loose but not sloppy, collar open low with no undershirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. Paired with light-wash denim trousers and brown loafers, he looked like a photograph out of 1993 — a composed, perfectly pressed 90’s dad who’d just stepped out for a Saturday errand.

And Goffredo, leaning in the doorway, swooned. Audibly. “Santo cielo,” he drawled, clutching his chest. “If you wanted to murder me with denim on denim, you’ve succeeded. Look at you. Bellissimo.”

Aldo furrowed his brows, tugging the cuff. “This is your shirt.”

“Not anymore,” Goffredo grinned, eyes sweeping him head to toe. “It has defected. It belongs to you now. Just—” his voice dipped, fond and amused, “—don’t be surprised when I propose to you in the lighting section.”

“Absolutely not,” Aldo muttered, adjusting his glasses, already flushing.

But when Goffredo appeared moments later, Aldo nearly dropped his composure.

The storm wore his navy overshirt — the one that was meant to fit oversized on Aldo, but on Goffredo it sat neatly across broad shoulders and strong arms, the fabric soft and lived-in. He paired it with light chinos and polished loafers, the very picture of an Italian uncle on summer holiday.

Aldo pointed immediately, scandalized. “That’s mine.”

Goffredo smirked, buttoning the cuff. “It was yours. Now it’s ours.”

Aldo muttered something in Italian under his breath and turned for the door.

IKEA was chaos from the moment they walked in.

The chaos had really started earlier, on the drive over.

The red Mini Cooper purred its way down the autostrada, the backseat crammed with tote bags, Aldo’s neatly folded catalogue, and Goffredo’s playlist rattling the speakers. Sinatra, then Mina, then Lucio Dalla — all of it loud, all of it sung along with zero restraint.

Aldo sat in the passenger seat, arms folded, muttering every time Goffredo swerved too close to the next lane. “You drive like you’re still in Venice,” he said tartly, clinging to the door handle.

“And yet we’re still alive,” Goffredo grinned, flicking on his indicator at the very last possible second. “Trust me, bello, I know what I’m doing.”

“You do not. You nearly killed us twice.”

“Twice?” Goffredo scoffed. “That was style, not danger. Don’t insult my art.”

Still, when the Mini finally pulled into the sprawling IKEA lot, Aldo’s sigh of relief was audible. Goffredo only laughed, thumping the steering wheel. “Ah, teamwork already. Couple’s road trip.”

Aldo glared at him. “This is not a road trip. It’s a furnishing errand.”

The bright blue bags, the carts with minds of their own, the endless aisles of impossible names — it was a battlefield.

“This one is called Flärden,” Goffredo read aloud, holding up a dish rack. “Say it out loud, bello, I dare you.”

Aldo ignored him, consulting the catalogue with studied seriousness. “We came here for a bed and a bookshelf. Nothing else.”

But within minutes, the cart was filling. Throw pillows, a lamp shaped like a crescent moon, another potted plant (“Nigel needs a friend!” Goffredo had declared), and an unnecessary set of glasses Aldo had plucked without realizing it.

The rug aisle nearly ended them.

Aldo stopped in front of a tightly woven grey rug, understated, neutral, “classic.” “This one will do,” he said decisively.

Goffredo laughed aloud, dragging him two steps over to a riot of colors and patterns, reds and blues colliding in dizzying swirls. “No, no, no. This one. Look at it — bold, alive! Like Venice!”

“It looks like nausea,” Aldo muttered, crossing his arms. “The grey is dignified. Practical.”

“Practical is boring.”

“Chaotic is ugly.”

They glared at each other over the rugs until a passing couple squeezed by, whispering, “They’re adorable.”

In the end, they compromised on a deep navy rug neither of them had considered, tossing it into the cart like a signed treaty. Goffredo declared it “a victory for democracy.” Aldo rolled his eyes, but secretly, he approved.

The bookshelves sparked their first true negotiation. Aldo argued for white — clean, understated, practical. Goffredo insisted on dark wood, bold, “something that looks like it could survive a Venetian flood.” They stood locked in debate for fifteen minutes until a passing employee offered, nervously, “We also have it in oak?”

The bed frame wasn’t easier. Aldo tested firmness, tapping wood as though it were a violin. Goffredo sprawled full-length across every mattress, sighing loudly, asking Aldo to “Join me, just for scale.” Aldo, mortified, refused — until Goffredo tugged him down by the wrist, and there they were, side by side on a queen-sized frame, a young couple passing by giggling behind their hands.

“See?” Goffredo murmured, grinning up at the ceiling. “We’re practically married now.”

Aldo sat bolt upright. “We are not.”

“You came to IKEA with me. That’s as binding as a church vow.”

By the time they reached the self-checkout, Aldo’s temples were throbbing, his composure frayed. The cart was piled high — that were more than just  bookshelves and the bed frame that they came for, there were linens, the rug, four down pillows, a ballster pillow,  the moon lamp, two unnecessary throw pillows shaped like fish, and, inexplicably, a stuffed shark Goffredo had named Cesare.

As Aldo scanned the receipt with a look of resignation, Goffredo leaned close, voice rich with amusement. “You realize, bello, this was our first couple shopping trip.”

Aldo gave him a withering look. “It was a treaty negotiation.”

“Same thing,” Goffredo said, shameless, tugging Cesare the shark under his arm.

And as they pushed the cart out into the late afternoon sun, Goffredo whistling, Aldo muttering about bankruptcy, one truth was undeniable: every rule they’d made had burned to ash, and in its place was something far more dangerous.

Something that looked suspiciously like home.

By the time the rug, the shelves, and the bed were settled, the sky outside had turned a heavy, slate grey. Rain splattered against the wide IKEA windows, thunder rolling low in the distance. The storm made escape impossible for the moment, so Aldo and Goffredo found themselves in the café, trays balanced, the air heavy with the scent of meatballs, fried fish, and cinnamon rolls.

They sat across from one another at a small table by the window. Aldo, composed as always, cut into his meatballs with knife and fork, every bite precise. Goffredo, sprawled in his chair, ate with noisy delight, stealing fries from his own plate one moment, then reaching without shame toward Aldo’s.

Aldo smacked his hand with a fork. “Don’t you dare.”

“You’ll give me one,” Goffredo grinned, leaning back as if he’d already won.

“Or I won’t,” Aldo muttered, though the flush at his ears betrayed him. Still, when Goffredo’s fork hovered dangerously close again, Aldo sighed and, before thinking too hard about it, speared a meatball and held it out across the table. “One. Only one.”

The storm’s grin split wide, warm, as he leaned forward and took the bite straight from Aldo’s fork, his lips brushing just a fraction too close to the metal. “Delizioso,” he said, voice thick with both praise and mischief.

Aldo stared down at his plate, mortified, pretending he had not just fed a seventy-two-year-old storm like a man indulging a child.

Not to be outdone, Goffredo speared one of his fries, held it aloft. “Trade.”

“I don’t want your fries.”

“Take one anyway.” He pushed it closer, grinning when Aldo finally, reluctantly, leaned in and took the offering. Before Aldo could retreat, Goffredo added a small piece of fried fish onto his fork and slid it across the table. “This too. Balance, bello.”

Their fingers brushed when Aldo accepted it, his brows furrowed as if to disguise the small, guilty smile tugging at his lips.

By the time the cinnamon roll arrived — hot, sticky, glazed to perfection — they were leaning closer, sharing it directly from the tray. Goffredo tore a piece with his hands, laughing when the glaze clung to his fingers. He licked it away with exaggerated flourish, earning a horrified sigh from Aldo, who tore his own piece neatly with fork and knife.

When his own fingers caught a bit of icing, Goffredo reached across with a napkin, wiping it gently, his thumb grazing Aldo’s knuckles in a way that felt far too tender for the fluorescent-lit café.

A table nearby giggled quietly. A young couple watched them openly, whispering behind their hands. Aldo caught the sight of it, stiffened, but Goffredo only leaned closer, utterly unbothered, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“You see?” he murmured low, warm as thunder. “We look like them. Cute.”

Before Aldo could object, Goffredo stole a kiss — quick, soft, sticky with cinnamon and sugar.

Aldo pulled back sharply, ears scarlet, lips parted in outrage. “You—”

“—broke Rule number two?” Goffredo finished, chuckling low as he leaned back in his chair, entirely pleased with himself. “Catastrophically.”

And Aldo, though he scowled furiously into his coffee, did not tell him to stop.

The rain came heavier, rattling against the broad café windows, the hum of the storm muffling the clatter of trays and the chatter of families around them. Neither seemed in any hurry to leave.

Aldo nursed the last of his coffee, savoring what little remained. He set the cup down for just a moment — only for Goffredo to reach across the table, long fingers curling around it, and finish it in one swallow.

Aldo’s brows shot up. “That was mine.”

“And now it’s ours,” Goffredo said cheerfully, wiping the rim with his thumb, utterly unapologetic. He set the cup down between them like a victory flag, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Addendum A,” he announced solemnly. “If trapped by rain, flirting is technically meteorology.”

Aldo nearly choked. “That’s absurd.”

“Absurd, but binding,” Goffredo countered, leaning across the table, shoulders crowding the space, storm-warmth and sugar on his breath. “Which means…” He tilted his head, grin curving, “another kiss.”

He was close enough now that Aldo could see the flecks of silver in his beard, the faintest crinkle at the corner of his eyes. Close enough that the young couple at the next table had stopped pretending not to watch, their hands pressed to their mouths in delight.

But just as Goffredo closed the distance, Aldo moved first — a sharp, precise hand against his mouth, halting him inches away. Their eyes locked, brown against dark.

“No,” Aldo said firmly, voice low, steady despite the flush painting his ears.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Goffredo smiled. Not his usual grin, not his wolfish smirk — but something smaller, almost boyish, soft with fondness. He leaned back slowly, conceding, though his eyes lingered with a warmth that made Aldo’s stomach twist.

“Denied,” he murmured, chuckling under his breath. “But you’ll let me win next time.”

Aldo pressed his lips together, turned back to the rain streaking the window. He said nothing.

And yet, across the table, Goffredo sat smiling like a boy who had already won.

And then, instead of retreating across the table, he stood and pulled out the chair beside Aldo, sinking into it with a rustle of denim and linen. He sat almost turned toward him, one arm draped lazily along the back of Aldo’s chair.

It wasn’t much — just enough space offered, just enough presence — and Aldo, without thinking, tucked himself into it. His shoulder found the breadth of Goffredo’s chest, his posture easing into the curve of him as if guided there by instinct alone.

They sat like that, watching the rain blur the parking lot into watercolor, the world outside melting away.

And when Aldo finally turned his head, it was only to find Goffredo already watching him. Their noses nearly brushed with the sudden intimacy of proximity, the air between them warm and charged.

Goffredo didn’t waste a second. He stole the kiss, quick and warm.

The couple across the café gasped quietly, giddy.

Aldo did not pull away.

So Goffredo leaned in again, slower this time, lingering — and when Aldo let him, when he didn’t even try to stop it, the smile that spread across Goffredo’s face was brighter than any storm outside.

Their noses brushed again, the space between them barely a breath, and then Goffredo closed it once more. The kiss wasn’t quick nor long, it was just… warm — just the faintest press of lips, more a test than a conquest.

Aldo froze, every muscle taut, the storm outside rumbling low. But he didn’t pull away.

Goffredo lingered, watching him, eyes soft with a question that had no words. And when Aldo didn’t move, when he stayed there tucked against his chest, Goffredo leaned in again — slower this time, surer, lips brushing his with deliberate care.

Aldo let him.

The kiss deepened by a shade, unhurried, almost tender. Aldo’s lashes fluttered once, his hand tightening slightly on the edge of the table, but still he didn’t pull back.

At the next table, the young couple gasped softly, one of them clutching the other’s arm, grinning wide as though they’d stumbled upon a scene from a film. They whispered furiously, eyes bright, unable to look away.

And Goffredo — pulling back just enough to look at Aldo, to see the faint flush high on his cheekbones, the way his lips parted as though words might come but didn’t — smiled.

Not his wolfish grin, not the storm-uncle smirk, but the boyish one. The one he hadn’t worn in years.

Like he’d been waiting for this moment all his life.

And when he leaned in once more, brushing another kiss against the corner of Aldo’s mouth, and Aldo still didn’t stop him, the smile only widened.

The third kiss ended with Aldo pulling back just enough to scowl, lips pressed tight, ears scarlet. It was half indignation, half self-preservation — but all it did was make Goffredo smile wider, softer, the storm of him settling into something boyish and impossibly fond.

“Don’t look at me like that, bello,” he murmured. “You let me.”

Aldo muttered something unintelligible under his breath, reaching for his coat as if it might shield him from the heat climbing up his neck.

Goffredo chuckled, pushed his chair back, and with a flourish of practiced ease, pulled Aldo gently out of his seat. He slung an arm over his shoulders, tucking him in close, and steered him toward the door.

The storm was still raging, rain slanting hard across the parking lot, puddles swelling under the glow of the lamps. They braved it together, Goffredo shielding Aldo beneath his arm as if his broad frame could hold the weather at bay, guiding him toward the little red Mini waiting like a lifeline.

By the time they clambered inside, both damp at the edges, breath quickened from the sprint, the world narrowed into something small and close. The rain drummed hard against the roof, a relentless rhythm, as Goffredo turned the key.

The Mini purred to life, wipers smearing arcs across the windshield. Goffredo flicked on the radio, and the speakers filled with old love songs — Nat King Cole, then Sinatra, the velvet warmth of voices long gone but eternal.

Neither of them spoke.

The quiet was charged, humming, not even pretending anymore. Goffredo tapped the steering wheel in time with the music, humming low, his smile still lingering in the corner of his mouth. Aldo sat stiff in the passenger seat, arms folded, but his eyes betrayed him — fixed not on the road, not on the rain, but on the faint reflection of Goffredo’s grin in the window.

The rules, Aldo thought grimly, were gone. Utterly, irretrievably gone.

And still, he didn’t tell him to change the music.

By the time the Mini rolled into their street, the rain had slowed to a steady drizzle. They ran the last stretch, coats pulled tight, shoes splashing through puddles, until they tumbled into the flat, damp and flushed from the weather.

Aldo shook out his coat with brisk efficiency, hanging it on the rack with practiced precision. Goffredo tossed his own coat over the back of a chair, already tugging at his cuffs, humming as if the storm outside had only been a minor inconvenience.

Dinner was simple — pasta, bread, a bottle of wine opened with a pop that echoed softly through the kitchen. They ate at the table by the window while one of Goffredo’s vinyls spun in the background, Bobby Goldsboro’s voice drifting warm and low:

“See the tree, how big it’s grown…”

The song wrapped itself around them like memory.

Nigel, perched faithfully on the balcony ledge, was no longer alone. A small rosemary plant — “Frank,” Goffredo had declared at IKEA with an entirely straight face — now sat beside him, their pots angled like companions in conversation. Aldo pretended not to roll his eyes when Goffredo toasted Nigel and Frank with a piece of bread.

Afterward, Aldo tried to reclaim his composure with the dishes, sleeves rolled, hands precise in the suds. But Goffredo was there at his side, towel slung over one shoulder, humming along to the vinyl as he dried plates. Every so often, he leaned too close, brushing Aldo’s arm or shoulder, singing just loud enough to make Aldo mutter, “You’re insufferable,” though his lips betrayed the faintest smile.

When the kitchen was finally in order, they carried the boxes into the living room.

The bookshelves came first, two tall frames pressed against opposite walls. One for Aldo’s neat rows of literature and lecture notes, spines aligned with military precision. One for Goffredo’s chaos — theology tomes stacked sideways, poetry volumes leaning drunkenly, vinyl sleeves tucked between them like afterthoughts.

The crescent moon lamp found its home on the corner table, casting a soft glow that spilled across the rug they’d chosen in uneasy compromise. The navy suited the room better than either would admit.

They unrolled the rug beneath the coffee table, smoothing it flat together, four hands brushing in the process. The new throw pillows — fish-shaped and utterly ridiculous — found their place on the couch, Cesare the shark lounging proudly among them as though he owned the space.

Finally, Aldo draped the new throw blanket carefully along the back of the couch, standing back with his arms crossed, eyes surveying the room like a commander assessing his troops.

Goffredo, standing beside him, let out a long, low whistle. “Madonna santa, look at that. It almost looks like a home.”

Aldo’s lips twitched, but he didn’t correct him.

The rain still whispered against the windows, Bobby Goldsboro crooned on, and the flat — their flat — looked lived in at last.

The living room smelled faintly of rain and cardboard by midnight. Flat-pack boxes were stacked against the walls, hex keys and screws scattered across the coffee table, manuals folded open like battle plans.

Goffredo, predictably, had abandoned his shirt within minutes. He stood barefoot in sweatpants, chest gleaming with the sheen of effort, a screwdriver gripped in one hand like a weapon.

Aldo, seated primly on the rug, glasses sliding down his nose, held the manual open as though it were sacred scripture. His expression was grim, his voice clipped. “Step five, Goffredo. Insert the wooden dowels into the side rails. Not—” he snapped as Goffredo jammed a screw into the wrong slot, “—there.”

Goffredo peered down at him, grinning. “You make it sound like a papal bull. Dowel here, dowel there—what’s the difference?”

“The difference is that if you don’t listen, this bed will collapse the first time you sprawl across it like a dying saint,” Aldo shot back, jabbing the page with one finger. “Follow the instructions.”

“You mean your instructions.”

“They are the same thing.”

It was ridiculous, the way they moved: Goffredo crouching to lift heavy panels with ease, Aldo darting in to align pieces with surgical precision. Every mistake earned a muttered curse in Italian, every correction a triumphant huff in English.

At one point, Goffredo lay flat on the floor, holding two slats in place with his arms spread wide, groaning theatrically. “Go on, bello, put me in the manual—Saint Goffredo, Martyr of IKEA.”

“Martyr of idiocy,” Aldo muttered, kneeling to secure the slats with a wrench. Their knees brushed, and for a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Goffredo chuckled low, and Aldo shoved his glasses higher on his nose, pretending it hadn’t happened.

By two in the morning, the frame stood assembled, solid and square. Goffredo sprawled across it instantly, testing it with a loud sigh, arms flung wide like a man who had just conquered Rome.

“It doesn’t squeak!” he declared, grinning triumphantly. “You see? A miracle.”

Aldo stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, lips pursed as if considering whether the miracle was worth the hours of torment. His eyes flicked over the room: the navy rug, the moon lamp glowing softly, Cesare the shark sprawled on the couch, Nigel and Frank perched on the balcony. Their books, their things, side by side.

It no longer looked like his flat or Goffredo’s chaos.

It looked like theirs.

Goffredo tilted his head, watching him. “What’s that look, piccolo?”

“Nothing,” Aldo said quickly, too quickly. He turned toward the door. “Wash your hands before you sleep. You smell like sawdust.”

But Goffredo only laughed, the sound rolling after him down the hall, warm and unrepentant.

And the new bed — their midnight miracle — creaked once under the weight of his laughter, as if christened by it.

Goffredo lay spread across the new bed, arms thrown wide, grin bright as a boy’s. “Solid as a rock,” he declared, patting the mattress. “No squeaks, no groans. Perfect.”

Aldo stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, trying to look unimpressed though his hair was mussed from hours of wrangling flat-pack chaos. “I suppose it will do,” he said primly. “Now wash up. It’s late.”

But Goffredo’s grin sharpened. “Not until you test it with me.”

Aldo’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” Goffredo coaxed, patting the space beside him. “One roll across, a little bounce—pure science. We built it together, bello, you should share the glory.”

“I am not sharing a bed with you.”

“Not sharing—testing.” Goffredo leaned up on one elbow, eyes dancing with mischief. “Big difference.”

“No.” Aldo turned to leave, but before he could take a step, a strong hand shot out, catching his wrist.

“Goffredo—”

With a laugh, Goffredo tugged hard, and Aldo toppled forward onto the mattress with a startled yelp. Glasses askew, dignity gone, he landed half across Goffredo’s chest.

“Madonna—!” Aldo scrambled, but Goffredo’s arms wrapped around him in an instant, broad and solid, pinning him down with the ease of a man who had never once lost a brawl.

“Now, piccolo,” Goffredo crowed, hugging him tight as Aldo flailed, “tell me—is it sturdy?”

“Let me go!” Aldo sputtered, kicking futilely against the mattress. “You’re insufferable!”

“I’m affectionate,” Goffredo corrected, grinning as he rolled them slightly so Aldo was caged between his arms. “Big difference.”

Aldo’s protests only grew louder, his voice sharp, his words snapping—but each time he bucked against Goffredo’s hold, his laughter spilled through, unwilling, unrestrained.

And soon it was laughter on both sides — Goffredo’s booming and unrepentant, Aldo’s caught between outrage and delight, muffled against his shoulder.

The new bed, christened not by silence but by laughter, held beneath them without so much as a creak.

“See?” Goffredo gasped finally, still chuckling, arms firm around him. “Perfect.”

Aldo, breathless and red-faced, shoved at his chest, though he made no serious attempt to wriggle free. “You’re impossible.”

Goffredo smiled down at him, warm and boyish and utterly unrepentant. “And you’re mine.”

Aldo scowled — but his lips twitched, betraying him.

And in that moment, as laughter settled into quiet, the new bed had already become theirs.

Aldo wriggled uselessly, still caged in Goffredo’s arms, his laughter caught between outrage and surrender. “Let me go,” he demanded, breathless, glasses crooked.

“Not unless you give me a kiss,” Goffredo said, grinning wickedly, tightening his hold like a lock.

Aldo froze, blinking up at him. “You’re mad.”

“Yes,” Goffredo agreed, eyes gleaming. “Mad, and patient. I can wait all night.”

They wrestled like boys for another moment, laughter spilling between them, until Aldo, flushed and exasperated, sighed. “Fine. One kiss. Then you let me go.”

“Deal.”

Aldo leaned in quickly, brushing the lightest peck across Goffredo’s lips. It was chaste, awkward, as fleeting as possible. He pulled back immediately, cheeks burning. “There. Now release me.”

Goffredo’s grin widened. “That wasn’t a kiss.”

“It was.”

“It was a draft,” he teased, eyes darkening with something warmer. “Not binding. Do it again. Properly this time.”

Aldo groaned, covering his face with one hand, but Goffredo only laughed, waiting. And somewhere between laughter and defeat, Aldo relented.

He leaned in again — firmer, surer, pressing his mouth to Goffredo’s. It was meant to be brief, a quick concession, just enough to satisfy the storm.

But Goffredo was quicker.

Before Aldo could pull back, Goffredo deepened it, slow and sure, one hand sliding to cradle the back of his neck. The kiss lingered, stretched, drew out a silence between them that hummed louder than the rain outside.

By the time Aldo broke away, breath caught in his throat, both of them knew it had lasted longer than either would admit.

Goffredo’s smile was boyish now, soft around the edges, eyes alight with something dangerous. “That was a kiss.”

Aldo, red to the ears, muttered, “You’re impossible.”

But his lips tingled still, and when Goffredo finally loosened his hold, Aldo didn’t move away as quickly as he should have.

When Goffredo finally loosened his hold, Aldo scrambled up, smoothing his shirt, pushing his glasses higher, as though sheer neatness might restore his composure.

“I’m going to bed,” he said, voice clipped, though his ears burned scarlet.

“Good idea,” Goffredo murmured, sprawling back across the new mattress like a king surveying his conquest. “Don’t forget to dream about me.”

Aldo shot him a withering glare — one that faltered when he caught the boyish grin tugging at Goffredo’s lips. Without another word, he turned sharply and fled the room, footsteps quickly down the hallway.

Inside his own bedroom, he closed the door, leaned against it, and exhaled. His heart thudded against his ribs, each beat echoing with the memory of warm lips, of a hand cradling the back of his neck, of laughter breaking into something deeper.

He stripped out of his clothes mechanically, folded them neatly, slid beneath the covers. The flat was quiet now, save for the rain still whispering against the glass and the faint, muffled hum of Goffredo’s voice carrying through the wall — some old song, half-sung, half-remembered.

Aldo turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. He pressed his lips together, but the taste lingered: wine, cinnamon sugar, and something distinctly, dangerously Goffredo.

He closed his eyes, but sleep did not come.

Because every time he shifted, every time he tried to quiet his mind, he could still feel it — the heat of that kiss, longer than it should have been, deeper than he dared admit, burning like a secret under his skin.

And though he would never confess it — not even to himself — Aldo Bellini fell asleep that night with the storm in his veins.

Chapter Text

Weeks passed after the IKEA trip, after the storm-stranded café, after that kiss that lasted too long and not long enough. The rules pinned to the refrigerator had become nothing but a curling joke, forgotten and ignored. Rule No. 2 had burned to ash, Rule No. 3 was a living disaster, and whatever remained of Rule No. 1 lay in shreds at Goffredo’s feet.

Because now there was no denying it: they were closer than ever.

Breakfast still belonged to Goffredo, who hummed old love songs into his cappuccino foam and stole fruit from Aldo’s plate like a tax collector. Dinner still belonged to Aldo, who muttered about proportion and seasoning while Goffredo leaned against the counter, shamelessly stealing kisses whenever he thought he could get away with it.

Sometimes he was playful, pressing quick kisses to Aldo’s cheek just to hear him mutter ‘basta’. Sometimes he was deliberate, lingering against his lips until Aldo’s protests weakened into silence. And sometimes — more dangerous still — he was bold.

One evening, Aldo was bent over the stove, wooden spoon in hand, stirring a simmering sauce. He didn’t hear the door open, didn’t hear it close, didn’t hear the shuffle of shoes on the mat.

He only noticed when warmth stepped into his space, chest pressed to his back, breath brushing the side of his ear—

—and lips pressed against the curve of his neck. Soft, deliberate, devastating.

Aldo startled, nearly spilling the sauce, heart lurching violently. “Goffredo!”

The storm only chuckled against his skin, the vibration low and shameless. “Buonasera, bello.”

“You—” Aldo’s voice caught, too high, too breathless. He gripped the spoon tighter, refusing to turn, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Goffredo murmured, pressing another kiss just below the first, slower, more dangerous. “And I will.”

Aldo closed his eyes, willing composure back into his body even as his breath betrayed him. He stirred the sauce as though the act alone could anchor him, though the spoon shook faintly in his hand.

And behind him, Goffredo only smiled, as if kissing him in the kitchen was the most natural clause in their unwritten treaty.

If Goffredo was relentless before, he was positively shameless now. He stole kisses in doorways, brushed his fingers along Aldo’s when handing him coffee, leaned a little too close in the faculty lounge until Thomas muttered dryly about “students noticing.”

But his boldest gesture came one Thursday afternoon when he strode into the flat, grinning like a man who had won a lottery.

Two tickets fluttered in his hand.

“Juventus,” he announced, waving them dramatically. “This weekend. Florence versus Turin. I’ve secured us the best seats. You, me, the crowd, the chaos—what could be better?”

Aldo looked up from his stack of papers at the dining table, unimpressed. “Football? You want me to sit in a stadium full of screaming fans, rain or shine, for ninety minutes?”

“Yes,” Goffredo said cheerfully, tossing one ticket onto his papers. “Ninety minutes of glory. And beer. And hotdogs.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“It’s not dignified.”

“Neither are you in my sweaters, bello, but here we are,” Goffredo teased, leaning down until their noses nearly brushed. “Say yes.”

It took days of pestering — gentle nudges at breakfast, dramatic sighs at dinner, stolen kisses punctuating every plea — until finally, exasperated and red to the ears, Aldo muttered, “Fine. I’ll go. Once.”

Goffredo whooped so loudly Cesare the shark nearly fell off the couch.

The stadium was a storm of noise — scarves waving, drums beating, chants rolling like thunder. Goffredo was in his element, shouting along with the crowd, laughing, bumping shoulders with strangers like they were old friends. Aldo sat primly at his side, scarf looped neatly around his neck (a gift Goffredo had bought him at the gate), lips pressed into a thin line — until Juventus scored.

The roar of the crowd swept him up. He rose, almost against his will, cheering, hands lifted. Goffredo whooped beside him, grinning wide, one arm slinging around his shoulders as if it belonged there. For a moment, swept in the tide of voices, Aldo let himself lean in.

By the time they left the stadium, the sky had cracked wide open. Rain poured down in sheets, drenching the streets, flattening hair, plastering clothes to skin.

They sprinted together through the chaos, weaving between crowds and puddles, laughter spilling between them, Goffredo’s hand firm at the small of Aldo’s back.

But halfway to the car, Goffredo slowed, tugging Aldo back by the wrist.

“What are you doing?” Aldo barked, glasses streaked with rain, the water’s thick rivulets sliding from his bare scalp.

“Playing,” Goffredo grinned, and before Aldo could object, he spun him in the middle of the flooded street.

Aldo stumbled, indignant, but the sound that burst out of him was laughter, bright and startled, cut loose into the storm. Goffredo caught him again, steadying him, then twirled him once more, clumsier, wetter, utterly shameless.

They splashed through puddles like boys, shirts clinging, shoes ruined, thunder rolling above them. Couples hurried past with umbrellas, shaking their heads but smiling, muttering about pazzi innamorati under the storm.

And then, breathless and soaked, Aldo pushed at Goffredo’s chest, laughing and scowling all at once. “You’re ridiculous!”

“Yes,” Goffredo said, pulling him closer still, “and you love it.”

Before Aldo could deny it, Goffredo kissed him.

Not in the car, not in the safety of the Mini, but right there in the rain.

The kiss was full, fierce, and soaked — water dripping down their faces, thunder muffling the rush of their hearts. And for the first time, Aldo didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, kissed back with equal weight, his hand curling in Goffredo’s soaked shirt as if the storm had swept away every wall.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, Goffredo pressed his forehead to Aldo’s, grinning like a boy caught stealing.

“Finalmente,” he whispered against the rain.

And Aldo — soaked, shivering, smiling despite himself — didn’t argue.

They ran the last stretch to the car together, laughing, the kiss still warm between them even as the rain poured down harder.

By the time they tumbled into the red Mini, both were soaked through — shirts plastered to their skin, trousers heavy with rain, hair dripping in rivulets. The windows fogged almost instantly, the heater blowing warm against their chilled faces as Goffredo turned the key.

The car purred to life, wipers fighting the downpour, and the radio spilled into the silence: old love songs, velvet voices crooning about forever. Sinatra, Nat King Cole, the kind of music Goffredo always claimed was the only proper soundtrack for living.

For once, Aldo didn’t argue.

The silence stretched, thick but warm, not awkward — charged. Aldo sat staring out the rain-slicked window, glasses catching faint halos of the passing streetlamps. Beside him, Goffredo drummed his fingers lightly against the wheel, his grin soft, boyish.

Halfway home, his free hand slid from the gearshift, reaching across the console.

Aldo looked down, breath caught — and then, without hesitation, set his hand into Goffredo’s.

Their fingers fit easily, damp and warm, palms pressed close. Neither spoke. Neither needed to. The music filled the silence for them.

When they finally reached the flat, the storm still growling above, they stumbled inside dripping and breathless. The door clicked shut behind them, coats falling in wet heaps to the floor.

And before Aldo could even think of stepping out of his shoes, Goffredo caught him by the wrist, tugged him close, and kissed him.

Not quick, not stolen, not playful. Deep. Hungry. Fierce.

Aldo didn’t resist. His hand found the back of Goffredo’s neck, tugging him closer still, answering kiss for kiss, fierce for fierce, the rain outside muffling into nothing as their world narrowed into heat and breath and lips.

When they finally broke apart, both gasping, Goffredo pressed his forehead to Aldo’s again, eyes dark and bright all at once.

“Home,” he murmured.

And Aldo, flushed and trembling, kissed him again.

Morning came softened by pale light, the storm spent, the city washed clean. The flat smelled faintly of damp wool and coffee grounds, the evidence of last night’s chaos strewn everywhere: shoes by the door, coats dripping on the rack, Cesare the shark abandoned on the couch as though he too had been caught in the rain.

Aldo woke in his own bed, though for the first time in weeks he couldn’t recall how he’d made it there. What he did remember—too vividly—was the kiss. The way Goffredo had pressed him against the door, the warmth of his hands, the hunger in his mouth. The way he had kissed him back, no hesitation, no excuses.

His lips tingled at the memory.

In the kitchen, he found Goffredo already at work, humming over the cappuccino machine, bare-chested under a loose pair of trousers. “Buongiorno, bello,” he said easily, as though nothing at all had changed.

Aldo stiffened, but didn’t flee. He sat at the table, tugged the newspaper closer, and muttered, “You’re insufferable.”

“Affectionate,” Goffredo corrected, sliding a steaming cup in front of him, followed by a plate of crostini. “Big difference.”

It should have ended there, just their usual routine—if not for the faint sound Aldo made when he cleared his throat.

A sniffle.

Goffredo froze mid-hum, eyes narrowing. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Aldo said quickly, reaching for his cup. His nose twitched again, betraying him with another soft sniffle.

Goffredo leaned across the table, grin sharp. “Ahhh, Rule Seven—The Sick Day Clause. Activated.”

“There is no Rule Seven,” Aldo said flatly.

“There is now,” Goffredo replied, already rising. He rummaged in the cupboard, produced honey and lemon, then returned with the triumphant air of a general delivering reinforcements. “You’re mine today. No classes. No debates. Only blankets, tea, and me.”

“I’m fine,” Aldo protested, though his voice was already thick around the edges.

“Of course you are,” Goffredo said indulgently, already reaching to brush his damp forehead with the back of his hand. “Fine and sniffly, like an adorable hedgehog. Don’t argue.”

Aldo pressed his lips together, flustered, but didn’t push him away.

And so the Sick Day Clause—never drafted, never agreed upon—slipped into effect.

Goffredo bustling about the flat, fussing with blankets and tea, Aldo pretending to grumble while secretly softening under the storm of attention. And between them, the memory of last night’s kiss still pulsed warm and undeniable, stronger than any rule could contain.

By midafternoon, Aldo’s insistence that he was fine had already begun to crumble. His voice was hoarse, his forehead hot beneath Goffredo’s hand, and when he tried to stand to tidy the kitchen, he swayed just enough that Goffredo caught his elbow with a smug, “Aha.”

“You’re overreacting,” Aldo muttered, though his knees had gone soft under him.

“No,” Goffredo said, guiding him firmly toward the couch. “I’m enforcing policy.”

Aldo blinked, frowning. “What policy?”

With great ceremony, Goffredo strode to the refrigerator, plucked the curling paper of The Rules from beneath the magnet, and scribbled across the bottom with a thick marker. He turned it, triumphant, for Aldo to see:

Rule #7: The Sick Day Clause — If one is ill, the other makes soup.
(underlined twice, highlighted in yellow)

Aldo’s brows shot up. “That was not in the original agreement.”

“It is now.” Goffredo slapped the page back onto the fridge, grinning. “Democracy.”

“Dictatorship,” Aldo grumbled, tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

But when Goffredo appeared minutes later with a steaming pot of broth, the scent of garlic and herbs curling through the room, Aldo didn’t complain again.

By the next morning, the fever was undeniable. Aldo lay pale against the pillows, glasses folded on the table, sweat beading at his temples. Every attempt to rise was thwarted by Goffredo’s broad hand against his chest, pressing him gently but firmly back down.

“You’re unbearable,” Aldo whispered hoarsely.

“Affectionate,” Goffredo corrected, spooning broth carefully to his lips. “Big difference.”

For three days, the flat was ruled by the Sick Day Clause.

Goffredo brewed tea, kept the pot of soup simmering, and swapped cool cloths against Aldo’s forehead. He hovered shamelessly, scolding when Aldo tried to protest, coaxing when Aldo tried to refuse food, and—once, when Aldo’s fever spiked in the night—sitting at the edge of the bed, humming Moon River softly until Aldo’s breathing eased.

By nightfall, Aldo was no longer pretending. The fever had taken him down fully: cheeks flushed, his bald head all clammy, his breaths uneven as he shifted restlessly beneath the blanket.

Goffredo moved around the flat like a man on campaign, invoking Clause 7 with absolute authority. The soup pot never left the stove; steam and garlic filled the air, bowls carried in and out like offerings. A cool cloth was laid across Aldo’s brow, replaced again and again with patient rhythm.

Each time, Goffredo bent close, brushing his lips against Aldo’s forehead with exaggerated seriousness. “Thermometer check,” he muttered, deadpan.

Aldo gave a weak laugh, too tired to scold, eyelids fluttering shut again.

When the flat finally fell quiet, Goffredo did not retreat to his own bed. He settled into the couch beside Aldo, stretched long and solid, one hand resting lightly against his arm as though to tether him.

“Resto qui,” he whispered into the dark. I’ll stay here.

Aldo, half-asleep, barely conscious, murmured back without thinking. “Grazie, baby.”

The word hung between them, fragile and devastating.

Goffredo froze, heart leaping, then softened into stillness. He didn’t tease, didn’t laugh — just smiled into the shadows, brushing a gentle thumb over Aldo’s knuckles.

Rule #2 exploded quietly in the dark, and neither of them would ever take it back.

The next two days blurred into a soft, fevered haze.

Aldo spent them mostly in his bedroom, tucked under layers of blankets, glasses folded on the nightstand, Cesare the shark clutched against his chest like a silent companion. His fever waxed and waned, but through it all, Goffredo remained — the storm subdued into something steady, attentive, impossible to shake.

Every few hours, he appeared with another bowl of soup, coaxing spoonfuls past Aldo’s stubborn lips. “Eat, piccolo,” he would murmur, voice gentled into velvet. “It’ll make you strong again.”

Aldo would roll his eyes weakly, but he ate.

When the soup was finished, there was tea, honey swirling gold at the bottom. Goffredo held the cup to his lips, steadying it with one broad hand, as though Aldo were too precious to risk a single spill.

Sometimes, when Aldo drifted in and out of sleep, he’d wake to the low rumble of Goffredo humming — old love songs, lullabies half-remembered, bits of Moon River or Nat King Cole, threading through the quiet like a heartbeat.

And always, when the fever spiked, there was the cool press of a cloth against his forehead… followed by a kiss masquerading as a “temperature check.”

By the second night, Aldo stopped protesting.

Once, half-dreaming, his lips slipped before his reason could catch them. “Grazie, baby,” he whispered, clutching Cesare in one arm and Goffredo’s sleeve in the other.

The storm smiled, brushed the damp hair back from his brow. “Sempre, bello,” he whispered back.

The bed, usually Aldo’s fortress of solitude, became a nest of comfort. Cesare sprawled between them, sometimes used as a pillow, sometimes hugged so tightly Aldo’s knuckles whitened. And more than once, when sleep pressed him into fever dreams, Aldo reached not for the shark but for Goffredo — tugging him close without thinking, tucking his face into the warmth of his chest.

Goffredo never hesitated. He shifted onto the mattress beside him, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and held him through the restless hours.

“You’re ridiculous,” Aldo mumbled once, nose pressed into his collarbone.

“Yes,” Goffredo murmured back, pressing his lips to his temple. “Ridiculously yours.”

And though Aldo groaned faintly, he did not let go.

By the third morning, the fever finally began to break. Aldo lay propped against his pillows, Cesare hugged to his chest, a steaming mug of tea balanced carefully in his hands. He looked pale but steadier, his eyes clearer, his voice low but sure.

And Goffredo, slouched in the chair by his bed with his own mug, eyes red from sleepless nights, only grinned.

“Clause Seven works,” he said proudly, tapping the rules page that he had left pinned to the door. “Soup. Tea. Affection. Shark therapy.”

Aldo exhaled, tired but smiling despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

“Affectionate,” Goffredo corrected softly, reaching to smooth the blanket over his lap. “Big difference.”

And this time, Aldo didn’t argue. He only leaned closer, Cesare squashed between them, and let himself rest against the storm.

By mid-morning on that third day, the fever had ebbed enough that Aldo could sit propped against his pillows without swaying. His voice was still hoarse, his head damp with the remnants of sweat, but the sharp edge of the sickness was gone.

Goffredo appeared in the doorway carrying a tray, a small steaming bowl balanced carefully in the center. Not soup this time, but something humbler, simpler — tiny star-shaped pasta swimming in golden broth, fragrant with a whisper of parmesan.

“Pastina,” Goffredo announced, setting the tray on Aldo’s lap with solemnity. “The cure for everything.”

Aldo blinked down at it, bemused. “You’ve made… children’s food.”

“No, bello,” Goffredo corrected, sitting at the edge of the bed. “I’ve made medicine. When I was a boy, whenever one of us got sick — and there were twelve of us, so someone was always sick — my mother would make pastina like this. Broth, stars, a little parmesan. Nothing fancy, but it was warmth. It was love you could eat.”

Aldo looked down at the bowl again, lips tightening against the sudden swell in his chest.

“Now,” Goffredo said, lifting a spoonful and holding it up, “be a good boy and eat.”

Aldo rolled his eyes, but parted his lips all the same. The broth was light, simple, salted just enough, the pasta soft against his tongue. It tasted of comfort. Of memory.

He managed half the bowl before sighing and pushing it gently back. “Enough.”

“Half is a victory,” Goffredo said warmly, setting the bowl aside. “You’ve done better than most of my brothers when they were your age.”

Aldo let out a small, tired laugh, the sound rasping but genuine. And then, before he could talk himself out of it, he reached forward, catching Goffredo’s wrist.

When the storm turned, brows arched in question, Aldo leaned up and pressed his lips to his.

Soft. Willing. Gratitude woven into the kiss like silk.

“Thank you,” Aldo whispered when he pulled back, his forehead resting against Goffredo’s, glasses askew between them.

Goffredo closed his eyes, smile curling warm and boyish. “Sempre, bello.”

And in the hush of that mid-morning light, with pastina cooling on the table and Cesare the shark still perched faithfully at Aldo’s side, the Sick Day Clause became something far more binding than either of them had ever written down.

By late afternoon, the fever had softened into something manageable, leaving Aldo pale and sniffly but no longer weak. Goffredo, ever the storm turned sentinel, declared that the couch was now neutral territory — not a sickbed, but a sanctuary.

So there they were, cocooned together beneath a heavy throw blanket, rain still dripping softly against the windowpanes. On the screen flickered Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr, their voices low and aching, while Vic Damone crooned the soundtrack in velvet tones that filled the room:

“Our love affair is a wondrous thing…”

Aldo sat tucked against Goffredo’s side, glasses perched low on his nose, Cesare the shark hugged tightly to his chest. His head lolled faintly onto Goffredo’s shoulder, sniffles punctuating his breath every few minutes.

Normally he would’ve bristled at such closeness, muttered about boundaries, insisted on sitting upright and separate. But fever and fatigue had eroded all such defenses. He leaned into Goffredo without thought now, his body curving instinctively toward warmth, toward steadiness.

Goffredo shifted only to pull the blanket higher, tucking it around Aldo’s shoulders. His arm rested comfortably around him, hand tracing absent circles into his sleeve, so natural it seemed written into the fabric of the flat itself.

Every so often Aldo murmured a soft, tired comment — Cary Grant’s suit, the improbable dialogue — but mostly he stayed quiet, pressed close, breath tickling against Goffredo’s collarbone.

And though he clutched Cesare in his arms, it was Goffredo’s side he leaned against most, his body softening into the storm as though it had always belonged there.

A little clingy. A lot sniffly. Entirely his — without ever once saying the word.

When Cary Grant whispered on screen, “Winter must end… spring must come,” Goffredo bent his head, brushing his lips against Aldo’s head.

And Aldo sighed, nestling in closer, not even pretending to pull away.

The credits rolled, Cary Grant’s silhouette fading into black as Vic Damone’s final notes lingered like perfume in the room. The TV turned into commercials, the storm outside softened into drizzle, and the flat fell into a hush broken only by Aldo’s quiet sniffles and the faint rustle of the blanket.

Goffredo shifted slightly, tilting his head down toward the man tucked against him. “Dinner, bello,” he said softly. “What do you want?”

Aldo shook his head against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded. “Not hungry.”

“Soup, then? Broth, light, nothing heavy.”

“No.”

“Tortellini?” Goffredo pressed, his grin warm, teasing. “A Florentine cure. I’ll even feed you myself.”

Aldo huffed, stubborn to the last. “No.”

Goffredo leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Then what, hm? What do you want, piccolo?”

Aldo’s eyes fluttered shut. He tucked himself closer into the crook of Goffredo’s chest, Cesare squashed between them, his words spilling out half-unconscious, absentminded, true.

“You,” he whispered.

It was barely more than a breath, but it landed with the weight of a vow.

Goffredo froze — just for a moment — before his arm tightened around him, drawing him in fully, as though he could fold Aldo into the storm and keep him there.

“Done,” he murmured against his head, boyish smile hidden in the dim light. “Clause Eight: Whatever Aldo wants, Aldo gets.”

Aldo made a soft sound of protest at that, but it melted into a sigh, his head burrowing further into Goffredo’s chest, clinging like a boy who had finally let himself rest.

And Goffredo held him — soup forgotten, dinner abandoned — as if he was already everything Aldo wanted.

The film had long ended, the TV long turned off, the storm outside had fallen to a drizzle. Yet Aldo remained curled against him on the couch, eyes closed, Cesare hugged tight to his chest, stubbornly refusing to admit he was half-asleep.

Goffredo brushed his fingers lightly over Aldo’s head “Come on, bello,” he coaxed softly. “Not here. You’ll wake with a crick in your neck.”

For a heartbeat, Goffredo only looked at him, the storm held still. Then, with a boyish smile that made him look ten years younger, he nodded.

He stripped down to his undershirt, slid carefully beneath the covers, and let Aldo curl against him — warm, clingy, Cesare squished between them like a witness to their unspoken treaty.

Aldo buried his face into Goffredo’s chest, breathing in the scent of bergamot and storm, and whispered something too soft to catch.

And Goffredo, pressing his lips gently to his forehead, whispered back, “Always.”

In the hush of that night, with rain whispering against the windows and fever softening every line of resistance, Aldo Bellini slept in Goffredo Tedesco’s arms — as though he had never belonged anywhere else.

Morning crept in all slow and golden, the rain washed away, leaving only quiet light filtering through the curtains. The flat was hushed, but for once, Goffredo was not the first to stir.

Aldo woke first. He found himself sprawled against Goffredo, their legs hopelessly tangled, the storm’s arm heavy across his waist. Cesare the shark was trapped between them like a ridiculous chaperone, but Aldo clutched him still by the fin. His head was tucked firmly under Goffredo’s chin, his cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of his chest.

He lay there a long moment, frozen, listening to the calm heartbeat beneath his ear.

When Goffredo finally shifted, blinking awake with a groggy smile, Aldo immediately muttered, “You’re heavy. Move.”

“Bugiardo,” Goffredo rasped, voice deep with sleep, tightening his hold instead. “You’ve been clinging all night.”

“I have not.”

“Mmm,” came the smug reply, his beard brushing against Aldo’s head. “Cesare knows the truth.”

Aldo huffed, pretending annoyance, but the faint flush on his cheeks betrayed him.

After a few more minutes of quiet, Goffredo made to sit up. “I should start breakfast—”

But Aldo’s hand caught his shirt, tugging him back down. “No.”

“No?” Goffredo arched his brow, amused.

“You’re not leaving.”

Before Goffredo could laugh, Aldo shifted, straddling him with an awkward huff, still stubbornly holding Cesare by the fin. He pressed himself down, tucking his head beneath Goffredo’s chin, muttering something about just a few more minutes.

Goffredo stilled, then softened, both arms wrapping easily around him, a smile curving slow and boyish.

“Always, bello,” he whispered into his hair.

And so they stayed, tangled and warm, Cesare squished faithfully between them, the morning stretching long and quiet — as if the world beyond their little flat had never existed at all.

The kitchen was warm with the scent of espresso and eggs, the clink of forks, the hum of Goffredo moving shirtless beside him. He’d set their plates down with all the pomp of a waiter in a five-star trattoria and promptly tried to feed Aldo by hand.

“Open, bello,” Goffredo coaxed, fork hovering.

Aldo frowned, batting at his hand like a sulky cat. “I can do it myself.”

But Goffredo only leaned closer, the fork poised stubbornly.

Aldo let out a small, exasperated noise — half protest, half whine — pushing weakly at his wrist, cheeks coloring. “Stop it!”

“Not until you eat,” Goffredo teased, eyes dancing.

Aldo’s patience snapped. He swatted harder, huffing, “Basta, baby!”

The word slipped out unthinking, sharp as a scold, soft as a confession.

Silence hung for a beat. Aldo’s eyes widened, mortified, as though he could snatch the word back out of the air.

Goffredo’s grin spread slowly and devastatingly. His laugh rumbled, warm and low, as he finally set the fork down and cupped Aldo’s jaw instead, brushing his thumb across his flushed cheek.

“Oh, piccolo,” he murmured, delight curling every syllable. “Say it again.”

Aldo groaned, hiding his face in his hands, whining like a boy caught in mischief. “You’re impossible.”

“Affectionate,” Goffredo corrected, pressing a kiss into his head. “Big difference.”

And though Aldo muttered furiously, red from ear to ear, he leaned into the kiss all the same.

The morning unraveled in laughter and blushes, in teasing and muttered protests, in the kind of intimacy that no rule had ever prepared them for.

Goffredo, smug and unrepentant, leaned back in his chair as Aldo sulked into his coffee, Cesare the shark propped faithfully beside him like a silent ally. Every so often Goffredo would nudge him with a fork, or brush a kiss into his head, or murmur “baby” just to watch the tips of Aldo’s ears turn crimson.

And though Aldo swatted, though he muttered “impossible, ridiculous, insufferable,” he never once moved away.

By the time the plates were cleared and the moka pot drained, something had shifted. The flat no longer felt like Aldo’s with Goffredo in it. Nor Goffredo’s chaos spilling over Aldo’s neatness.

It was something else now. Something shared.

As Goffredo pinned a new amendment to the refrigerator — Rule #8, scrawled in his broad hand: Baby is binding — Aldo groaned into his palms. But when Goffredo crossed the kitchen and wrapped him up from behind, pressing his lips to his temple, Aldo didn’t protest.

Not really.

Because somewhere between fever and pastina, between Cary Grant and whispered slips, between laughter in the kitchen and a word that should never have left his mouth, Aldo realized they’d crossed a line they couldn’t uncross.

And maybe — just maybe — he didn’t want to.

A whole new territory.

Not rules anymore, but something far more dangerous.

Something that was beginning to look a lot like love.

Chapter Text

After the week of fevers and pastina, something between them shifted—quietly, irreversibly.

They still hadn’t labeled it, whatever this was. They didn’t sit down to talk or define or put words around the warmth that had settled into their flat. But the proof was everywhere.

Pet names lingered, becoming as natural as breath—baby, bello, piccolo—though Aldo only ever let them slip when it was just the two of them, voices hushed in kitchens or hallways, whispered into pillows or pressed against a collarbone.

Their days began now with good morning kisses, Goffredo humming against Aldo’s mouth before cappuccino even hit the table. Lunches in the faculty lounge became impossible charades, the two of them sitting too close, Aldo’s hand brushing Goffredo’s arm more often than he liked to admit, his dark eyes softening whenever he thought no one noticed.

And evenings—those had become a battlefield of affection. Dinner preparations turned rambunctious with Goffredo forever finding new ways to distract him: arms wrapped tight around his waist, kisses pressed to the back of his neck, whispered jokes into his ear until Aldo’s stern façade cracked into laughter.

Sometimes, it was worse.

Sometimes Goffredo came straight from the shower, steam trailing after him, silver hair damp, beard still dripping, and nothing but a towel slung low on his hips. He would appear in the kitchen like that, shameless, leaning against the counter, tugging Aldo into his damp chest with wet arms, leaving water stains on his shirt while murmuring, “Kiss me, baby.”

And though Aldo scowled, though he muttered about boundaries and decency, his hands always betrayed him—gripping the broad shoulders, sliding along the warm back, drawing him closer instead of pushing him away.

They were impossibly close now. Too close. A glitch in the system, a sweater stolen, a rulebook long forgotten.

And it was only a matter of time before the party made everyone else see it too.

Aldo had come home later than expected, the flat quiet except for the faint smell of roasting chicken wafting from the oven. He slipped off his shoes, unbuttoned his coat, and was halfway to the kitchen when steam drifted from the bathroom and Goffredo stepped out—hair damp, towel knotted low on his hips, beard still dripping.

Goffredo startled at the sight of him, then laughed, wide and boyish. “You’re early.”

“I’m late,” Aldo corrected, setting his satchel down. His brows knit. “What—”

Before he could finish, Goffredo crossed the room in three strides and pulled him in, still warm and damp, water soaking into Aldo’s shirt where their bodies met.

“I didn’t know you were home yet,” Goffredo murmured, foreheads brushing while his breath soft with steam. “I was going to have dinner ready when you walked in.”

Aldo blinked, caught between protest and something softer, his hands hovering before betraying him—sliding up over damp shoulders to hold him closer.

Behind them, the oven ticked faintly, chicken parmigiano bubbling away, filling the flat with the scent of garlic, basil, and warmth.

“Bello,” he murmured, breath still warm from the shower, noses brushing.

Aldo froze, Goffredo's face still held in one hand, until Goffredo’s forehead rested gently against his own. Their breaths mingled, damp and hot, and Aldo’s free hand betrayed him, sliding slowly up Goffredo’s back to anchor him closer.

Fingers traced shoulders, sides, faces—soft, reverent touches that said everything their mouths had not yet dared.

For a long moment, there were no rules, no protests, only the hush of their hearts finding one rhythm. When Goffredo tightened his hold, Aldo melted against him, resting fully in the embrace.

It was brief. It was everything.

The following day, the spell looked different:

Aldo arrived for lunch in one of Goffredo’s shirts. A pale pink button-down, soft and worn, paired with grey wool trousers and loafers that made him look every inch the dignified professor—if that professor had also wandered out of a 90’s dad fashion magazine.

Goffredo sat beside him, plate untouched, eyes fixed shamelessly on Aldo’s every movement. His grin was slow, proud, indulgent. He didn’t even pretend to eat.

Across the table, Raymond was animatedly outlining plans for the housewarming party he and Giulio were hosting in their new home. Thomas, Mario, and Giulio himself were there too, nodding, laughing, sipping coffee between bites of sandwiches.

“We’ll keep it small,” Raymond said. “Friends, colleagues. Nothing too grand.”

“I’ll bring lasagna,” Aldo offered quietly, reaching for his glass.

That was when it began.

Giulio’s brows arched high. “Lasagna?”

Thomas smirked into his teacup. “Again?”

Raymond, already smiling, added, “I thought we’d learned the lasagna rule with Goffredo around.”

Mario leaned forward, grinning wickedly. “No, no—let him. I want to see who eats it first this time.”

The table erupted into laughter. Aldo flushed scarlet, scowling into his drink. Goffredo, utterly unbothered, only leaned closer, his gaze never leaving Aldo.

“Bello,” he murmured under the noise, loud enough for Aldo to hear. “I’ll save you a piece.”

And Aldo, pink shirt and all, nearly dropped his fork.

At one point, mid-conversation, his hand slid casually to Aldo’s shoulder. He leaned in without even thinking, lips brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt—just a ghost of a kiss pressed unconsciously against him.

Aldo didn’t startle. He only smiled, small and soft, glancing at Goffredo with a look that made the storm grin back.

The table went still. Then exploded.

“My God,” Giulio groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not at the table.”

Thomas smirked into his tea. “Well, that answers the question of how long the rules lasted.”

Raymond beamed, delighted. “Did they last? Did the rules last at all?”

Mario slapped his hand down on the table with triumphant laughter. “HA! Pay up! I told you—two months, maybe less. You all said three. I win!”

“Betting,” Aldo said flatly, eyes narrowing.

“Yes, bello,” Goffredo said cheerfully, stealing a fry from his plate without breaking eye contact. “They bet on us.”

“And you kissed him in front of them,” Giulio muttered darkly.

“It wasn’t a kiss,” Aldo protested, ears scarlet.

“It was,” Mario sang, smug, leaning back with his arms crossed. “And I was right. He’s smitten, Aldo. He’s gone.”

The lounge filled with laughter, their colleagues sneaking glances, the boys merciless in their teasing. And through it all, Goffredo just sat back, utterly unbothered, watching Aldo with that same unashamed smile.

Because smitten didn’t even begin to cover it.

The noise in the lounge swelled, laughter bouncing off the walls, the air thick with the smell of coffee and the faint clang of cutlery.

Aldo, very dignified in his pale pink button-down and grey trousers, sat straighter in his chair, lips pressed into the thinnest line. His ears were scarlet, the flush crawling down his throat.

Across the table, Mario leaned back like a king who’d just claimed his prize. “See? I told you. Two months. Never more. And now look at them—he’s feeding him soup, wearing his shirts, getting kissed at lunch. It’s practically a wedding banquet already.”

“I didn’t—” Aldo started, only for Giulio to cut him off with a sharp laugh.

“Bellini, you can’t even keep a straight face.” Giulio gestured with his fork toward his still-pink cheeks. “You’re sitting there looking like a boy caught holding hands under the bleachers. Spare us the denial.”

Thomas, serene as always, sipped his tea and added mildly, “I think it’s rather sweet.”

“Sweet?” Giulio scoffed. “It’s revolting.” But even his mouth twitched, betraying amusement.

Raymond was grinning ear to ear, his Irish lilt warm as he chimed in, “Honestly, it’s about time. We’ve all seen it, Aldo. The way he looks at you, the way you soften around him. You can’t hide it anymore.”

Colleagues at the neighboring tables, who’d been pretending not to eavesdrop, were now openly watching, some stifling smiles, others whispering behind their hands.

Meanwhile, Goffredo sat sprawled comfortably, his arm draped across the back of Aldo’s chair, his smirk as smug as sin. His dark eyes never once left Aldo, the picture of a man thoroughly besotted and entirely unashamed of it.

When Aldo finally groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, Goffredo only leaned in and pressed another light brush of lips to his shoulder, murmuring, “Baby, don’t mind them.”

The table howled.

Mario practically fell out of his chair. Giulio groaned into his hand, while Raymond almost keeled over in overexcitement. Thomas smiled into his cup. And Aldo, helpless and burning pink, wished for divine intervention—or at the very least, a fire alarm.

But in the end, when he glanced sideways and found Goffredo’s soft, stormy grin waiting for him, he couldn’t quite keep the smile from tugging at his own lips.

And the boys saw it. They’d always seen it.

A few days later, it was a beautiful Friday evening and Giulio and Raymond’s new home glowed with warm lamplight and the low hum of conversation. Bottles of wine lined the sideboard, laughter spilled from the kitchen, and the scent of Raymond’s baking floated everywhere. The boys were all there: Thomas by the fire, Mario holding court with a glass of Chianti, Giulio already barking at someone about shoes on his polished floor.

And then there were Aldo and Goffredo.

Aldo wore one of Goffredo’s sweaters—a soft navy knit that fit just a little too big on him, the sleeves grazing his wrists in a way that made Mario grin knowingly from across the room. Goffredo, for his part, looked every inch the proud culprit, standing too close, hand resting at the small of Aldo’s back as though it had always belonged there.

The teasing started instantly.

“Mamma mia,” Mario crowed, raising his glass. “The sweater again! He’s raided your closet, Tedesco!”

“Not raided,” Giulio corrected dryly, his eyes narrowing with wicked precision. “Possession. Occupation. It’s a domestic coup.”

Raymond only smiled warmly, but even he couldn’t resist adding, “You look good in his things, Aldo. Very… natural.”

Aldo’s ears turned scarlet. Goffredo leaned down and, without thinking, pressed a quick kiss to his shoulder, utterly unbothered by the stares. Aldo gave him a look—equal parts scandalized and soft—and Goffredo only grinned wider.

The room roared. Bets were paid. Mario practically danced with delight.

And then—fate stirred the pot.

The doorbell rang. Raymond, ever the gracious host, answered, ushering in Vincent Benitez, one of his colleagues from the university. Beside him stood his plus one, an impeccably dressed, bespectacled man with a sharp gaze and a smile that carried just a little too much history.

“Everyone, this is my friend Nigel,” Vincent introduced cheerfully. “He’s visiting from New York.”

For a beat, the room hushed.

Aldo felt Goffredo go still beside him, the storm freezing mid-breath. The sweater on his shoulders suddenly felt heavy, the wine sharp on his tongue. Mario blinked. Thomas arched a brow. Giulio’s lips curved into something dangerously close to a smirk.

Nigel—shorter, polished, unmistakably Italian-American—extended his hand with effortless poise. “Buona sera.”

Unbeknownst to Vincent, to Raymond, to half the room, this was Nigel. That Nigel. The one who had once been Goffredo’s. The reason behind the abandoned cooking, the ghost in the basil named after him.

And now he was here, smiling, fate’s glitch personified.

The party carried on in its warm chaos—Mario refilling glasses, Thomas politely humoring one of Raymond’s colleagues, Giulio muttering threats about coasters. Yet under the hum of conversation, there was a subtle shift, a tightening of air around the newest arrival.

Nigel moved easily among introductions, shaking hands, offering warm smiles, his polished Yale cadence smoothing over every phrase. Vincent beamed beside him, oblivious to the ripple he had just introduced into the room.

Aldo, still in Goffredo’s navy sweater, tried to listen as Mario rambled about the wine, but his eyes kept flicking toward the door where Nigel stood. Something in his bearing—a mix of charm and self-possession—told him immediately that this was no ordinary guest.

The suspicion was confirmed a moment later.

The back door clicked. From the garden, the faint curl of peach-scented vapor followed Goffredo in, shoulders broad under his dark jacket, expression relaxed from the fresh air. He was still sliding his vape into his pocket when his gaze lifted across the room.

And landed on Nigel.

The storm stilled.

It was a freeze-frame, brief but cutting: two men locking eyes across the bustle of the party, the noise of glasses and chatter thinning as though the room itself was waiting. Nigel’s polite smile held, but his dark eyes sharpened, catching and holding Goffredo’s in a way that left no doubt—here was history.

Aldo felt it instantly. His stomach knotted, Cesare the shark not here to hold. He glanced from Goffredo to Nigel, reading the unspoken language of recognition, the tension that clung like static.

The boys noticed too.

Giulio leaned back, brows lifting in slow amusement, sensing blood in the water. Thomas set down his teacup, watching quietly, assessing. Mario stopped mid-story, eyes darting between the two men, the corners of his mouth twitching as if trying not to say I knew it.

Raymond, ever gracious host, blinked, glancing between them with faint concern, as though already piecing together what this meant.

“Goffredo,” Nigel said at last, smooth, measured. His voice carried the hint of an old intimacy, sharpened by distance. “It’s been a long time.”

Goffredo didn’t move for a moment. Then he crossed the room slowly, every inch the storm reined in, dark eyes never leaving Nigel’s.

“Nigel,” he said, his voice gravel-rough. “What a surprise.”

Not a question. Not quite a welcome.

Aldo, standing frozen at his side, realized he was gripping the edge of his glass too tight.

The sweater on his shoulders suddenly felt like both a shield and a spotlight.

And the party, though still alive with chatter, seemed to balance on the edge of something heavier—history about to make itself known.

By the time Raymond called them all to the table, the air had shifted—still warm with laughter, still bubbling with wine, but under it ran a current only a few of them could feel.

Vincent, oblivious and cheerful, guided Nigel toward a seat near the center of the table, chattering about syllabi and department politics. Nigel slid in smoothly, smile never faltering, perfectly at ease.

The boys, however, moved with intent.

Mario sat straighter than usual, his tall frame angled protectively toward Aldo. Giulio claimed the seat just beyond, his sharp Milanese eyes flicking between Goffredo and Nigel, every line of his posture screaming don’t you dare. Thomas lingered nearby, quiet but watchful, while Raymond—finally clued in by Giulio’s muttered aside—kept his composure, though his pale blue eyes were clouded with concern.

Aldo ended up seated beside Goffredo, as always. Normally, this would’ve been a comfort. But tonight the storm’s attention was elsewhere.

Across the table.

On Nigel.

The food was plentiful—Raymond’s roast, Giulio’s meticulously chosen wines, Aldo’s lasagna steaming at the center like a peace offering. Conversation hummed around them, but when Nigel spoke, Goffredo leaned in almost unconsciously, caught on the hook of memory.

They spoke like old friends, like men who had shared too much life to ever pretend otherwise.

“Do you still keep a garden?” Nigel asked, passing the bread.

Goffredo’s mouth quirked, the rare softness in his eyes not for the food or the company, but for the man across from him. “No time anymore. Just basil on the balcony.”

Nigel chuckled, low and warm. “You hated watering the balcony pots. I had to remind you.”

“That was different,” Goffredo countered, his gravel voice softening with nostalgia. “You always killed the rosemary.”

Aldo, wedged between them, stared down at his plate, fork clenched tight. The words passed over him like a tide, warm and heavy, threaded with laughter and memory that did not belong to him.

Giulio, sensing the shift, cut in with a dry barb about overcooked roast. Mario immediately picked up the thread, trying to drag Aldo into harmless chatter, to shield him from the undertow of the storm. Thomas asked a quiet question about the wine, drawing Nigel’s attention elsewhere for a beat.

But still, the pattern repeated.

Whenever Nigel spoke, Goffredo answered. Whenever Goffredo laughed, it was at something Nigel had said.

And though Aldo sat beside him, shoulder brushing his sleeve, the warmth that had carried them through sick days and soft mornings felt, for the first time, unbearably fragile.

Raymond, catching Aldo’s quiet, tense smile, looked to Giulio with a silent exchange of alarm.

The storm’s eyes were not on his present.

They were on his past.

The table gleamed with candlelight, glasses half-raised, forks clinking against porcelain. Conversation ricocheted around in bursts—Raymond keeping things warm, Vincent animated with stories from campus, Nigel ever-poised, weaving himself into the current with practiced ease.

But under the hum of it all, Aldo felt the dissonance.

Every time Nigel spoke, Goffredo leaned forward, voice low and fond in reply. They laughed about shared memories—holidays past, dinners burned, streets walked in another city, another life. It was warm, nostalgic, and it wrapped them together like an old scarf no one else could wear.

And Aldo, though seated right there at Goffredo’s side, could feel himself slipping out of orbit.

The boys noticed. Of course they did.

Mario was the first to act. With a broad grin, he leaned toward Aldo and plucked at the sleeve of his sweater—the navy knit that hung just a little too loose on his arms. “So,” he boomed, “this looks familiar. Is Goffredo going to have any clothes left by next week, or have you claimed the whole wardrobe, bambino?”

Aldo flushed instantly, tugging at the cuff. “It’s comfortable.”

“Comfortable, he says,” Giulio cut in dryly, eyes sharp as glass. “First it was food. Now it’s sweaters. What’s next? The car?”

Thomas, serene as ever, tilted his head. “I think the sweaters suit him. He wears them better.”

Aldo blinked at him, startled. “I—”

“You see?” Mario crowed, slapping the table. “Even the Englishman agrees. Fashion theft, sanctioned!”

Laughter rose, warm and bright, pulling attention toward Aldo, back toward the center. Raymond added a quiet, encouraging smile, pouring more wine into his glass before he could object.

But for all their effort—the teasing, the distractions, the warmth—Aldo could feel it. The undercurrent.

Because though the boys closed ranks around him, though they tried to tether him back into the circle of their camaraderie, one truth sharpened like a knife at his side:

Goffredo hadn’t looked at him once.

Not when Mario teased. Not when Giulio quipped. Not even when Thomas, with rare gentleness, defended him.

The storm’s eyes were across the table, fixed on Nigel.

And for all the mornings of good-morning kisses, all the soups and sweaters and whispered baby, Aldo realized with a hollow ache that for the first time in weeks—he was the outsider at his own side of the table.

The table buzzed on, wine flowing, plates cleared, laughter scattered like crumbs across the cloth. But Aldo, usually steady and engaged, began to fold inward. His fork slowed. His smile turned polite, practiced. When the others teased, he answered with only half a laugh, eyes fixed on the rim of his glass rather than the people around him.

The boys saw it.

Thomas, gentle as ever, angled himself closer, asking Aldo small questions about his classes, offering him the bread basket as if grounding him in the present. Raymond’s gaze flicked often to him, pale blue eyes narrowing in worry. Giulio watched with the sharp precision of a hawk, lips pressed thin. And Mario—Mario frowned openly, his tall frame leaning protectively in Aldo’s direction, though he said nothing.

But Goffredo didn’t notice.

His attention remained across the table, caught in Nigel’s orbit. They spoke of years past—Christmases in Venice, summers in New York, recipes long abandoned. His gravelly laugh came easy, unguarded, in a way that made Aldo ache.

So Aldo withdrew further. Shoulders curling slightly, hands clasped on his lap beneath the table, eyes lowered to his untouched dessert. He might have looked dignified still, but to the boys who knew him, it was a surrender.

And that was when Giulio and Mario exchanged a glance.

A plan, wordless but clear, sparked between them.

The party had thinned into clusters after dinner. Laughter drifted from the kitchen where Raymond was serving biscotti, while others lingered in the living room with glasses of Barolo in hand.

Aldo had drifted toward the corner with Thomas, Mario, and Giulio—safe territory, away from Nigel’s orbit. His sweater still smelled faintly of rosemary from Raymond’s roast, warm and familiar, and for a moment he felt almost steady again.

Almost.

Giulio caught Mario’s eye. A glance. A nod. A plan.

It began with Giulio. He moved as if to circle past Thomas, glass in hand, then gave the most unconvincing “slip” anyone had ever seen. His polished shoe scuffed the rug, his shoulder bumping hard into Thomas’s side.

Thomas jolted, startled, wine glass reflexes no match for the Barolo in his hand. His balance tipped, arm flailing as he tried to catch himself.

Right on cue, Mario—towering, grinning, treacherous—“tripped” directly into Thomas, cutting off any chance of recovery.

The wine arced in a slow, damning sweep through the air—deep red, glinting under the lamplight—before landing squarely across Aldo’s chest.

The navy sweater.

Goffredo’s sweater.

The Barolo splashed across Aldo’s chest in a dark wave, soaking into the navy wool, dripping down his sleeves and trousers.

Aldo gasped, hands flying uselessly at the stain. “Dio mio!”

Across the room, Goffredo froze mid-sentence with Nigel. The gasp was enough — his head snapped up, and at the sight of Aldo, drenched in red, he was already moving.

“Bello!”

Three long strides and he was there, napkins snatched from the sideboard, hands already blotting at Aldo’s chest. His touch was firm but tender, storm-rough voice cracking through his urgency.

“Baby, are you alright? Did it get through to your shirt? You’re soaked—dio, look at you—”

Aldo flushed, stammering, “I—it’s only wine—”

But Goffredo was undeterred, muttering about changing him out of the sweater, about catching a chill, about how it was his fault for letting him wear it in the first place. His eyes never left Aldo, not for a second.

Behind them, Giulio swirled his glass with maddening serenity. Mario bit back a grin. Thomas, poor casualty, sighed and dabbed at his cuff, though his eyes flicked with quiet amusement toward Aldo’s scarlet cheeks.

And Nigel? Nigel sat very still, forgotten mid-sentence, watching the storm bend entirely toward someone else.

“Come,” Goffredo said firmly, napkins still pressed to Aldo’s chest. His voice left no room for argument, his hand already curling around Aldo’s elbow. “You’re drenched. We’ll fix this.”

“I’m fine—” Aldo tried, half-hearted, but the storm wasn’t listening.

“No,” Goffredo cut in, eyes dark, jaw set. “Not like this. Not in front of everyone.”

And before Aldo could protest further, he was being steered out of the dining room, past curious stares and muffled laughter, down the short hall and into Raymond’s study.

The door clicked shut, muffling the party’s hum into something distant. The little room smelled of leather and paper, lamplight falling in a warm pool across the desk.

“Take it off,” Goffredo ordered softly, already tugging at the hem of the navy sweater.

Aldo froze, his hands rising in instinctive protest. “It’s only a stain—”

“Amore,” Goffredo murmured, and the word landed with devastating weight. “You’ll catch a chill. And you’ll hate yourself tomorrow if it sets.”

Something in the tenderness of his tone—so fierce, so certain—unraveled Aldo’s resistance. With a sharp breath, he let Goffredo peel the wine-soaked sweater from his shoulders, the wool clinging damp before falling into Goffredo’s hands.

The door shut behind them, sealing off the hum of laughter and clinking glasses. In the stillness of Raymond’s study, the scent of leather and paper filled the air, mingling with the sharp tang of wine.

Goffredo’s hands were already at the hem of Aldo’s navy sweater, tugging it free with an urgency that brooked no protest. The wool peeled away, heavy and damp, revealing the pale undershirt clinging to Aldo’s chest, stained deep red across the fabric.

“Still soaked,” Goffredo muttered, his brow furrowed as his fingers brushed over the damp cotton. “Dio santo, Aldo, you’ll freeze like this.”

“I’m fine,” Aldo said, voice taut, hands gripping the hem of the undershirt protectively. “It’s just a shirt.”

“It’s wet through,” Goffredo countered, eyes dark and unyielding. His voice softened, but his storm was immovable. “Take it off.”

Aldo’s breath caught, his cheeks coloring. “I—no, it isn’t necessary—”

“Baby,” Goffredo said, quiet but devastating, his hand warm at Aldo’s wrist. “Don’t argue with me.”

The protest died. Aldo swallowed hard, and after a long beat, his hands lifted, tugging the soaked undershirt over his head. The fabric clung to his skin before he pulled it free, leaving him bare-chested under the lamplight, flushed from wine, fever-warm from proximity.

For a moment, Goffredo stilled, his breath catching—then he moved.

He stripped the grey cashmere from his own body, leaving himself in only the dark button-down beneath. With deliberate care, he shook the sweater out once, then stepped close, donning it gently over Aldo’s frame.

“There,” he said quietly, smoothing the sleeves down his arms, fingers lingering far too long at his wrists, brushing against skin. “Better.”

The sweater hung loose, soft and warm, smelling of bergamot and peach vape, cedar and storm. It wrapped Aldo in him—his presence, his scent, his care.

Aldo’s throat worked as he swallowed. “You’ll be cold,” he murmured, almost shy.

Goffredo’s lips curved into the faintest smile, his eyes never leaving him. “Not when you’re wearing me.”

Silence stretched, thick and trembling, lamplight washing them both in amber. Somewhere down the hall, laughter spiked again, but in here, there was nothing—no party, no past, no Nigel.

Just the storm and the professor.

One sweater traded for another.

And a closeness too dangerous to ignore.

The sweater was too big, too warm, too him. It wrapped around Aldo like a tether, every thread heavy with Goffredo’s presence.

For a heartbeat, he stood frozen in it—chest still a little damp beneath, pulse racing, cheeks hot with wine and lamplight. Goffredo was still close, his hand lingering at Aldo’s wrist, his storm-dark eyes soft in a way that unraveled all his walls.

Before courage could fade—before he could think himself out of it—Aldo moved.

He reached up, caught Goffredo by the collar of his button-down, and pulled him down into a kiss. Quick at first, sharp with nerves, but softening as Goffredo stilled in surprise and then melted, his hand curving firm against the small of Aldo’s back.

Aldo’s breath hitched as he broke away, forehead pressed to the storm’s shoulder, arms slipping around him in a rough, impulsive hug. His body trembled faintly—not from cold, but from the fragile ache of insecurity gnawing under the warmth.

Because even as he clung to Goffredo, even as the storm held him tight, steady and grounding, a whisper still lingered: the memory of those eyes locked on Nigel across the table, the sound of laughter that hadn’t been for him.

Goffredo’s arms tightened. “Baby,” he murmured against his ear, voice low and firm, as though sensing the tremor. “I’ve got you.”

Aldo closed his eyes, soaking in the hold for one breath more. Then, as the laughter swelled down the hall, they parted—barely. Goffredo smoothed the sweater on Aldo’s shoulders, steadying him with one last brush of fingers along his jaw.

“Ready?” he asked.

Aldo nodded, though the answer didn’t reach all the way down to his chest.

The study door opened, spilling them back into the low-lit warmth of the house. Conversations picked up, glasses clinked, laughter rippled. But not all eyes were casual.

The boys noticed first. Mario’s grin spread like wildfire, Giulio’s smirk sharpened, Thomas’s brows rose in quiet observation, and Raymond’s pale eyes softened with something like relief.

Smirks, knowing glances, silent bets already exchanged beneath the tablecloth of the room’s atmosphere.

And then—Nigel.

From his seat near Vincent, glass of wine in hand, his sharp gaze found them instantly. He said nothing, but his eyes tracked the sweater Aldo was wearing now, the faint flush on his cheeks, the storm’s hand still hovering close at his back.

If Vincent’s voice carried bright and oblivious at his side, Nigel’s silence cut sharper still.

And Aldo, wrapped in Goffredo’s sweater, felt both held and exposed.

When Aldo and Goffredo re-entered the living room, it was as though the whole house shifted to make space for them. The fire crackled, glasses clinked, Mario was in the middle of a boisterous story—but all eyes darted, just once, to the sweater Aldo was wearing  and the way Goffredo hovered near him, close enough that the air seemed charged between them.

They settled on the couch together, Goffredo sprawling comfortably with one arm draped across the backrest, Aldo perched more stiffly beside him, tugging at the hem of the cashmere as though it were both shield and confession.

Giulio’s smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. Mario’s grin flashed like a knife. Thomas and Raymond exchanged the kind of quiet, knowing look that was half-concern, half-amusement.

And then Nigel spoke.

“Well,” he said smoothly, swirling the wine in his glass. “It’s good to see you still lending your sweaters, Goffredo. You always had a knack for that—clothes, books, even your bed, if I remember correctly.”

The words landed like a stone tossed into still water. Light enough to pass as harmless banter, heavy enough to ripple through the room with precision.

Aldo stiffened. His fingers tightened on the cuff of the sweater, his breath caught halfway in his throat.

Goffredo’s jaw flexed, the storm contained but visible, his eyes narrowing a fraction as he turned toward Nigel. His voice, when it came, was steady, gravel low and edged.

“Some things,” he said, “I don’t lend. I give.”

It was subtle, sharp, a line drawn in the sand.

The boys felt it immediately. Giulio leaned back with a predator’s satisfaction. Mario’s grin widened. Raymond’s brows furrowed, protective. Thomas sipped his drink, watching with careful calm.

But Aldo… Aldo sat in the eye of it, the sweater heavy on his shoulders, the storm’s warmth at his side, and Nigel’s words whispering ghosts in his ear.

Nigel’s remark still hung in the air, soft as silk, sharp as glass. The silence that followed carried weight—colleagues feigning polite interest in their drinks, the boys watching with thinly veiled delight, Aldo caught in the crossfire of memory and presence.

Goffredo didn’t let it linger.

“Some things I don’t lend,” he’d said, voice steady as stone. Now, with the storm’s eyes fixed on Nigel, he shifted.

His arm slid from the backrest to Aldo’s shoulders, heavy and protective, pulling him closer into his side. One broad hand smoothed deliberately over the borrowed cashmere on Aldo’s body, fingers brushing along Aldo’s collar as if to remind everyone whose sweater it was—and who was wearing it.

“Like this,” Goffredo added, gravel low, his mouth curving into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “This stays exactly where it belongs.”

Before Aldo could protest, before his pulse could settle, Goffredo leaned down and pressed a kiss to his temple. Slow. Lingering. Public.

The room stirred.

Mario nearly burst out laughing, hiding it behind a cough. Giulio smirked like a wolf who’d just scented blood. Thomas arched a brow, murmuring something into his glass. Raymond sighed softly, though his lips twitched with reluctant amusement.

Nigel’s smile didn’t falter, but his grip on the stem of his wineglass tightened—barely perceptible, except to those who knew how to watch.

Aldo flushed scarlet, heart hammering. He wanted to shove Goffredo away, to tell him to stop being ridiculous—but his body betrayed him, leaning instinctively into the storm’s warmth, craving the anchor even as his insecurities whispered louder: He laughed like that with Nigel once. He held him like this, too.

The tension crackled, thick as static. The past sat across the room, polished and smiling. The present pressed against Aldo’s side, unashamed, storm-dark and stubborn.

And in between, Aldo sat wrapped in a sweater that smelled like bergamot and peach vape, unsure if he wanted to bolt—or to stay forever.

The kiss still burned warm on Aldo’s temple when Nigel’s voice slid in, smooth as silk, sharp as a blade.

“You always did like an audience, Goffredo,” he said lightly, swirling the last of his wine. “Though if I recall, you weren’t usually so… theatrical.”

The words were gentle on the surface, but the sting was unmistakable. A reminder, a claim, a barb dressed in nostalgia.

Aldo stiffened beneath the weight of it.

Goffredo, however, didn’t flinch. His arm stayed firm around Aldo’s shoulders, his storm-dark gaze locking with Nigel’s across the room. “Maybe I’ve just learned to stop hiding,” he said simply.

The silence that followed was charged, teetering on the edge of something heavier. Then Vincent, blissfully oblivious, laughed and tugged at Nigel’s arm. “Come on, let’s not hog the wine. Raymond’s got grappa in the kitchen.”

With that, the tension broke. Nigel rose smoothly, his smile as polished as ever. “It was lovely seeing you all,” he said, nodding toward the group before letting Vincent usher him away. But his eyes lingered on Goffredo for one last beat—sharp, unreadable—before disappearing down the hall.

Once the door shut behind Nigel and Vincent, the four of them regrouped at the far end of the room, their glasses clustered together like a council of conspirators.

Mario was the first to break, laughter bubbling out of him as he slumped into his chair. “Did you see that? Finally. The sweater, the kiss, the way Nigel’s smile cracked? Magnifico! Worth every drop of Barolo.”

Giulio’s smirk was sharp, his eyes still fixed on the couch where Goffredo sat pressed close to Aldo. He swirled his glass lazily, tone dripping with satisfaction. “About time Tedesco remembered who was beside him, instead of across the table.”

Thomas, adjusting his cuff where the staged stumble had caught him, sipped his tea with unfailing calm. “It was… effective,” he said at last. The faintest twitch of amusement tugged at his mouth.

Mario grinned, leaning over to clap him on the back. “Sorry about that, old friend. Giulio ‘slips,’ I ‘trip’ you, and you end up the villain spilling wine. All for a good cause, eh?”

Giulio raised a brow, unrepentant. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Raymond, ever the quiet anchor, only shook his head—but there was the ghost of a smile curving at his lips. His pale eyes lingered on Aldo, still wrapped in Goffredo’s sweater, the storm bent fully to him now. “God help us all when the faculty hears about this,” he murmured.

Their laughter rose again, softer this time, warm and conspiratorial. Between them lay apology, mischief, and relief, stitched together in the way only they could manage.

And across the room, the storm and the professor sat side by side, oblivious to the small war that had been waged to bring them back into orbit.

Later, when the house quieted and goodbyes began to scatter, Aldo slipped out onto the porch. The night air was cool, the garden lit by the faint glow of lanterns. The old swing creaked as he settled into it, sweater soft against his skin, breath finally loosening.

A moment later, the door clicked behind him. Goffredo stepped out, vape in hand, exhaling a curl of peach-scented smoke into the night. Without a word, he lowered himself beside Aldo, the swing swaying gently under their combined weight.

For a moment, neither spoke. The night hummed softly—crickets, the faint laughter still drifting from inside, the rustle of leaves. Then Goffredo’s arm slid around him, pulling him close until Aldo was tucked neatly against his side.

Aldo sighed, almost against his will, letting his head rest against the storm’s chest. The steady rise and fall of breath beneath his ear was grounding, anchoring him against the ache of the evening.

“Better?” Goffredo murmured, his voice low, roughened by smoke and something softer.

Aldo hesitated. His insecurities still whispered, Nigel’s shadow still lingered. But the warmth of the sweater, the steadiness of the hold, the smell of bergamot and cedar and storm—those were real.

“Yes,” he admitted quietly.

The swing creaked, the vape’s ember glowed, and for that moment—alone under the dark, wrapped in the storm’s side—Aldo let himself believe it.

Nigel was gone.

And Goffredo was here.

The night air was cool, fragrant with grass and the faint sweetness of Raymond’s roses. The old wooden swing creaked as it rocked gently, Aldo curled into the crook of Goffredo’s arm, sweater heavy on his shoulders, chest still tight from the evening.

For a while, they sat in silence—Goffredo vaping idly, the ember glowing in the dark, Aldo staring at the garden lanterns without seeing them.

Finally, Goffredo broke it. His voice was low, roughened by smoke and something gentler.

“You alright, bello?”

Aldo hesitated. His breath puffed white in the chill, his answer catching in his throat. “Yes.”

But the word fell flat, thin as paper, and Goffredo knew it.

He turned slightly, pressing his temple to Aldo’s hair. “Don’t lie to me.”

Aldo swallowed, eyes fixed on the shadows of the garden. “I’m fine. Really.”

“You’re not,” Goffredo murmured, his hand squeezing gently at his shoulder. His voice dropped, softer still. “And I don’t blame you.”

Aldo’s fingers tightened in the knit of the sweater, as if gripping for balance. He didn’t speak, but the silence between them pulsed with everything unsaid—Nigel’s eyes, the laughter across the table, the ghost of old intimacy that hadn’t been his.

Goffredo sighed, the sound more vulnerable than Aldo had ever heard. He shifted, pulling him closer until Aldo’s head rested firmly against his chest.

“I was wrong,” he admitted. “To let him pull me like that. To forget you were right there. I’m sorry, Aldo.”

Aldo’s breath stuttered, but he stayed tucked in, quiet.

Goffredo pressed a kiss on his temple, lingering. “I don’t care about the past. Not anymore. I care about this.” His arm tightened, palm splayed warm and steady over Aldo’s side. “About you. Right here, right now.”

Aldo closed his eyes. The insecurity still whispered, still needled, but the weight of the storm’s chest under his cheek, the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his words—those things rooted deeper.

And for the first time since Nigel had walked through Raymond’s door, Aldo let himself breathe.

The swing rocked gently, wood creaking under their weight, the night wrapping around them like a hush. Goffredo’s arm was solid at Aldo’s side, his chest warm beneath Aldo’s cheek, his apology still hanging in the air like incense.

For a long while, Aldo didn’t move. He just breathed—slow, uneven, slowly steadying—until at last his voice broke the quiet.

“Goffredo…”

“Mm?”

“Can we…” Aldo’s hand curled tighter into the grey cashmere at his sleeve. He swallowed, the words softer than the night. “…can we go home?”

Goffredo stilled.

For all his storms, for all his teasing and bravado, the simple plea undid him more thoroughly than any argument could. He tilted his head, pressing his lips briefly to Aldo’s head, the word catching in his throat before it came out rough, low, certain.

“Yes. Of course.”

But it was the word we that lingered—echoing in his mind, rooting deep in his chest. We. Home.

Not just Aldo’s flat. Not just his own storm-cloud chaos folded into borrowed rooms. But their place, where sweaters were traded, meals stolen, beds assembled at midnight, laughter tangled with music.

Goffredo’s heart tightened, fierce and tender all at once. He held Aldo closer, letting the swing sway them into silence.

“Yes,” he whispered again, as though to seal it. “We’ll go home.”

And in that moment, under the glow of the porch lantern, the word carried more weight than any vow.

The swing rocked a little longer, the night holding them in its quiet. Then, as if by unspoken agreement, they rose. Goffredo tugged his jacket over Aldo’s shoulders as well, as though the sweater alone wasn’t enough, and guided him down the steps with a hand at the small of his back.

The garden lanterns flickered in the breeze, fading behind them as they crossed the gravel drive to the little red Mini.

The ride was quiet, but not heavy. The wipers swept the glass, old love songs hummed low from the radio, and the world outside blurred into night. Inside, Goffredo’s hand rested easily on the gearshift, brushing against Aldo’s now and then—never pulling away.

Neither spoke. Neither needed to.

By the time they pulled up in front of the flat, the streetlamps spilling gold across the cobblestones, the word lingered still—we, home.

Goffredo cut the engine. Aldo exhaled, soft and tired. Together, they stepped out into the cool night, their shoulders brushing as they climbed the narrow stairs.

The door opened, clicked shut behind them, and for the first time all evening, Aldo felt steady again.

Because they were home.

Together.

Chapter Text

The days after Raymond and Giulio’s housewarming fell back into rhythm—music in the mornings, meals stolen and shared, sweaters exchanged like second skins. On the surface, nothing had changed.

But something lingered.

Nigel’s presence had left an echo—too sharp to ignore, too polished to dismiss. And though Aldo said nothing, though he wore Goffredo’s sweaters and leaned into his storm as if nothing had cracked, the memory of that dinner table clung like wine to wool.

It came out in little ways.

In the way Aldo’s gaze flicked, quick and assessing, whenever Goffredo laughed with someone else. In how he stiffened when students lingered too long after lectures, leaning too close, laughing a little too brightly at the storm’s jokes.

It wasn’t loud, this jealousy. It wasn’t cruel. It was quiet, careful—tucked into the furrow of his brow, the press of his lips, the way his hand sometimes found Goffredo’s sleeve without thinking, holding just long enough to say mine.

It started in the faculty lounge.

A group of younger faculty had cornered Goffredo by the coffee machine, laughing too brightly at his gravel-voiced jokes, leaning in too close as he gestured wildly with his mug. Aldo sat at the long table with Thomas and Raymond, trying to focus on grading papers, but his eyes kept flicking up. Each time, his scowl deepened.

Thomas noticed first. “You’ve read the same sentence three times,” he murmured, a kind smile tugging at his lips.

Aldo adjusted his glasses sharply. “I’m concentrating.”

Raymond, ever gentler, hid a chuckle. “On the paper, or on Goffredo’s audience?”

Aldo’s pen pressed harder into the margin. “On the paper.”

By the time Goffredo sauntered back to the table, mug in hand, chaos in his wake, Mario had already spread the story: Aldo Bellini glaring daggers across the lounge like a jealous schoolboy.

“Careful, bambino,” Mario teased that afternoon, nudging him with a broad grin. “Everyone knows Tedesco is yours—except, perhaps, you.”

Aldo turned scarlet, muttering under his breath about idioti, but the boys only laughed harder. Giulio raised a brow with cruel amusement. “I never thought I’d see the day Aldo Maria Bellini sulked over attention. Delicious.”

The teasing lingered for days. And though Aldo pretended to ignore it, though he walked shoulder to shoulder with Goffredo as if nothing was amiss, the tension simmered.

And Goffredo, for all his chaos, noticed.

One evening, after a late lecture, he found Aldo in the kitchen—plating dinner with more force than necessary, muttering to himself as he stirred the sauce. His glasses slipped down his nose, his jaw set tight, though he hadn’t said a word.

Goffredo leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching. A slow smile tugged at his mouth.

“Bello,” he drawled, voice rich with amusement. “Are you… jealous?”

Aldo froze, spoon clattering against the pot. His head snapped up, eyes flashing, indignant. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

But the flush at his cheeks betrayed him.

Goffredo chuckled low, pushing off the frame. He crossed the kitchen in three strides, sliding his arms around Aldo’s waist from behind, damp hair brushing his temple, his mouth grazing the line of his jaw.

“You are,” he murmured, grinning against his skin. “Madonna mia, you’re jealous.”

“I am not,” Aldo huffed, swatting at his arms. “It’s absurd.”

“Absurd, eh?” Goffredo tightened his hold, swaying them slightly, his breath warm at Aldo’s ear. “You glared at that poor ragazzo by the coffee machine like you’d excommunicate him on the spot.”

“That’s—” Aldo faltered, heat rushing to his face. “That’s because he laughed too loudly.”

Goffredo laughed, low and delighted, pressing a kiss just below his ear. “No, amore. It’s because he was looking at me.”

Aldo froze, breath caught, the words sinking deep.

Goffredo softened then, voice gentler, his hand pressing flat against Aldo’s chest. “You don’t need to be jealous. I’m here. With you. Always.”

Aldo’s resistance crumbled. His hands came up, hesitantly covering Goffredo’s where they rested against him. His voice, when it came, was quiet, almost boyish.

“Good,” he whispered.

And though he would never admit it aloud, the storm’s arms around him were the only reassurance he’d needed.

Aldo stood still in Goffredo’s arms, every line of his body tense, until the storm pressed closer, lips brushing his temple, then his cheek.

“Always,” Goffredo whispered again, his gravel voice low and sure.

Something in Aldo cracked. He turned his head—too quickly, too impulsively—and their mouths met. A kiss, clumsy at first, startled, but deepening as Goffredo caught him steady, hand rising to cradle the back of his neck.

The spoon on the counter wobbled, forgotten. The sauce bubbled. The world shrank to the heat of Goffredo’s mouth, the softness of his beard against Aldo’s skin, the impossible steadiness of being held like this.

When they finally parted, Aldo’s glasses were crooked, his cheeks flushed pink. “We’ll burn the pasta,” he muttered, voice too thin to sound convincing.

Goffredo grinned, smug and boyish. “Then we’ll eat it burned.”

They sat at the little dining table, plates steaming between them, the lamp casting soft gold across the flat. Goffredo leaned back in his chair, fork in hand, eyes never quite leaving Aldo.

Aldo ate with his usual elegance, but his ears were red, his lips still soft from kissing. He pretended irritation, stabbing at his pasta a little too firmly.

“Stop staring,” he muttered.

“I can’t,” Goffredo said easily, swirling his fork. “You look too handsome when you’re jealous.”

Aldo shot him a glare over the rim of his glass. “Infuriating,” he corrected.

“Handsome,” Goffredo insisted, leaning across the table to steal a bite from Aldo’s plate.

Aldo swatted at his hand, indignant. “Rule number three—”

“Broken,” Goffredo said, smirking, licking the stolen taste from his fork. “Like all the rest.”

Aldo groaned, flushed, but there was no real heat in it. When Goffredo reached across and covered his hand on the table, warm and steady, Aldo let him. He didn’t pull away.

Not this time.

By the time the dishes were washed and the kitchen darkened, the flat was quiet save for the low hum of music drifting from Goffredo’s record player. An old Tony Bennett vinyl spun, the warm crackle filling the hall like a lullaby.

It was no longer strange, the two of them preparing for bed together. The Sick Day Clause had changed everything: after those nights of fever and vigil, of soup and whispered comforts, it had simply become their habit. Rarely did either sleep alone now. Sometimes in Aldo’s neatly kept room, with its pressed linens and quiet order; sometimes in Goffredo’s, chaotic and warm, books spilling from the shelves, the scent of smoke and cedar soaked into the sheets.

Tonight, it was Goffredo’s room.

The lamp cast a golden glow over the tangle of books on his nightstand, the battered record sleeves on the chair, Cesare the stuffed shark half-buried in the covers.

Aldo slipped under the quilt first, glasses set neatly on the nightstand, his expression a studied mask of composure. But the faint pink still lingered at his cheeks, the softness in his eyes betraying him.

Goffredo followed, tossing aside his sweater, climbing in with that easy sprawl that always seemed to claim half the bed—and Aldo with it. Without hesitation, he pulled him close, tucking Aldo’s smaller frame against his chest, chin resting on his bald crown.

“Still jealous?” Goffredo murmured, voice low, amused.

Aldo huffed into his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. “Go to sleep.”

Goffredo chuckled, kissing the top of his head. “That’s not a no.”

Aldo elbowed him half-heartedly, but his body betrayed him—relaxing fully into the embrace, head nestled under Goffredo’s chin, sigh easing out like surrender.

The storm’s arms tightened around him, steady, protective, unyielding. And for all the echoes Nigel had left, for all the whispers Aldo couldn’t quite shake, here in the dark warmth of the bed, none of it mattered.

There was only this: the press of chest to chest, the quiet rhythm of breath, the comfort of never sleeping alone.

The quilt was warm, the record’s crackle soft in the background, Goffredo’s chest steady beneath Aldo’s cheek. Their goodnight rhythm had become familiar now—an embrace, a murmured joke, a kiss to the temple, something soft before sleep pulled them under.

But tonight, something in Aldo tugged loose.

Perhaps it was the remnants of jealousy still curled tight in his chest, perhaps it was the way Goffredo’s heartbeat felt so sure under his ear. Perhaps it was simply that for once, he didn’t want to hesitate.

He shifted slightly, enough for Goffredo to glance down, brows lifting in question. “Mm? What is it, bello?”

Aldo didn’t answer. He tilted his head up instead, hand slipping to the storm’s jaw, and kissed him.

Not the usual brush of lips they traded before sleep. Not the gentle press that could pass as routine.

This was deeper—slower—his mouth parting just enough, lingering just long enough to taste, to say without words: I want more. I want you.

Goffredo froze, only for a heartbeat. Then he kissed back, rough and tender all at once, his hand tightening at Aldo’s back as if to keep him from slipping away.

When Aldo finally pulled back, his cheeks were flushed, his lips trembling faintly with the effort of composure. “Goodnight,” he murmured, voice too soft, too frayed at the edges.

Goffredo studied him in the low light, his eyes burning warm, his storm contained only by the fragile thread of Aldo’s boundaries. He could have pushed, could have asked for more—but he didn’t.

Instead, he bent and pressed one last kiss to his forehead, whispering, “Goodnight, baby.”

Aldo closed his eyes, curling closer into the storm’s chest. His heart beat too fast, his body still humming with the weight of the kiss.

And though he said nothing more, he knew they had crossed some quiet line tonight.

Not just a kiss.

Not anymore.

The storm outside their window had quieted in the night, leaving the world hushed. Only the slow spin of the record’s last groove, the soft creak of bedsprings, and the steady rhythm of two heartbeats filled Goffredo’s room.

Dawn crept in pale and golden, slipping through the curtains to spill across the quilt. The first light caught on Aldo’s glasses folded neatly on the nightstand, Cesare the shark wedged between pillow and headboard, Goffredo’s shirt tossed carelessly over the chair.

And in the center of it all—two bodies tangled together.

Aldo had drifted in sleep against Goffredo’s chest, one leg hooked over his, an arm tucked firmly around his waist. His usually impeccable composure was nowhere to be found; his mouth soft, his brow relaxed, his entire frame curled in like he belonged nowhere else.

Goffredo, half-awake, blinked down at him through the haze of morning. The weight of Aldo’s head under his chin, the warmth of him pressed close—it settled in his chest like something irrevocable.

The rules—Rule #1, Rule #2, Rule #3—were gone. Ash, scattered. They had stepped into new territory in the dark of last night, with that kiss that wasn’t just a kiss, with the quiet surrender of Aldo curling into him as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

And here, in the dawn, there was no going back. Even if they wanted to.

Goffredo pressed a slow kiss to Aldo’s temple, his beard brushing soft against his skin. “Bello,” he whispered, voice thick with sleep and something heavier.

Aldo stirred, eyes fluttering open, still hazy from dreams. He looked up, and for once there was no mask, no pretended irritation. Just softness. Just truth.

“Good morning,” he murmured, voice quiet, a little rough.

Goffredo smiled—slow, boyish, wrecked. “The best.”

The swing of dawn held them there, wrapped in warmth and the scent of cedar and peach vape still clinging faintly to the air.

They had crossed the threshold. The professor and the storm. And neither could ever pretend it hadn’t happened.

The golden light crept higher, brushing the rumpled sheets, the curve of Aldo’s bare shoulder where Goffredo’s threadbare sleep shirt had slipped during the night. The record had spun to silence, leaving only the hush of morning and the creak of the bed as they shifted.

Aldo stirred against him, blinking sleepily, his head still tucked beneath the storm’s chin. He groaned softly, burrowing closer.

“It’s far too early,” he muttered, voice husky with sleep, “especially on a no-class day.”

Goffredo chuckled, his chest rumbling beneath Aldo’s cheek. “Then don’t wake up, bello. Stay with me.”

Aldo tilted his head just enough to press his lips lazily against Goffredo’s throat, a touch more intimate than either of them could pretend was casual. His hand slid higher along Goffredo’s chest, clinging, claiming.

“Go back to sleep… baby,” he whispered, the word slipping out the way it always did when it was just them, unguarded, unashamed.

The storm stilled, his heart knocking hard in his chest at the sound. His arms tightened, pulling Aldo fully against him, as though anchoring the moment before it could slip away.

Aldo only sighed, content, snuggling deeper into the older man’s warmth, Cesare still caught between their legs like a sentry. His eyes closed, his breath evened, and for the first time in too long, he looked utterly at peace.

Goffredo stayed awake, holding him, letting the word echo in his mind like a vow.

Baby.

We.

Home.

The rules were gone.

The lines were gone.

And there, in the early morning, they had stepped into something neither of them would ever be able to undo.

The room was warm with early light, curtains glowing gold. Aldo shifted against Goffredo’s chest, half-asleep, pressing a soft, absentminded kiss to the hollow of his throat. Just a whisper of lips, meant to be nothing at all.

Goffredo smiled into his head, brushing his fingers lazily along his back. He tilted Aldo’s chin with a gentle nudge of his nose, and kissed him—slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that should have ended with a soft good morning.

But it didn’t.

Aldo kissed back. Once, then again, deeper this time, his lips parting, the taste of sleep and warmth and storm filling his mouth. A soft sound escaped him—barely a whimper, barely a moan—before he could stop it.

That sound undid Goffredo.

He rolled, shifting his weight so that Aldo was beneath him, their mouths still joined. His hands braced against the mattress, framing Aldo’s body, while his beard scraped gently along Aldo’s jaw as he broke the kiss only to press another to his neck.

Aldo gasped, clutching at his shoulders, the sweater sleeve sliding down his arm. “Goffredo—”

“Shh,” the storm rumbled, mouth moving against the delicate skin of his throat, his lips pressing, his teeth grazing. “Bello…”

Their bodies shifted together, chest to chest, hips brushing, the friction sending sparks racing up Aldo’s spine. Goffredo moved against him, slow and deliberate, his weight heavy, grounding, inescapable.

Aldo arched into it, his breath shattering, another moan spilling before he could catch it. His hands tugged at Goffredo’s shirt, clutching like he couldn’t quite get close enough.

The kiss deepened again—hotter, hungrier, lingering far beyond good morning—until the air between them felt charged, fragile, trembling on the edge of becoming so much more.

And still, neither of them pulled away.

The kisses deepened, grew heavier, their breaths mingling hot in the quiet room. Goffredo’s weight pressed Aldo into the mattress, his hands braced firm on either side of him, his mouth wandering from Aldo’s lips to the curve of his jaw, down the column of his throat.

Aldo gasped, his fingers tangling in the storm’s hair, pulling him closer instead of pushing away. His body arched up, pressing into Goffredo’s, chest to chest, hips rolling in an unthinking rhythm that made the both of them groan.

“Baby,” Aldo whispered against his ear, voice ragged. “Please…”

The word shattered whatever restraint was left. Goffredo growled softly, capturing his mouth again, kissing him like a man starved, like a storm breaking. Their bodies moved together in slow, desperate friction, each kiss threatening to drag them further, deeper, past the point of return.

It would have been the moment—the first time they truly gave in.

But then—

A loud, sharp knock rattled through the flat.

And at the same moment, Aldo’s phone buzzed violently on the nightstand. Again. Again. The insistent hum of it cutting through the haze, relentless.

They froze.

Goffredo’s breath was hot against Aldo’s cheek, his hand trembling where it gripped the sheet. Aldo’s chest heaved, his lips swollen, his glasses forgotten somewhere on the floor.

The knock came again. Louder. Followed by a familiar, imperious voice, muffled through the door:

“Bellini! Tedesco! I know you’re in there. Open the damn door!”

Giulio Sabbadin.

Aldo groaned, dropping his head back against the pillow, mortified. “Of all people—”

His phone buzzed again. Caller ID flashing bright across the screen: Giulio Sabbadin.

Goffredo let out a laugh, low and wrecked, still hovering above him, eyes dark with everything they hadn’t had time to finish. He pressed one last kiss to Aldo’s lips, rough and tender all at once.

“Saved by the scalpel,” he muttered.

Aldo shoved at his shoulder, flushed scarlet. “Get off me before he breaks the door down.”

But even as they scrambled, breathless, disheveled, they both knew the truth: they had already stepped across the line.

And the storm was only just beginning.

The knocking rattled the flat again, sharp and insistent. Aldo’s phone buzzed against the nightstand, Giulio’s name glaring at them in bright letters.

But for a suspended moment, neither moved.

Goffredo still hovered above him, hair mussed, chest heaving, lips swollen from too many kisses. Aldo’s hands clutched at his shoulders, reluctant to let go even as panic crept into his wide, dark eyes.

Goffredo dipped his forehead to Aldo’s, pressing them together. His voice was low, rough, almost tender. “Another time, baby.”

Aldo shut his eyes, swallowed hard, and nodded. “Another time.”

The knock came again—louder now, impatient.

With a groan, Goffredo pulled back, swinging his legs off the bed. He stretched once, deliberately slow, before padding to the door in nothing but his black boxers, shoulders broad and unapologetic.

Aldo scrambled upright, dragging Goffredo’s grey sweater tighter around himself, its hem brushing low over his thighs, his own boxers barely peeking beneath. His glasses were gone—somewhere on the floor—and without them, his flush was all the more visible.

He tried to sit straight, to look composed, but the sweater still smelled of Goffredo’s skin, and his lips still tingled from the kiss. He knew—knew—Giulio Sabbadin would see right through him.

And then—

The latch clicked.

The door swung open.

And there stood Goffredo Tedesco, in nothing but his boxers, grinning lazily at Giulio like he’d been expecting him all along.

His eyes swept once—taking in Goffredo, rumpled, bare-chested but for his boxers, hair mussed, lips swollen. A storm disheveled. Blue-balled. Guilty as charged.

Giulio’s brow arched, the corner of his mouth curving with surgical precision. “Dio santo, Tedesco. Did you forget how to dress, or are you auditioning for a scandal?”

Behind him, Thomas, Mario, and Raymond appeared in quick succession—like a jury summoned by fate. Mario was already grinning ear to ear, Raymond looked caught between laughter and sympathy, and Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose with long-suffering grace.

It hit Goffredo then, in a rush: the calendar. Their once-a-week communal breakfast. His turn and Aldo’s turn.

“Merda,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair.

And as if summoned by the devil himself, Aldo appeared.

He emerged from the bedroom, sleep shirt tugged hastily into place, hem brushing his thighs, bare legs disappearing into a pair of boxers that were unmistakably Goffredo’s. His glasses perched crookedly on his nose, his mouth flushed, his ears scarlet.

For one suspended heartbeat, the flat was silent. Then—

The boys pounced.

Mario howled first, clutching his stomach. “Mio Dio! Look at you two—matching boxers, matching faces—did we interrupt morning mass or morning mischief?”

Thomas, dry as ever, sipped the coffee Giulio had shoved into his hand. “Clearly mischief.”

Raymond, kind even through his laughter, offered, “At least you look… comfortable.”

Giulio’s smirk sharpened to a knife, eyes narrowing on Aldo. “Well, well. Bellini. I thought you were the last of us with dignity intact. How disappointing—and how entertaining.”

Aldo froze, every inch of his body screaming to kill me now. He adjusted the sweater, tugging at the hem as if it might magically lengthen, his mouth opening and closing without a word.

Goffredo, on the other hand, leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, utterly unrepentant. He gave them all a wolfish grin. “Breakfast, was it? Good timing. We were just… working up an appetite.”

Mario nearly fell over. Giulio rolled his eyes so hard it could have registered on the Richter scale. Thomas muttered, “Povero Aldo,” and Raymond tried very hard not to laugh.

And just like that, the teasing was merciless, unstoppable, destined to haunt Aldo for weeks.

The kitchen filled quickly, the small flat overrun with voices, coats slung over chairs, and laughter ricocheting off the walls. Cesare the shark was unceremoniously dumped in a corner to make space, Nigel the basil and Frank the rosemary shoved to the windowsill for safety.

And there, at the center of it all, was Goffredo—barefoot, still only in his boxers and a dish towel slung over one shoulder, commanding the stove like it was his pulpit.

“Giulio, you’ll eat cornetti, don’t argue,” he barked, flipping them with careless precision. “Mario, eggs al punto—not too soft, not too hard, capito? Thomas, I made beans for you. English people and beans, eh? Raymond, sit down, amore mio, you’re not lifting a finger today.”

The stove hissed, the moka pot burbled, and the table groaned under the growing spread: fresh bread, cornetti filled with cream, platters of prosciutto and cheese, scrambled eggs with tomatoes, beans simmering in a little pot, frittata thick with potatoes, even a stack of pancakes he’d whipped up just because.

The boys looked on in awe and delight, a little smug themselves that they’d orchestrated this perfect chaos.

And Aldo—oh, poor Aldo—was crimson from ears to collar.

He stood at the counter, sleep shirt tugged low, face still mussed, his glasses sliding down his nose, trying valiantly to assemble plates as if he hadn’t been caught fifteen minutes earlier kissing the storm out of his flatmate. He tried to mask his face behind steam, behind mugs, behind the sheer bulk of Goffredo himself.

But Goffredo wouldn’t let him hide.

Every so often, as he bustled about the kitchen, he’d brush deliberately against Aldo’s side, pressing a kiss to his temple when no one was looking—or worse, when everyone was. When he slid a plate of pancakes across the table, he soothed Aldo's head with a grin.

“Bello, sit down, eat. You’re blushing so much you’ll set off the fire alarm.”

Mario choked on his coffee. Giulio snorted into his Barolo glass, muttering something about indecent displays. Thomas smiled serenely, as though he’d known all along this was inevitable. Raymond only patted Aldo’s hand kindly, as if to say, you’ll survive this.

Aldo, mortified beyond belief, tugged the sweater tighter, sat beside Goffredo, and tried to pretend composure. But every time Goffredo leaned in to pour him coffee, every time their shoulders brushed, the tips of his ears went pink again.

And the boys noticed.

Oh, they noticed.

The communal breakfast turned into a chorus of teasing, laughter, affectionate chaos—the kind of morning that would be remembered for months.

And through it all, Goffredo remained smug and unrepentant, the storm in his kitchen, while Aldo—flustered, blushing, quietly glowing—realized that hiding was impossible now.

The table was a battlefield of crumbs and coffee cups by the time Giulio leaned back in his chair, fixing Aldo with a look that promised mischief.

“Bellini,” he said dryly, “don’t forget. The stag party next Friday. Tremblay’s farewell.”

Aldo, who had just managed to sip his cappuccino without flushing, blinked. “Joseph Tremblay? He’s marrying Agnes next week?”

“Yes,” Giulio said, tone clipped. “And moving to Rome after. Hence the celebration.”

Mario snorted into his cornetto. “Celebration, he calls it. More like an execution.”

Raymond chuckled, shaking his head. “It’ll be loud, that’s certain.”

Aldo nodded slowly, then turned to the storm at his side. “Would you like to come?” he asked quietly, almost out of politeness, though his eyes searched Goffredo’s face.

Goffredo didn’t hesitate. “No, bello. But, thank you.”

The table erupted.

Mario slapped the table. “Dio mio, rejected! Bellini invites, Tedesco declines. Scandalous!”

Thomas raised his brows, sipping his tea serenely. “Not a fan of Tremblay, then?”

“Not in the slightest,” Goffredo muttered, unabashed. “And Agnes terrifies me.” He leaned back, smirking at Aldo. “Enjoy yourself, bello. I’ll keep the bed warm.”

The boys howled. Giulio smirked, sharp as a blade. “He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore.”

Aldo’s ears burned crimson. “Idiots, all of you.”

The teasing swelled until the plates were empty, the moka drained, and the laughter lingered in the walls. Eventually, one by one, the boys bundled into coats and scarves, still snickering, leaving Aldo and Goffredo in the quiet wreckage of breakfast.

The flat was silent once the door closed, save for the clatter of Goffredo stacking plates. Aldo hovered by the counter, sweater tugged tight, trying to regain composure.

“You were insufferable,” he muttered at last, glaring as Goffredo rinsed a pan. “Smug. Absolutely shameless.”

Goffredo turned, dripping plate in hand, grin spreading slow and wolfish. “And?”

“And—” Aldo faltered, flushing under the storm’s gaze. “You embarrassed me.”

The dish clinked softly into the sink. Goffredo stepped closer, towel in hand, water still dripping from his fingers. “Embarrassed, hm?” He tilted his head, smile softening into something gentler. “Or just seen?”

Aldo scowled, or tried to, but his breath caught as Goffredo leaned in—closer, warmer, the towel tossed aside.

“You’re impossible,” Aldo whispered, though the words lacked force.

“And you love it,” Goffredo said, voice low, before silencing him the way only he could: with a kiss, deep and deliberate.

Aldo tried to push at his chest once, feebly, before melting into it—hands caught in the storm’s shirt, lips parting, composure crumbling like ash.

When they finally broke apart, Aldo’s face was flushed, his breath unsteady. “That doesn’t mean you win,” he muttered, voice frayed.

Goffredo laughed, brushing his nose against Aldo’s, smug and tender all at once. “Baby, I already did.”

Aldo had just reached for the drying cloth when Goffredo struck.

With a sudden, mischievous strength, he swept him up by the waist and plopped him onto the counter beside the sink.

“Goffredo!” Aldo shrieked, glasses slipping askew, clutching at the edge of the counter as though he’d been hoisted onto a cliffside. His laugh broke free in spite of himself, startled and bright.

Goffredo’s booming laugh filled the kitchen, bouncing off the tiles. He pressed a hand to his stomach, delighted. “Madonna, Bellini, you scream like I threw you off a gondola.”

Aldo swatted his shoulder, still laughing, still flustered. “You’re impossibly insufferable.”

“Always,” Goffredo grinned, wiping his damp hands on the dish towel before tossing it aside.

But then the laughter ebbed.

He stepped closer, sliding between Aldo’s legs, bracing his palms on the counter at either side of him. The storm’s chest rose and fell slow, steady, and his eyes caught Aldo’s with a heat that softened all the humor into something deeper.

Aldo’s smile faltered, his breath catching as the closeness wrapped around him. Slowly, almost unconsciously, his arms lifted, looping around Goffredo’s neck, tugging him nearer.

For a suspended moment, they just stared—breath mingling, noses brushing, the world narrowed to the hum of the moka pot cooling on the stove and the warmth of their bodies aligned.

Then Goffredo leaned in, and Aldo met him halfway.

The kiss was deep, unhurried, all the laughter smoldering into something hungrier, something that made Aldo’s fingers tighten in the storm’s hair and Goffredo pressed closer, closer still, as if the counter between them wasn’t enough to contain it.

When they finally pulled back, Aldo’s cheeks were flushed, his lips red, his composure utterly gone.

And Goffredo—storm and smugness and tenderness all at once—just smiled.

The kiss deepened quickly, as though both of them had been waiting for it all morning. Aldo’s laugh was gone now, replaced by a low hum in his throat, a sound that sent a shiver through Goffredo.

The storm pressed even closer, until they were chest to chest, his hands sliding to grip the counter’s edge on either side of Aldo’s hips, caging him in. The cool stone beneath, the warmth between—it was dizzying.

Aldo tugged at his hair, pulling him closer still, tilting his head just enough to part his lips beneath Goffredo’s. The kiss shifted—slower, deeper, until Aldo’s breath hitched, a soft moan slipping out before he could stop it.

That sound unraveled Goffredo.

He pressed his hips forward, pinning Aldo against the counter, the friction sparking through both of them. His beard scraped softly at Aldo’s jaw as he trailed kisses down to the tender skin at his neck, nipping, sucking lightly until Aldo’s head fell back against the cupboard with a gasp.

“Goffredo—” Aldo whispered, half warning, half plea, his fingers curling tight in the storm’s curls.

“Baby,” Goffredo murmured against his throat, voice low and wrecked, one hand finally leaving the counter to settle against Aldo’s waist, thumb stroking the skin just beneath the hem of the shirt.

Aldo shuddered, legs tightening around him instinctively, drawing him closer. Their bodies moved in a rhythm unspoken, heat rising between them with each press of mouth to skin, each roll of hips.

The kitchen, bright with morning light, felt too small for it, too fragile to hold the weight of their want.

It was like the morning in bed all over again—but hungrier, sharper, their laughter gone, replaced by groans and gasps and the desperate clutch of hands refusing to let go.

And just when it felt inevitable—when the kiss threatened to consume, to break all boundaries—

Aldo pulled back just slightly, chest heaving, eyes wide and dark behind his crooked glasses. His lips were red, swollen, his voice frayed.

“We still have errands,” he managed, breathless. “The market. Groceries. Laundry.”

Goffredo laughed, hoarse and wrecked, resting his forehead against Aldo’s. “Then let them wait.”

The protest about errands vanished under Goffredo’s mouth. He kissed Aldo again, deeper, hungrier, his hand sliding firm against his waist until Aldo broke with a moan he hadn’t meant to make.

Then, with a suddenness that stole Aldo’s breath, the storm gripped him by the thighs and lifted him clean off the counter.

“Goffredo!” Aldo gasped, clutching at his shoulders, legs instinctively tightening around his waist.

The laugh that rumbled out of Goffredo was pure delight. “See? Not so heavy.” He carried him easily, barefoot across the flat, kissing him between words. “Baby. Always. Mine.”

Aldo pressed his forehead against Goffredo’s, flushed and laughing despite himself, his protests dissolving with every step. They were almost at the bedroom, the sheets rumpled from dawn still waiting—

When a sharp knock rattled the door.

Three hard, deliberate raps.

“Signor Bellini?” came the landlord’s voice, muffled but unmistakable. “You’re home? We need to discuss the heating system.”

They froze in the hallway.

Aldo buried his face in Goffredo’s shoulder, mortification flooding him. “Dio mio.”

Goffredo, still holding him effortlessly, tilted his head back and groaned toward the ceiling, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “The entire world is conspiring against me.”

Another knock. Louder. “Signor Bellini?”

Aldo wriggled furiously. “Put me down—now!”

Goffredo chuckled, pressing one last kiss to his temple before setting him gently on his feet, still grinning like the devil himself. “Saved by the landlord. Again.”

After the landlord’s visit (and Aldo’s mortification), the two of them dressed at last and ventured out into Florence. The storm had his sunglasses perched on his nose, hair tousled, humming an old Adriano Celentano tune as he pushed the red Mini through narrow streets. Aldo sat beside him, neat in a navy pullover (Goffredo’s, naturally) with the shopping list folded precisely in his hand.

The day unfolded in domestic ease:

At the market, Goffredo haggled too loudly over oranges while Aldo selected vegetables with professorial precision. At the butcher, Goffredo charmed the shopkeeper into slipping them extra slices of prosciutto, only for Aldo to scold him and steal one himself. At the bookshop—because of course Goffredo veered them into one—they argued in hushed tones over whether they truly needed another poetry anthology when they hadn’t finished alphabetizing his last haul.

By midday, their arms were full with bags, the car fragrant with basil and bread, and their laughter easy again.

Until fate intervened.

It happened outside a café on Via della Vigna Nuova, the bell above the door jingling as they passed. Aldo slowed when a man stepped out, papers tucked under his arm, curls dark against his forehead, glasses perched elegantly on his nose. His linen shirt was rolled at the sleeves, his watch gleamed gold in the sun.

And then Aldo froze.

“Arturo,” he breathed, the name escaping before he could stop it.

The man looked up—startled, then smiling slow, familiar. His eyes caught Aldo’s, warm and sharp all at once. “Aldo?”

Goffredo, halfway through adjusting the grocery bags, straightened, storm-dark eyes narrowing in immediate calculation.

The one that got away.

The name Aldo never spoke, the ghost that lingered only in silences.

Now standing on a sunlit street, very much alive, very much watching.

And fate—wicked, relentless—had stirred the pot once more.

“Aldo!” Arturo’s voice carried warmth, surprise threading through it, his smile widening as he stepped closer. “Dio, it’s been—what, ten years?”

Aldo, still holding the folded shopping list, blinked hard before his lips softened into a smile not unlike the one he used to give this man. “Closer to fifteen,” he said quietly, and in his voice there was something fond, something familiar.

Arturo’s hand caught his shoulder, squeezing once. “Fifteen. Madonna. And you haven’t changed.”

Aldo laughed softly—too softly—color rising in his ears. “That’s not true.”

“More distinguished, then,” Arturo corrected with a grin, eyes flicking briefly over the glasses, the pullover, the small lines in Aldo's eyes. “But still Aldo.”

The air charged immediately.

Goffredo stood at Aldo’s side, grocery bags straining against his fists, his storm-dark eyes unreadable. Not a word left his mouth. He didn’t shift, didn’t blink, didn’t even adjust his stance. He only watched.

And that watchfulness burned—hovering at the edge between curiosity and territoriality.

Aldo, caught in the warmth of Arturo’s hand, felt it like static along his skin. He cleared his throat, stepping back a fraction. “Arturo… this is—”

Only then did he gesture, hesitant, toward the storm at his side.

Goffredo inclined his head the barest degree, jaw tight, grip still white-knuckled on the paper bags.

The silence stretched, taut as wire.

Arturo, ever gracious, extended his hand toward Goffredo with an easy smile. “And you are?”

Aldo hesitated a fraction too long before answering, voice a little too formal, a little too quick: “This is… my friend, Goffredo Tedesco.”

The word friend hung between them like smoke.

Goffredo’s jaw flexed, his grip tightening on the grocery bags, but he said nothing. He took Arturo’s hand briefly—firm, unyielding, his storm-dark stare never breaking. A handshake that wasn’t a greeting so much as a silent warning.

Aldo cleared his throat, desperate to steer the air. “How have you been, Arturo? What brings you to Florence?”

Arturo’s smile softened, his eyes crinkling the way they always had. “I’ve been well. Teaching still, though now at Oxford. I’m here only for a week, visiting. A friend of mine—Joseph Tremblay—you might remember him? He’s getting married, and there’s a stag night before the wedding. I couldn’t say no.”

Aldo blinked, startled. “Tremblay?”

“Yes,” Arturo chuckled. “He insisted. Agnes finally said yes to him, can you believe it?”

The words landed heavy, fated. Because there it was again: Tremblay. The very stag night Giulio had reminded them of. The very wedding.

And fate, wicked as ever, had dropped Arturo—the one Aldo once thought was his last—straight into their path, woven right into the same circle.

Beside him, Goffredo’s silence was louder than thunder.

Aldo adjusted his glasses, clearing his throat as if that might clear the air. “And you—you’re still in England?” he asked, voice careful, a little too bright.

Arturo smiled warmly, nodding. “Oxford, actually. I’ve been lecturing there the past five years. It’s been… rewarding. Demanding, of course, but I can’t complain. The students are brilliant.” He paused, his gaze flicking toward Aldo with a glimmer that was almost teasing. “Though none quite so sharp as some I’ve taught before.”

Color rose in Aldo’s cheeks before he could school it. He ducked his head, fumbling with the shopping list as though it suddenly needed reorganizing. “You always had a gift for flattery.”

“Not flattery,” Arturo corrected softly. “Memory.”

The silence that followed was thick, weighted.

Beside them, Goffredo hadn’t moved. He stood tall, groceries in hand, sunglasses still perched on his nose, his storm-dark gaze fixed firmly on Arturo. He hadn’t spoken since the handshake, hadn’t shifted his weight, hadn’t softened his stare.

If Arturo noticed the simmering storm, he gave no sign. His attention lingered instead on Aldo, warm and steady, a familiarity that curled dangerously close to tenderness.

And Aldo, caught between past and present, between the easy warmth of Arturo’s voice and the heavy gravity of Goffredo’s silence, found himself at a loss.

“Perhaps,” Arturo added with a small smile, “you’ll let me buy you a coffee while I’m here. It would be good to catch up properly.”

The words landed like a spark in a dry field.

Goffredo’s jaw flexed.
Aldo’s throat tightened.

The air charged, and fate laughed quietly to itself.

Aldo swallowed, fumbling with the folded shopping list in his hands as if it might offer an escape. “Ah—well—I don’t know, Arturo, things are… busy. Classes, papers—”

He meant to refuse, truly. To be firm, to draw a line. But the words tangled in his throat, hesitation curling around his tongue. He glanced once at Arturo’s familiar smile, at the warmth in his eyes, and faltered.

And that falter was all Arturo needed.

“Then,” Arturo said smoothly, “perhaps we’ll make it simple. You’re going to Tremblay’s stag night, aren’t you?”

Aldo blinked, caught off guard. “I—yes.” The word slipped out before he could stop it.

“Perfect,” Arturo replied, his smile brightening. “Then we can have coffee beforehand. Catch up properly. And then go together.”

Aldo’s heart stuttered, his throat dry. He opened his mouth to object, to stall—but instead, what spilled out was a weak, mortifying: “Yes. That sounds… fine.”

His cheeks burned crimson, his voice cracking just enough to betray him.

Arturo’s grin deepened, pleased, as though fate itself had conspired in his favor. “Good. It’ll be like old times.”

The words struck like an arrow—sharp, intimate, pulling threads Aldo thought he’d cut long ago.

And beside him, Goffredo’s silence was thunder.

The grocery bags crinkled faintly under his grip, knuckles white, jaw taut, every line of his body bristling with tension. His sunglasses hid his eyes, but the storm radiated from him—barely contained, one wrong word away from breaking.

Aldo dared not look at him.
He could feel it—the weight of Goffredo’s stare, the quiet fury of his stillness.

And yet, before he could gather himself, Arturo was already patting his arm warmly, his voice full of easy certainty. “It’s settled, then. I’ll call you.”

Arturo slipped a pen from his pocket, scribbling his number on the edge of Aldo’s shopping list, then—because old habits die hard—tilted his brows as if expecting the same.

Aldo, flustered, dug for his phone, cheeks still pink. “Uh—yes, of course. Here.” He rattled off his number too quickly, his voice too careful.

Arturo’s smile warmed further, as though the years had never stretched between them. “Perfect. And you’re still in the same apartment?”

Aldo hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Good,” Arturo said easily. “I’ll pick you up before the stag night. Coffee first, then we’ll go together.”

Aldo’s throat tightened, but the word slipped out anyway. “Yes.”

The agreement settled between them like a stone dropped into water—ripples unseen, but undeniable.

Arturo gave his shoulder one last squeeze before stepping back, the café bell ringing as he disappeared inside.

The silence on the street was deafening.

Goffredo walked beside Aldo, the grocery bags slung heavy in his fists, his stride steady, composed, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses. To any passerby, he looked calm. Perhaps even indifferent.

But Aldo knew better.

Every line of the storm’s body radiated tension—the clenched jaw, the set of his shoulders, the deliberate way his silence pressed down like a weight.

They walked two more blocks in that unbearable quiet before Aldo stopped abruptly on the pavement.

Goffredo, lost in his effort to appear unbothered, nearly collided with him. He caught himself short, looking down at Aldo with one raised brow. “What?”

Aldo lifted his eyes, dark and searching, his voice softer than he intended. “Would you… like to have lunch first? Before we go home.”

The question hung in the charged air, quiet but heavy—an offering, a lifeline, something to break the silence that threatened to swallow them whole.

For a beat, the storm said nothing.

Then, slowly, Goffredo’s grip on the bags eased, his shoulders slackened just a fraction.

Goffredo didn’t answer right away. He shifted the grocery bags in his hands, tilting his head as if weighing the proposition. Sunglasses still in place, mouth drawn into something too careful, too measured.

“Lunch?” he repeated, voice low, deceptively mild. “I don’t know, bello. Not really feeling up to it.”

Aldo blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

Goffredo shrugged, the gesture casual, but his jaw ticked. “Long morning. Groceries to put away. Things to do. Better to just head back, no?”

It was nothing, just words. But Aldo heard the thin edge beneath them, the unspoken sting of friend, the silence of the walk, the patience wearing thin. His stomach tightened.

“No, we—we should eat,” Aldo said quickly, fumbling to fix it, his voice softer, coaxing. “It’s been a long morning. You need to eat.”

Goffredo smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Do I?”

Aldo squirmed, shifting from foot to foot, tugging at the sleeves of the sweater he still wore. “Yes. And you know I won’t enjoy a meal if you don’t eat too.”

The storm’s brows lifted above his sunglasses, amused in a way that was sharper than tender. “That’s new. Are you worried about me now?”

Aldo’s face flushed. He opened his mouth, closed it again, searching for footing as the silence stretched taut between them. He hated the way the hurt lingered, even when Goffredo tried to mask it with cool detachment.

So he pushed—further than he ever thought he would in public.

“Please, baby,” he said, low, desperate, the word slipping out before he could catch it.

That cracked the stillness.

Goffredo froze, the line of his shoulders taut, his jaw working. The street noise blurred around them—scooters, voices, the life of Florence carrying on as if the ground hadn’t just shifted beneath their feet.

“I’m not hungry,” he said finally, voice rougher, quieter. “Not today.”

But Aldo wouldn’t relent. He stepped closer, stubborn, eyes searching beneath the shade of Goffredo’s glasses. “You’ll eat. With me. Lunch. Please, baby.”

The storm’s composure flickered. Patience frayed thin.

Aldo, sensing it, swallowed hard and pushed one step further. “And after, gelato. My treat. Just—stay with me.”

The silence held, longer than Aldo could bear. His chest felt tight, the words heavier than they should have been.

Then, finally, Goffredo exhaled through his nose, the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth—thin, dangerous, but softening. “Gelato, hm? That’s your bribe?”

Aldo’s ears burned scarlet. “Yes. So take it.”

Goffredo tilted his head, studying him for another long moment, as though deciding whether to let him squirm a little longer. And then, slowly, the storm relented.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Lunch. And then gelato. But only because you begged so sweetly.”

The trattoria was quiet for midday, the kind of place tucked into a side street where locals lingered over wine and pasta, where the smell of garlic and olive oil hung warm in the air.

They slid into a corner table. Goffredo set the grocery bags at his feet, dropped into his chair, and unfolded the menu with all the enthusiasm of a man preparing to duel it. His sunglasses were tucked into his shirt collar now, storm-dark eyes glaring down at the printed page as if Florenza’s Lunch Specials had personally insulted him.

Aldo sat opposite, shoulders tight, fingers fidgeting with the napkin. “They have a decent ossobuco here,” he offered cautiously, voice low, careful.

No reply. Just the steady, simmering turn of a page.

Aldo cleared his throat. “Or… bistecca. You always say Florence does it better than anywhere.”

Still nothing.

Finally, Aldo huffed and leaned forward, plucking the menu gently from Goffredo’s hands before his glare burned a hole through it. “Enough. You’re going to give the poor paper a complex.”

Goffredo’s gaze snapped up then, sharp and cutting, but he said nothing.

Aldo set the menu aside, exhaling. “I’ll order. For both of us.”

“Will you?” Goffredo rumbled, voice low, as though testing him.

“Yes.” Aldo’s chin lifted, defiant, though his ears burned red. “Because if I don’t, you’ll sit here glaring until the kitchen closes. And you need to eat, whether you want to or not.”

A flicker of something passed over Goffredo’s face—resentment, maybe, or the faintest hint of amusement at Aldo’s sudden steel.

When the waiter appeared, Aldo’s voice was smooth, precise. “One ossobuco, and a ribollita for me. A bottle of the house red. And some bread, please.”

The waiter nodded, retreating.

Silence fell again.

Goffredo leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, his gaze fixed unflinchingly on Aldo. He looked every inch the storm contained, the kind that made you hold your breath just to see if it would break.

And Aldo, shifting beneath the weight of it, finally muttered into his glass of water, “You don’t have to look at me like I’ve dragged you to the gallows.”

The storm’s mouth curved, slow, dangerous. “Haven’t you?”

Aldo swallowed, heat climbing his neck, but he didn’t look away. Not this time.

Goffredo leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. He wasn’t being difficult for the sake of it—though it looked that way. He was tired of the morning’s interruptions, tired of the world conspiring to pull Aldo out of his arms, and above all, tired of hearing ‘friend’ after weeks of kisses, beds shared, whispered names in the dark. The word echoed like a slap, and his patience was fraying at the seams.

Aldo knew it. He could see it—the thin crack in Goffredo’s composure, the tight set of his jaw. So he pushed his chair back and, instead of retreating, slipped around the table to sit beside him.

The storm’s brow arched in wordless questions, but Aldo only set his chin lightly on Goffredo’s shoulder. Tentative, coaxing. “Don’t be cross with me.”

Goffredo exhaled through his nose, still staring at the untouched bread as though it had ruined his life. “I’m not cross.”

“Yes, you are,” Aldo whispered, the corner of his mouth brushing against the wool of Goffredo’s shirt. “And it’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” The storm turned his head slightly, and their noses nearly brushed, his voice low, dangerous.

“Yes,” Aldo breathed, heart hammering. And then, softly, daringly, he let it slip in public: “Please, baby. Don’t be.”

The word cracked something open.

Goffredo’s jaw flexed, his eyes closing for the briefest moment, as if the sound alone was balm and torment all at once. When he looked at Aldo again, the sharpness in his gaze had softened—just barely—but it was enough.

Aldo stayed there, chin on Goffredo’s shoulder, feeling the storm’s body locked tight, every line drawn taut. He didn’t need him to speak; he knew.

“I shouldn’t have…” Aldo began quietly, fumbling, then forcing the words out. “The interruptions this morning. Twice. And then—” He hesitated, throat tight. “Calling you a friend. I shouldn’t have said it.”

Goffredo’s jaw ticked, but he said nothing. His gaze stayed fixed ahead, on nothing in particular, like a man trying to hold himself steady through turbulence.

Aldo pressed closer, letting his temple rest against his shoulder now. “You’re not just that. You know you’re not. But I panicked. Arturo—it threw me off. I didn’t want to explain about  us right there in the street.” His voice dipped softer. “I didn’t want to cheapen it.”

The storm exhaled through his nose, slow, controlled, his silence thick as stone.

“Baby,” Aldo whispered, low and desperate, the word slipping like an anchor between them. “Don’t make me beg harder than I already am.”

That cracked something. Goffredo’s shoulders eased just a fraction, the sharpness at the edges blurring. He finally turned his head, dark eyes meeting Aldo’s from close enough that their noses almost brushed.

“You think words fix everything,” he rumbled, voice quiet, dangerous, but softer now. “But it’s not so simple, bello.”

“I know,” Aldo admitted, steady despite the flush burning his cheeks. “But I mean them.”

The storm studied him for a long moment, searching, as if testing the truth of it. And though he didn’t give in entirely—didn’t smile, didn’t fully soften—his body shifted, leaning just barely into Aldo’s weight, allowing the press of his chin on his shoulder, allowing the word baby to linger between them unchallenged.

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it was something.

And for Aldo, it was enough to breathe again.

The waiter returned, balancing plates that filled the table with warmth and scent—ossobuco steaming rich with wine and rosemary, ribollita thick with beans and kale, another basket of bread still warm from the oven. He poured the red, set it down, and left them to their silence.

Goffredo glanced once at his plate, then leaned back again, folding his arms as though even the meal had to coax him into softening. He didn’t lift his fork.

Aldo sighed softly, watching him. Normally, by now, Goffredo would have stolen a piece of bread from his basket, or dipped a fork into his ribollita without asking, muttering something smug about “taste tax.” The absence of it was louder than words.

So Aldo took his fork, speared a piece of tender meat from the ossobuco, and held it across the narrow space between them. “Here,” he said simply.

Goffredo arched his brow, not moving.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Aldo muttered, his ears pink. “You’re not stealing my food, so I’m feeding you instead. Now open your mouth before this goes cold.”

The storm’s lips curved slowly, dangerous and amused, but after a beat he leaned forward, teeth grazing the fork as he took the bite. He chewed, swallowed, eyes locked on Aldo’s the entire time.

“Well?” Aldo asked, trying for briskness, though his voice betrayed the nervous flutter beneath.

Goffredo smirked faintly. “Could be worse.”

Aldo huffed, but relief washed through him anyway. He tore a piece of bread, dipped it into his own ribollita, and without thinking, offered that too. “Eat.”

This time, Goffredo didn’t hesitate.

The silence that followed was different—less taut, less sharp. Still fragile, still bruised, but lighter somehow, softened by Aldo’s stubborn insistence, by the intimacy of small gestures.

For the first time since the street, Goffredo picked up his own fork. Not much. Not enough to erase the tension. But enough to let Aldo breathe again, enough to mark the beginnings of a truce.

By the time they left the trattoria, the air between them had softened—not clear, not entirely easy, but lighter than before. A fragile thread stitched by Aldo’s persistence and Goffredo’s reluctant yielding.

They crossed the piazza toward a small gelateria tucked beneath striped awnings, the kind of place where families queued with children pressed to the glass, pointing at pistachio and stracciatella.

Aldo, still flushed but steady, ordered two cones. “Pistachio for you,” he said, handing one over, “and nocciola for me.”

Goffredo accepted with a crooked smile. “Bribery well executed, bello.”

They sat on a stone bench just outside, sun warming their backs, the hum of the city moving around them. For a while they ate in silence—Aldo savoring slow bites, Goffredo demolishing his pistachio with unapologetic delight.

And then Aldo noticed it.

A smudge of pale green clung to the corner of Goffredo’s mouth. He froze, throat tightening.

The storm caught his stare, brows lifting. “What?”

“You’ve got—” Aldo gestured vaguely at his own mouth.

Goffredo licked his lips, missing it entirely. “There?”

Aldo shook his head. “No. Other side.”

Another swipe, still wrong.

Aldo huffed, exasperated, heart hammering. “Here—” And before he could second-guess himself, he leaned in and pressed his lips to the corner of Goffredo’s mouth, catching the smudge with a soft, deliberate kiss.

Goffredo went very still.

When Aldo pulled back, ears scarlet, he muttered, “There. Gone.”

The storm blinked once, twice—and then melted, utterly undone, his mouth curving into a grin that broke all his defenses. He leaned in without hesitation, capturing Aldo’s lips in a kiss that was warm, lingering, shameless.

The city blurred around them—children squealing with cones, tourists drifting by, the bells chiming somewhere overhead—but none of it mattered.

For that moment, it was just pistachio, hazelnut, and the sweetness of something fragile, fragile and breaking into something undeniable.

The kiss broke only when Aldo leaned back, breathless, hazelnut still sweet on his lips, his glasses crooked from the press of Goffredo’s mouth.

They didn’t speak for a while, just sat there in the hum of the piazza, two cones forgotten in their hands, the city moving around them like a backdrop instead of a world. And then, quietly, Goffredo brushed his thumb across Aldo’s jaw, so soft it nearly undid him again.

“Let’s go home,” Aldo murmured, steady enough to disguise the rush in his chest.

The storm only nodded.

They walked back to the red Mini, hand brushing hand, and if anyone noticed when Aldo let his fingers curl around Goffredo’s for a heartbeat too long, no one said a word. The city was forgiving that way.

The drive was soft silence. Old love songs hummed low from the radio—Dean Martin crooning something about that’s amore—while rain threatened on the horizon but never broke. Goffredo hummed tunelessly along, one hand loose on the wheel, the other drumming against his thigh.

Aldo sat quiet, looking out at the city blurring by, the weight of the morning still lingering but softened now, replaced with something almost tender.

When they parked near the flat, bags gathered from the boot, Aldo stopped short in front of a shop that had spilled half its wares onto the sidewalk—terracotta pots, herbs in neat rows. His gaze caught on one in particular.

A small oregano plant, its leaves bright and fragrant in the afternoon sun.

“Frank and Nigel could use a friend,” Aldo said, pointing at it with the kind of seriousness that made Goffredo’s lips twitch.

The storm leaned down, peering at the plant as though it were a person awaiting judgment. Then his grin split wide, mischief lighting his eyes. “That one?” he drawled. “Looks like an Arturo to me.”

Aldo turned, scandalized. “Arturo? It does not.”

“It does,” Goffredo insisted, scooping the pot up with one hand, oregano dangling like a prize. “A little prim. A little self-satisfied. Definitely an Arturo.”

Aldo’s ears flamed red. “You are insufferable.”

“Correct,” Goffredo said, utterly shameless, carrying the oregano as though he’d just won it at a fair. “But now Frank and Nigel have Arturo to keep them company. A proper little family.”

Aldo muttered furiously all the way upstairs, but the flush on his cheeks and the way his lips twitched betrayed him. And the storm—smiling all the while—knew it.

They reached the flat with arms full—groceries crinkling, oregano precariously balanced in Goffredo’s grip. The door swung open, and the familiar scent of their shared life wrapped around them: books and smoke, basil and rosemary, music humming faintly from the record player left on low.

“Right,” Goffredo declared, heading straight for the balcony. He set the new pot down beside Nigel and Frank with exaggerated ceremony. “Signori, meet Arturo.”

Aldo groaned, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossible, but charming,” Goffredo corrected, straightening with a grin as wide as the horizon. He patted the oregano’s terracotta pot. “See? He fits right in.”

“Fits—” Aldo started, then cut himself off, muttering as he tugged off his loafers, cheeks burning red. “Dio mio.”

Goffredo only grinned wider, watching the pink climb higher into Aldo’s ears, enjoying every second of his fluster. He stepped back in from the balcony, shutting the door behind him, the city muted by glass.

And then—without a word—the storm turned.

One stride closed the space between them. His hands caught Aldo’s face, his mouth descended, and the kiss was nothing like the soft, coaxing brushes of earlier. This was hungry, consuming, weeks of restraint unraveling at once.

Aldo gasped against him, glasses slipping askew, hands clutching instinctively at Goffredo’s shoulders as the storm pressed him back against the nearest wall, devouring him whole.

And then, with a strength that startled him every time, Goffredo bent, wrapped an arm around Aldo’s waist, and lifted him off his feet as though he weighed nothing. Aldo let out a strangled sound—a half protest, half laugh—that was swallowed instantly by Goffredo’s mouth.

The groceries forgotten, Arturo the oregano standing proud beside Nigel and Frank, the storm carried him, lips never leaving his, straight toward the bedroom.

The door slammed against the wall as Goffredo shouldered it open, Aldo still in his arms, breathless and flushed, hands fisted in the storm’s shirt. The room was bathed in late afternoon light, pale gold spilling across the unmade bed, the shelves of books, the little moon lamp glinting in the corner.

Goffredo set Aldo down only long enough to press him back onto the mattress, his weight following instantly, mouth insistent, desperate, devouring. Aldo arched beneath him, glasses skewed, hair mussed, tugging at the buttons of Goffredo’s shirt with clumsy, frantic hands.

The fabric tore loose. Buttons popped. Skin met skin.

Clothes scattered—shirts pulled off shoulders, sleeves twisted and flung, Aldo’s trousers shoved down his thighs. Goffredo’s belt was half-unbuckled, hanging askew. Every kiss was a collision, rough and tender, claiming and yielding in turns.

“Baby—” Aldo gasped, hips surging up against him, voice breaking on the word.

The storm groaned, deep and guttural, his mouth trailing down to Aldo’s jaw, his beard rasping against sensitive skin. “I’ve got you,” he growled, ragged and raw, hands everywhere at once. “Mine—”

By then they were stripped down to nothing but underwear, heat blazing between them. Aldo’s hand slipped lower, palming Goffredo through his boxers, and the storm shuddered, breaking into a curse that shook against Aldo’s mouth.

And then—

A sharp knock at the front door.

They froze, lips still pressed together, breath tearing ragged between them.

The second knock came louder, insistent, followed by a voice—cheerful, oblivious, hammering fate down like a cruel joke.

“Goffredo! You home?”

Mario.

Mario fucking Assente.

"I've looked everywhere for my phone, I think I left it here this morning..."

Aldo let out a strangled groan, collapsing back against the pillows, one arm flung over his face. “Dio santo. Not again.”

Goffredo braced himself above him, chest heaving, forehead pressed to Aldo’s collarbone. His laugh was low, half-growl, half-despair. “He’s going to die. I’ll kill him with my bare hands.”

Aldo peeked from behind his arm, lips swollen, cheeks crimson. “You can’t.”

“I can,” Goffredo bit out, deadly serious. He leaned down, kissed him once more—deep, punishing, desperate, as though to sear the moment into memory before fate ripped it away. “And I will.”

The knock rattled the frame again. “Aldo! Don’t pretend you’re not in there!”

Aldo shoved at Goffredo’s chest, weak with frustration, breath trembling. “Get the door before he breaks it down.”

The storm groaned, dropping his forehead to Aldo’s chest, staying there for a heartbeat too long before finally rolling off. He stood at the edge of the bed, shirt half-off, belt dangling loose, silver hair in wild disarray. He raked a hand through it and spat a string of low Venetian curses as he stalked toward the hall.

Aldo lay there, chest rising and falling, still flushed, his hand pressed against his lips as though to hold on to what had almost been.

Fate, once again, had impeccable timing.

Friday came with the hush of ordinary morning routines—coffee bubbling on the stove, toast crisping, sunlight painting the kitchen floor in pale stripes. But nothing about the air felt ordinary. It was heavy, charged, still humming with the memory of what had almost happened days before and the knock that had stolen it from them.

Aldo lingered at the kitchen table, his fingers worrying the edge of his cup, eyes fixed anywhere but on Goffredo as he hummed low over the stove. Finally, clearing his throat, he said carefully, “Goffredo… about this afternoon. Coffee. And the stag night.”

The storm turned, raising a brow. His expression was easy, unreadable, the kind he wore when he was doing everything to keep the swell of his heart from showing. “What about them?”

Aldo shifted, uneasy, glasses sliding a little down his nose. “Arturo asked. If I would go. With him.”

Silence. Just for a moment, but it stretched like wire.

Then Goffredo exhaled, set down the pan with deliberate care, and leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest. His gaze was steady, deep, unreadable. “If you want to go with him, bello, go.”

Aldo’s head snapped up, surprise flickering across his face. “You’re— you’re alright with it?”

A ghost of a smile tugged at Goffredo’s mouth, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course. I’m not your keeper.”

“But—” Aldo’s voice caught. He pressed his lips together, fumbling for footing. “I don’t want to go if you don’t want me to.”

The storm studied him for a long, unbroken moment. His patience was raw, stretched thin. Every instinct screamed to say no, to keep him, to forbid it. But what right did he have? They hadn’t named this thing between them. No vows, no claims, no labels. Just kisses, beds, and quiet baby whispered in the dark.

So he swallowed the ache in his chest, the part of him that wanted to drag Aldo into his arms and say mine. Instead, he nodded, voice steady. “It’s alright. Go, if you want to. I trust you, Aldo. Always.”

Aldo’s shoulders eased—though the relief in his face was shaded with something softer, something almost guilty.

Goffredo turned back to the stove, his jaw tight, forcing himself to hum again as if nothing had shifted. But inside, one thought lingered, bitter as unripe fruit:

Maybe he didn’t even have the right to say no.

For a moment Aldo just sat there, his heart twisting. He could hear it in Goffredo’s voice—the steadiness that wasn’t steady at all, the restraint stretched thin over something deeper. Trust, yes. But also the ache of giving space where he didn’t want to.

Slowly, Aldo rose from his chair. He crossed the small kitchen in a few careful steps, and before Goffredo could retreat behind the safe clatter of pans, Aldo slid his arms around him from behind, pressing his cheek between his shoulder blades.

“Baby,” he whispered, soft, steady, the word slipping out with no hesitation. “Don’t pretend you’re fine when you’re not.”

The storm stilled. His hands gripped the counter, knuckles whitening, then loosening.

Aldo tightened his hold, pressed a kiss to the warm curve of Goffredo’s neck, lingering there, breathing him in—bergamot, cedar, faint peach, the scent that had become home. His voice was low, earnest. “I’m not going because of Arturo. I’m going because it’s expected. But you—” His lips brushed the pulse at Goffredo’s throat. “You’re who I come home to.”

Goffredo let out a long breath, shuddering, and one of his hands rose to cover Aldo’s where they were laced across his chest. For the first time that morning, his shoulders eased, his storm softened.

Goffredo stood very still for a moment, Aldo pressed against his back, lips warm against his neck. Then, slowly, he turned in Aldo’s arms, shifting until they faced one another in the narrow kitchen.

The storm’s eyes softened as they met his, the sharp edges dulled by something more vulnerable. He lifted a hand, cupped Aldo’s jaw, thumb brushing along the curve of his cheek.

Aldo leaned into the touch instinctively, eyes half-lidded.

The kiss that followed was not desperate. Not frantic. It was slow, deep, steady—an anchor instead of a storm. Gratitude hummed in it, and something unspoken but undeniable: mine, even if unnamed.

When they broke apart, Aldo’s breath lingered against Goffredo’s lips. “I’ll come home early,” he murmured, voice low, certain. “And maybe… we can finish what we’ve already started.”

A flicker of a grin broke through Goffredo’s restraint, wicked but fond. “Started? Bello, we’ve been interrupted three times now. I’m beginning to think fate has a grudge.”

Aldo flushed, biting back a laugh, but his eyes shone with something fiercer than amusement. “Then let’s give fate nothing left to interrupt.”

The storm leaned in again, brushing their foreheads together, his voice rumbling soft. “Così sia.” So be it.

The afternoon slipped into evening, shadows stretching long across the flat. Aldo moved between bedroom and hall, changing jackets twice, smoothing his trousers, muttering under his breath about how ridiculous it was to be nervous over coffee. Still, his hands fumbled with the buttons, his collar wouldn’t sit right, and every time he passed the mirror he scowled at his reflection as though it were betraying him.

Goffredo sat at the kitchen table, arms folded, watching silently. Not sulking—not exactly. But steady, unreadable, the way a storm holds itself taut before deciding whether to break. His cigarette lay unlit beside him; even his vape was untouched.

The knock came at last.

Sharp, confident, familiar.

Before Aldo could move, Goffredo rose, crossing the room in three strides. He opened the door.

Arturo stood there—trim, polished, every inch of him the echo of something Aldo once thought permanent. He smiled, warm and easy. “Goffredo, isn’t it? We didn’t get to speak much the other day.”

The storm’s jaw flexed, but his voice was smooth, deceptively mild. “Arturo.”

Behind him, Aldo appeared, slipping into his shoes, tugging at his jacket. He managed a small, polite smile. “Ready.”

Arturo turned toward him with that same warmth that had once undone Aldo entirely. “Shall we?”

For a moment the air thickened—the past, the present, all of it colliding in the doorway.

And then Aldo moved.

He stepped close to Goffredo, one hand brushing his chest in a subtle touch, almost hidden by the half-open door. He leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his lips—not hurried, not performative, just there, lingering for a heartbeat too long to be anything casual.

“See you later, baby,” Aldo murmured, just for him.

Goffredo’s eyes burned, steady, holding his gaze like he could pin him to the threshold. “Take care,” he said, voice low.

Then Aldo turned, stepping into the hall beside Arturo, the door closing slow behind them, leaving the storm standing alone with the taste of him still warm, the echo of baby reverberating in his chest.

Arturo’s Vespa rattled like a memory down the cobbled streets, Aldo holding on lightly at his waist, every curve of Florence familiar and yet strange from this vantage. He felt younger, unsettled, like he’d stepped backward into another life he wasn’t sure he wanted.

They stopped at a café near Piazza della Repubblica, where Arturo ordered in that effortless cadence that had once charmed him. Over espresso and a shared pastry, the conversation meandered—England, Yale, mutual acquaintances. Arturo laughed easily, fondly, slipping in nostalgia like it cost him nothing.

The café was warm against the autumn chill, the clink of porcelain, the hum of conversation. Arturo leaned forward, smile as familiar as an old refrain.

“You haven’t changed,” he said, warmth laced with something softer. “Still precise. Still cautious. Still… Bellini.”

Aldo managed a smile, polite but faint. He stirred his espresso with deliberate care, the spoon ringing against porcelain. “Perhaps not as cautious as before.”

Arturo’s brows lifted, amused. “Oh?”

Aldo hesitated, then exhaled. “There’s someone. He’s… not what I expected.”

Arturo tilted his head, not sharp, not jealous, simply curious. “The man from the other night. The storm with the beard.”

Aldo’s lips twitched despite himself. “Yes. Goffredo.”

“Mm,” Arturo hummed, thoughtful, fingers tracing the rim of his cup. “I saw the way he looked at you. As if you were the only steady thing in a room that wouldn’t stop spinning.” He let the words hang, light but pointed. “And the way you kissed him—”

Aldo flushed, fiddling with his glasses. “It wasn’t—”

“It was,” Arturo said gently, cutting him off without cruelty. “Bellini, don’t waste time pretending. I’m not here to reclaim you. I just… hope you’ll make an honest man of him. He looked as though he’d wait a lifetime, but I don’t think you should make him.”

Aldo swallowed, throat tight, the words landing heavier than Arturo perhaps meant them to. He nodded once, quiet. “Perhaps I already have.”

The flat felt wrong without him. Too quiet. Too cold. Goffredo tried to pace it out, tried to drown it in vinyl, in books, in overwatering Nigel, Frank, and Arturo the oregano until the balcony dripped like a monsoon.

The knock startled him. He nearly barked, but it was only Mario and Raymond, paper bag of food in hand.

“You looked like you’d starve yourself out of spite,” Mario said, barging in.

Raymond’s gaze was soft, steady. “We thought you could use company.”

They ate—pasta, fried olives, focaccia still warm. For a while, Goffredo kept up the performance: sarcastic quips, muttered curses, waving his fork like a weapon. But little by little, his armor cracked. His voice roughened, his eyes strayed too often to the door.

Finally, he set his fork down hard, metal clattering against the plate. “He’s with him. Arturo. And I’m here, feeding basil plants like an old widow. Do you know what he called me?” His voice broke into a bitter laugh. “Friend.”

Mario raised a brow. “You are his friend.”

“I’m not just his friend,” Goffredo snapped, louder than he meant to. The silence after it was sharp. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled like it hurt. “At least… I don’t think I am. We kiss, we sleep tangled like boys half our age, he calls me ‘baby’ when it’s just us—but then Arturo shows up and suddenly I’m a friend again. And maybe that’s all I am. Maybe I’m a fool for thinking otherwise.”

Raymond’s expression gentled, but Goffredo pushed on, words spilling faster now, raw.

“I’m seventy-two, Ray. I’m loud, I vape in kitchens, my books are stacked like barricades. He’s younger, careful, precise. He could have had a man like Arturo—smooth, respectable, his little Vespa, his neat espresso. Instead he’s stuck with me, a storm in boxers who can’t keep his hands to himself.” His hands curled on the table. “And worse—I don’t even know if I have the right to ask him not to go. We’re nothing. No label. Just stolen sweaters and stolen food.”

The storm’s voice cracked, low. “Dio, I’m tired of feeling like I’m waiting for him to realize I was never enough.”

The silence after was heavy. Mario leaned forward, grin gone, face softer than usual. “Goffredo… you’re an idiot.”

The storm blinked, startled.

Mario’s voice was steady now, almost brotherly. “He’s terrified of losing you. That’s why he bristles. That’s why he panics. He told us about Nigel—about how much it rattled him, thinking you were still tied to someone else. He doesn’t act like that for friends. He acts like that because you matter.”

Raymond nodded, his pale blue eyes kind. “And because he doesn’t know how to carry what you already do so easily. He’s still learning you.”

Goffredo sat back, stunned, staring at the floor as though it had betrayed him. His voice, when it came, was rough, hoarse. “Then why the hell isn’t he here?”

Neither answered.

The rain began not long after—hard, relentless, battering the shutters. The storm sat alone in the half-light, phone heavy in his palm. He wanted to demand, to beg, to plead, to tell Aldo to come home. But he didn’t. 

By  late evening, the stag party was in full chaos—Joseph Tremblay lifted high on shoulders, beer spilling, laughter cracking against the walls. Aldo was swept along, Arturo’s hand guiding through the crowd, glasses refilled faster than emptied.

To Aldo’s own surprise, he laughed. Really laughed. Arturo kept close, guiding him through the crowd, slipping another glass into his hand whenever his was empty. “Remember when Tremblay tried to out-drink the Jesuits?” Arturo leaned in, warm, familiar. “He nearly drowned in whiskey, and you—”

“Dragged him out by the collar,” Aldo finished, chuckling despite himself.

The memory pulled at him, but not as it once had. Arturo’s presence was steady, yes, fond, but it no longer felt like gravity. It felt like history—something cherished, but no longer lived. Every time Aldo’s smile lingered too long, every time Arturo’s hand brushed his sleeve, his mind tugged back elsewhere: a kitchen filled with smoke and song, basil plants on a balcony, a storm of a man who had already seeped into his bones.

It was midnight when he finally noticed the hour, the buses long gone, rain sheeting against the windows. Guilt clawed at him. He pulled out his phone, hesitated, then typed:

Sei a casa?

The reply came almost at once.

Sì. Sempre.

Aldo’s chest clenched. He looked at Arturo, earnest, apologetic. “I have to go. He’s waiting.”

Arturo studied him, then smiled softly, kind as ever. “Then let’s get you there.”

Even in the pouring rain, he didn’t argue. He simply pulled his Vespa closer to the curb, handed Aldo the spare helmet, and together they rode into the storm.

Outside, the rain came down in sheets, plastering their hair, soaking through coats. Arturo handed him the spare helmet, his own hands steady on the Vespa’s handlebars. “Hold tight, Bellini,” he said with a faint smile.

The engine roared to life. Together they cut through the storm, the city blurring into streaks of gold and black, rain stinging their faces, clothes clinging wet. Aldo clung lightly, but his mind wasn’t in the downpour or the rush of streets—it was already at the door of the flat, already hearing the scrape of a chair against the kitchen floor, already imagining the scent of bergamot and smoke waiting.

By the time they pulled to a stop outside his building, he was trembling with cold and urgency both. He pulled the helmet off, handed it back, and met Arturo’s gaze one last time.

“Thank you,” Aldo said simply.

Arturo’s smile was wistful, touched with something unsaid. “Go. He’s probably pacing.”

Aldo didn’t wait another second. He ran up the steps, rainwater streaming, shoes squeaking, the storm inside him surging toward the storm waiting within.

Goffredo had been pacing the kitchen for half an hour, the rain hammering harder, louder, with every tick of the clock. 1 AM. Still no footsteps on the stairs. Still no key at the door.

Finally, he muttered a curse, and snatched his keys off the counter. Arturo or no Arturo, I’ll drag him back myself.

He pulled the door open—

And froze.

There Aldo was, dripping on the landing, hair plastered to his skull, glasses speckled with rain, sweater clinging damp to his frame. A small, almost sheepish smile curved his lips, gentle and exhausted and his.

“Baby,” Aldo breathed, relief softening every line of him. And before Goffredo could say a word, Aldo stepped forward, half-stumbled, and leapt into his arms.

The storm caught him effortlessly, instinctively, arms locking tight around him as though there had never been a question. Aldo clung to him, face buried against his neck, rain soaking into Goffredo’s shirt, shoes squeaking against the floor.

For a heartbeat, nothing else existed—not Arturo, not the lateness of the hour, not the ache of jealousy still sharp in Goffredo’s chest. Only this: Aldo trembling in his arms, and the softest, most unguarded smile breaking across his lips even as water dripped down his collar.

Goffredo’s laugh rumbled low, half relief, half reprimand. “Dio santo, look at you,” he whispered into his head, kissing the damp temple before he could stop himself. His grip tightened, desperate in its steadiness. “You’ll kill me one day, bello.”

Aldo only sighed, softer than the storm outside. “Not tonight.”

And Goffredo, with the rain pouring behind him and the weight of Aldo safe in his arms, believed him.

And there, in the doorway, the storm held his professor close while the rain pounded on, as if the whole city was conspiring to drown them both.

It wasn’t passion. It wasn’t fire.

It was surrender. It was home.

And for that moment, it was enough.

Chapter Text

They lingered at the threshold longer than they should have, the storm’s arms tight around him, Aldo pressed close, the night and the rain blurring into something sacred. For a moment neither moved—just breath, and warmth, and the shiver of two men holding on like they’d nearly lost each other.

At the end of the hall, Arturo stopped.

He had followed at a distance, intending to knock, to offer a quiet apology to Goffredo for delivering Aldo so late. But the sight before him—Bellini, drenched and smiling like a boy, clinging to the storm as if the world would crumble otherwise—stilled him where he stood.

He smiled faintly, almost ruefully. Perhaps they’ll make it. The way Aldo and I never did.

Without another sound, he turned and slipped back into the stairwell, his footsteps swallowed by the rain.

Inside, Goffredo finally kicked the door shut behind them, setting Aldo gently on his feet though his hands lingered, reluctant to let go.

“You’re soaked through,” he muttered, gruff, as though chastising. His thumb brushed across Aldo’s jaw, tender where his words were not. “Come on.”

He steered him toward the bathroom, snagging towels from the linen shelf as they went. In the bright light, Aldo blinked up at him, glasses fogged and sliding down his nose. Goffredo huffed, plucked them off, wiped them dry with the edge of the towel before setting them carefully on the counter.

“Arms up,” the storm ordered.

Aldo obeyed, wordless, letting Goffredo peel the rain-heavy sweater over his head, then the shirt beneath, the fabric clinging before it came free. He shivered, bare-chested, but the towel was already around him, Goffredo rubbing briskly at his head, his shoulders, the line of his arms as though trying to bring life back into him.

“Better,” Goffredo murmured, quieter now, softer, his hands lingering at Aldo’s nape.

Aldo looked at him through damp lashes, his voice a rasp. “You didn’t have to wait.”

“I always wait.”

The words hung heavy, unadorned, and Aldo’s throat tightened. He leaned forward before he could think better of it, tucking his face into the storm’s chest, breathing him in—the smoke, the bergamot, the steady hum of life that was always, always there.

Goffredo wrapped him up without hesitation, towel and all, chin pressed to Aldo’s damp head. “You’re safe now,” he murmured, fierce in his gentleness. “That’s all I care about.”

By the time Goffredo had rubbed most of the rain from his skin and hair, Aldo was shivering less, but the weight of guilt pressed heavier on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Aldo murmured, voice small as the towel slipped around him. “For being so late. For making you wait.”

Goffredo shook his head, already pulling one of his softest shirts—navy cotton, worn smooth—from the wardrobe. He held it open, steady. “No apologies. Just arms through.”

Aldo obeyed, slipping into the shirt. It hung loose, the hem brushing his thighs, the collar gaping where damp curls clung to his temples. Goffredo lingered, smoothing the fabric down over his chest, hands firm but gentle as though grounding him.

“Better,” he said quietly, as if it were an oath.

Aldo swallowed, eyes lowering, but he let himself be guided into the kitchen. The storm moved with purposeful calm—kettle on, mugs waiting, chamomile pulled from the tin. He poured, handed Aldo the warm cup, and sat across from him at the table.

For a while, they drank in silence, only the rain rattling against the shutters, only the steam rising between them. Each sip softened the sharp edges, each glance held longer than the last.

When the mugs were empty, Goffredo rose, reaching for Aldo’s hand. “Come to bed, bello. Enough penance.”

Aldo hesitated—but only for a breath. Then he stood, letting himself be drawn down the familiar hallway, into the storm’s room.

The sheets smelled of him—peach vape, smoke, bergamot, and something distinctly Goffredo: warmth, chaos, permanence. The covers were thick, heavy with comfort, and as soon as Aldo slipped beneath them, he felt himself melt.

The storm climbed beside him, not crowding, not demanding—just there, steady, the heat of him close enough to thaw every leftover chill.

Aldo turned, searching for words he couldn’t shape. His throat ached with them, too tangled to free. So instead, he leaned in, brushed his lips against Goffredo’s—soft, lingering, grateful.

The kiss was everything he couldn’t say yet.

Goffredo’s hand found the back of his neck, anchoring him, answering without hesitation. When they finally pulled apart, the storm pressed their foreheads together, murmured something low and Venetian that Aldo didn’t quite catch but felt all the same.

Wrapped in the storm’s arms, beneath the storm’s covers, Aldo closed his eyes at last.

And for the first time that night, he felt home.

The rain hadn’t stopped. It whispered against the shutters, steady and low, the kind of sound that folded the world into a cocoon. The room smelled of storm and warmth—bergamot, smoke, peach, and something that lingered even deeper, something distinctly him.

Aldo lay awake, curled beneath the heavy covers, Cesare the shark wedged somewhere at their feet. Goffredo slept beside him, chest rising and falling in slow, even rhythm, silver-streaked hair damp still from the night before. His mouth softened in rest, beard shifting with each breath.

Aldo watched him.

He thought of Arturo’s words—don’t make him wait, Bellini. If he’s already waiting, make an honest man of him. He thought of the storm pacing this flat alone last night, waiting in silence. He thought of the rain still falling, and how, for all his bluster, Goffredo had always been there.

He realized, with quiet certainty, that he didn’t want to make him wait anymore. Or wonder.

Aldo leaned in.

First, a soft kiss to his temple. Then another to the bridge of his nose. Then, slowly, to the corner of his mouth. Gentle, lingering, almost shy. He pressed kisses along his brow, his cheek, down the line of his jaw.

The storm stirred, brow furrowing faintly.

Aldo smiled, heart twisting, and kissed him again, firmer this time. His whisper brushed against Goffredo’s lips. “Wake up, baby.”

The storm’s eyes opened, brown and molten in the dim morning light, meeting Aldo’s gaze before he could even fully wake. His mouth curved into the slowest, most devastating smile.

“Well,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep, “if this is how you plan to wake me every morning, Bellini…”

Aldo cut him off with another kiss, breathless, insistent, unwilling to let words pull him away.

For once, there was no waiting.

The rain kept its rhythm, steady against the shutters, softening the edges of the world. Goffredo blinked up at him, still half-dreaming, a smile tugging his lips as Aldo leaned in again, kissing him once more—longer this time, deeper, as if he’d finally let go of hesitation.

The storm’s hand slid instinctively to the back of his neck, but Aldo pressed forward, taking control, pouring all the unsaid things into the warmth of his mouth.

“Baby,” Aldo murmured between kisses, his voice breaking softer than rain, “I promised, didn’t I?”

Goffredo’s brows knit faintly, confused, dazed.

“That we’d finish what fate kept stealing from us.” Aldo’s words were low, pressed into his skin as he kissed across his jaw, down the hollow of his throat, trailing along the salt-and-pepper line of his beard. Each kiss was reverent, slow, unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world to worship him this way.

The storm exhaled, a sound that was half a groan, half surrender. His hand curled into the sheets as Aldo kissed lower still, across his collarbone, the steady press of lips marking every inch of him like prayer.

“Bellini…” Goffredo’s voice was hoarse, wrecked, but Aldo silenced him with another kiss to his mouth—soft at first, then deepening until the storm had no choice but to give in.

The rain blurred everything beyond the room. Only the bed, the covers that smelled of Goffredo, and Aldo above him—steady, certain now—remained.

And for the first time, there was no interruption. No knocking, no teasing voices at the door. Just the kept promise of a night delayed, and the tenderness of a morning made whole.

The storm lay beneath him, chest rising and falling faster now, eyes dark, lips parted as Aldo kissed and kissed and kissed, each one softer, deeper, more deliberate. The rain sang against the shutters, steady and private, cocooning them in the sound of belonging.

Aldo broke from his mouth only long enough to whisper against his ear, voice low, unsteady:

“I want to make love to you.”

The words vibrated against Goffredo’s skin, heavy, certain. His hand slid lower, pressing flat to the storm’s chest, feeling the rapid beat beneath. Then lower still, palm skimming across the  plane of his belly, until it cupped him through the thin fabric of his boxers.

The storm groaned, head tipping back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut.

“You’ve no idea,” Aldo murmured, lips brushing the hollow of his throat, “how long I’ve been waiting to do this.” He gave a slow, deliberate press of his hand, teasing, coaxing, savoring the tremor it drew. “How much I’ve wanted to…”

His mouth trailed downward, lips and tongue mapping out every line of muscle, every shift of breath. When he reached his chest, Aldo paused, breath warm against the curve of one nipple—silver glinting faintly in the morning light where the ring pierced through.

Curiosity burned bright in his gaze.

And then, slowly, he lowered his mouth, tongue circling once, careful, deliberate—before he flicked against it, pressure and heat colliding over metal and skin.

The storm jolted, a sound breaking free from his chest that was half curse, half plea. His hand fisted in the sheets, then in Aldo’s head, torn between pulling him closer and holding on for dear life.

Aldo smiled against him, wicked and reverent all at once. He laved his tongue again across the ring, slower this time, savoring the shudder it wrung out of him.

“Dio, Aldo…” Goffredo’s voice cracked, hoarse, undone.

Aldo lifted his head, lips glistening, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with devotion. He pressed a kiss just above the piercing, tender, grounding.

“Exactly how I imagined,” he whispered. “Better.”

The storm stared up at him, chest heaving, undone in a way no one had ever seen.

And then Aldo kissed him again, fierce and unyielding, his hand still stroking slowly through the thin cotton, drawing every broken sound from him until the morning blurred into nothing but touch, and breath, and the long-kept promise finally, finally breaking open.

Aldo’s boldness made the storm tremble. His lips, his hands, the way he pressed and lingered without hesitation—it was a side of Aldo that Goffredo had only ever dreamed of, never dared to expect.

The storm’s hands moved greedily, reverently, exploring every inch within reach—sliding up Aldo’s back beneath the loose cotton shirt, tracing the dip of his spine, the firm curve of his hips. His palms roamed, possessive and trembling, as though memorizing what was finally his to hold.

“Dio mio…” he breathed, his voice ragged, “look at you, Aldo… baby…”

Aldo silenced him with another kiss, fierce and tender in one. His body pressed down, hips rolling once, deliberately, grinding through thin layers of cotton until both of them gasped into each other’s mouths. The storm’s groan vibrated against his lips, half prayer, half surrender.

For a moment they lingered there—on the edge, suspended, neither willing to break the fragile reverence that had wrapped itself around them. The rain, the morning light, the scent of bergamot and smoke—all of it folding into something inevitable.

And then Aldo whispered it, low and steady against his mouth:

“I want all of you.”

The storm shuddered, his eyes flashing open, molten brown locking onto Aldo’s. “You have me,” he rasped, voice breaking. “Every inch. Every breath.”

Their clothes peeled away slowly, reverently, between kisses and murmurs. Shirts fell first, then boxers tugged down, until there was nothing left between them but heat and skin. Aldo’s hands trembled only once—then steadied, tracing every scar, every line of muscle, as though engraving him into memory.

The first slide together was slow, aching. Their bodies pressed close, chest to chest, skin slick with heat and rain’s memory. Aldo moved with care, reverence, each touch deliberate, each thrust drawn out, savoring the shudder it pulled from Goffredo’s throat.

The storm’s hands never stilled—cupping his face, stroking his back, gripping his thighs as though to keep him there forever. He whispered broken words in Venetian, in Latin, in the language of a man undone: prayers and curses that melted against Aldo’s ear.

Aldo kissed him through it all—his mouth, his throat, the pierced nipple that made him jolt, his temple damp with sweat—peppering him with devotion until the storm could do nothing but yield.

“Baby,” Aldo gasped, forehead pressed to his, “you’re mine.”

“Yes,” the storm groaned, voice tearing loose, “yes—always—”

The storm’s voice broke into murmurs, curses, prayers, as Aldo pressed closer, lips grazing the edge of his ear. Breath warm, unsteady, Aldo whispered, raw and certain:

“I want you to fuck me.”

He bit gently at Goffredo’s earlobe, tugging just enough to draw a groan from deep in his chest. The storm’s body shuddered, every nerve alight, the request like fire through his veins.

In a single motion, Goffredo flipped them—Aldo pressed into the mattress now, the storm looming above, chest heaving, eyes dark and wild but impossibly tender.

For a moment he only looked at him—Aldo beneath him, flushed and unguarded, glasses askew, lips swollen, chest rising and falling like he’d laid himself bare in every way.

Then Goffredo bent, pressing kisses low and slow. Across his mouth, down his throat, along the curve of his shoulders, lingering at every spot that made Aldo gasp. His hands traced reverent paths—cupping his face, stroking down his ribs, holding his hips firm as if he’d never let go.

“Bellissimo,” he murmured, lips brushing the hollow of Aldo’s collarbone. “Mine.”

Aldo’s fingers twisted into his hair, urging, desperate now. “Please, baby…”

The storm answered with worship—tongue circling a nipple, teasing, biting softly before soothing with his mouth, drinking in every shiver, every broken sound Aldo gave him. He slid lower, marking kisses along his belly, his hips, until Aldo was trembling beneath him.

Only then did Goffredo lift his head, eyes molten, voice rough with devotion. “I’ll give you everything, bello. Every inch.”

The storm kissed him like a man starving. Hungry, desperate, yet careful, slowing just enough to savor the taste of Aldo beneath him. His mouth dragged down his throat, over the sharp edge of his collarbone, teeth nipping until Aldo gasped, until he left a mark blooming dark against pale skin.

“Bellini,” he growled against him, voice rough, “I’m going to ruin you.” Another bite, lower now, followed by a soothing lick. “Mark you so everyone knows who you belong to.”

Aldo’s head fell back into the pillows, lips parted, glasses skewed, breath stuttering. “Baby—” he whispered, flushed and trembling.

“Yes,” Goffredo rasped, kissing him hard again, tongue sweeping deep before pulling away just enough to bite his bottom lip. “Say it again.”

“Baby,” Aldo moaned, more broken this time, hands clutching at his shoulders.

The storm’s chest rumbled with a laugh, low and possessive. He slid down, kissing across Aldo’s ribs, leaving another bruise there, then another on his hip. “Mine,” he muttered between each kiss, each mark. “Mine. All mine.”

Aldo shuddered when Goffredo’s hand slid lower, cupping him gently, then stroking slowly through the thin barrier of his boxers. The professor gasped, hips jerking, and Goffredo grinned against his belly.

“Patience, bello. I’ll take care of you.”

He got a pillow and placed it under Aldo, elevating him a little, tugging them down, baring Aldo completely. For a moment, the storm just looked at him—spread out, flushed, trembling, waiting. His eyes darkened with something primal, but when he touched him, it was with aching reverence.

He slicked his fingers with care, kissing Aldo deeply as he pressed one in, slow, gentle. Aldo tensed, gasped into his mouth, but Goffredo soothed him with murmured Venetian endearments, with kisses against his cheek, his throat.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, sliding another finger in, stretching him slowly, carefully. “So fucking perfect, Aldo. You’re going to take me so well.”

Aldo whimpered, clutching at his shoulders, pressing down against his hand as though begging for more. “Please, baby—please—”

“Shhh.” The storm kissed him again, deep and slow, while his fingers worked him open, scissoring, twisting until Aldo was gasping, trembling with need. By the time Goffredo withdrew, Aldo was shaking, flushed, pupils blown wide.

Aldo’s plea still rang in the storm’s ears. Fuck me. The words had undone him, snapped every tether he had left.

But Goffredo wasn’t going to rush. No, not now. Not with Aldo spread beneath him, flushed and trembling, glasses discarded, eyes blown wide with trust and hunger.

He prepared him carefully, slowly, with kisses and murmurs and hands that soothed even as they stretched, coaxed, claimed. By the time his fingers slid out, slick and careful, Aldo was panting, body trembling, begging for more.

The storm lined himself up, kissing him one last time before pushing in—slow, deliberate, filling him inch by inch until Aldo cried out, nails digging into his back.

And then Goffredo gave it to him—pressing forward, inch by inch, until he was buried deep, until Aldo arched beneath him with a strangled cry, clutching his shoulders like he might fall apart without him.

“Fuck—” Goffredo groaned, forehead pressed to Aldo’s. “So tight—so good, bello. You were made for me.”

Aldo gasped, back arching, voice breaking. “Don’t stop—please—”

“Dio mio…” Goffredo groaned, biting down on his throat hard enough to leave a bruise. “So fucking tight—so good. Mine. All mine.”

He moved slowly at first, dragging out every thrust, every stretch, savoring the broken moans that fell from Aldo’s lips. His hands roamed wildly, gripping his hips, tracing his ribs, holding him down when Aldo tried to push up for more.

“Please—” Aldo gasped, legs tightening around his waist. “Baby—harder—”

The storm growled, low and dangerous, and gave him what he asked for. His hips snapped harder, deeper, the sound of skin on skin filling the room, the bed creaking beneath them.

Aldo’s voice broke into pleas and curses, his nails raking down Goffredo’s back, leaving red tracks that stung, that claimed in return. He kissed him between gasps, sloppy and desperate, biting his lip, dragging his tongue across his teeth, groaning into his mouth.

Goffredo was everywhere—his mouth, his hands, his voice. He left hickeys down Aldo’s throat, across his chest, over his collarbone. He bit his shoulder, sucked his skin until it bloomed purple, marking him like a map of possession.

“You feel this?” Goffredo growled into his ear, hips slamming forward, making Aldo cry out. “No one else will ever have you like this. No one.”

“Yours—” Aldo gasped, voice cracking, body shaking, “I’m yours, baby—”

“Yes,” Goffredo groaned, pounding harder now, his own voice wrecked. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” Aldo sobbed, clinging to him, sweat-slick and trembling. “Always. Always yours.”

The storm kissed him like he wanted to brand it into him, tongue thrusting deep, biting his lip, his groans spilling into Aldo’s mouth.

Their rhythm built higher, faster, harder, until Aldo was nearly screaming, until the sheets twisted beneath them, until the sound of the rain outside was nothing compared to the storm inside the room.

Goffredo angled his hips and Aldo broke, gasping, arching, his release spilling between them as he cried out Goffredo’s name like a prayer.

The storm followed, groaning guttural into his neck, burying himself deep, trembling as he emptied himself inside Aldo, clutching him as though he’d never let go.

But even then, he didn’t stop—not right away. He thrust shallowly, slowly, dragging out the aftershocks, kissing Aldo through his whimpers and moans, licking the sweat from his throat, marking him again and again.

Only when Aldo lay limp and trembling beneath him, lips swollen, body marked and claimed, did Goffredo still. He kissed him softly then, reverently, pressing their foreheads together, murmuring against his mouth:

“Mine. Always mine.”

And Aldo, wrecked and breathless, kissed him back, whispering hoarse, but certain:

“Yours. And you’re mine too.”

Aldo lay beneath him, trembling, breath ragged, chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon. His glasses were gone, his lips swollen, his pale skin mottled with the storm’s marks.

But Goffredo wasn’t finished.

Not yet.

The storm stayed buried inside him, hips moving slow, shallow, dragging every last gasp from Aldo’s throat. He kissed him fiercely, teeth grazing his lip, tongue sweeping deep, his groan vibrating low in his chest.

“You think I’m letting you go after one?” Goffredo murmured against his mouth, voice wrecked, velvet over gravel. “No, bello. You’re mine. I want you ruined for anyone else. I want you to feel me for days.”

Aldo moaned helplessly, clinging to him, body already sensitive, nerves frayed and sparking. “Baby—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Goffredo growled, biting down on his throat, sucking another bruise into his skin. His hand slid down between them, wrapping firmly around Aldo’s spent cock, stroking slowly, purposeful. “You will.”

Aldo cried out, back arching, body caught between overstimulation and the storm’s relentless claiming. His nails clawed into Goffredo’s back, leaving angry red tracks, but the storm only groaned, rutting deeper into him.

“That’s it,” he rasped, mouth hot against his ear. “Give me more, Aldo. Let me hear you.”

Aldo whimpered, gasping, every sound raw and desperate. “Baby—please—”

“Say my name,” Goffredo demanded, thrusting harder now, hand stroking him mercilessly. “Say who’s fucking you. Say who you belong to.”

Aldo broke with a cry, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes as pleasure and overstimulation twisted together. “Goffredo—oh God—Goffredo—”

“That’s it,” the storm groaned, pounding into him harder, mouth leaving hickeys across his chest, his shoulders, his belly, marking him everywhere. “Again.”

“Goffredo!” Aldo screamed, hips jerking as his body betrayed him, sticky and thick release spilling over Goffredo’s hand, his stomach, again—more intense, more devastating than before.

The storm followed, groaning gutturally, thrusting deep and hard as he came with him, shaking, clutching Aldo’s body as if he’d tear them both apart with the force of it.

But even then, he didn’t stop kissing him—devouring his mouth, licking the salt of his skin, whispering against his lips as Aldo lay wrecked beneath him.

“Mine. All mine. Always mine.”

Aldo whimpered, voice hoarse, ruined, trembling with aftershocks as Goffredo stroked his spine, pressing their foreheads together.

And when he could finally speak, breathless and broken, he whispered back, with every ounce of certainty left in him:

“Yours, baby. Always yours.”

The room still trembled with the echo of them—sheets twisted, skin damp, the air thick with sex and rain. Aldo lay sprawled against the pillows, flushed and trembling, chest heaving like every breath cost him something. Hickeys bloomed dark across his throat and chest, sweat gleamed along his skin, and his voice was gone, wrecked, raw.

The storm leaned over him, kissing his temple softly, reverently, even as his own breath shuddered. “Bello mio,” he murmured, voice still gravel-rough, “look at you.”

Aldo blinked dazedly, lips parting, eyes glazed with exhaustion and something deeper—something that whispered of surrender. He lifted a hand, clumsy, to brush Goffredo’s jaw, and the storm caught it, kissing each fingertip as if it were holy.

Carefully, gently, Goffredo slipped away only long enough to fetch a damp cloth. He wiped him down with care that belied the ferocity of moments ago—soft touches over bruised skin, soothing across the mess between them. Aldo flinched at the sensitivity, whimpering, but the storm only hushed him with a kiss to his damp head. “Shhh, amore. I’ve got you. Always.”

When the cloth was gone, he tugged the heavy covers over them both, curling himself around Aldo’s smaller frame. He pressed kisses wherever he could reach—his forehead, his cheeks, his jaw, his swollen lips, the curve of his shoulder.

Aldo nestled closer, head tucked under Goffredo’s chin, his fingers clutching weakly at his chest as though he couldn’t let go. The storm wrapped his arms tight around him, one hand stroking lazy circles into his spine, humming low under his breath—something tuneless, something only for Aldo.

They lay tangled, skin to skin, wrapped in sheets that smelled of peach vape and bergamot, the rain still drumming against the shutters.

Every so often, Aldo pressed a soft kiss to his chest, his jaw, his throat—wordless thank-yous, promises, vows he couldn’t yet put into words.

And Goffredo, eyes heavy, kissed the top of his head and whispered into the quiet: “No turning back now, bello. Not for me. Not ever.”

Aldo’s reply was a sigh against his skin, content, ruined, safe.

Sleep found them like that—wrecked, marked, entwined, the storm and the professor folded into each other.

And in the silence that followed, something deeper settled too.

It wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just passion.

It was forever.

The rain hadn’t stopped. It tapped steady against the shutters, a low percussion that made the room feel warmer, softer, as though the world outside could wait.

Aldo stirred first, glasses crooked somewhere on the nightstand, his face pressed into the storm’s chest. Goffredo’s arms were still looped firmly around him, like he’d refused to let him go even in sleep.

When Aldo shifted, the storm rumbled awake with a groan. His eyes cracked open, bleary and still dark from the night, beard scratching against Aldo’s temple as he kissed him there without thinking.

“Morning,” Goffredo muttered, voice rough as gravel.

Aldo hummed, burrowed closer, and smirked against his chest. “You’re heavy.”

“Mm,” the storm said, tightening his hold. “Get used to it.”

Aldo huffed, tried to shift again, but Goffredo only rolled them lazily until Aldo was beneath him once more, pinned against the pillows, their legs still tangled in the sheets. The storm grinned down at him, wicked and smug.

“You’re insufferable,” Aldo muttered, cheeks heating even as he looked up at him.

“And you’re handsome,” Goffredo shot back without missing a beat, dipping down to kiss him quick and sharp. Aldo tried to scowl, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Silence lingered, punctuated by the patter of rain. Then Aldo’s stomach growled—loudly.

Goffredo barked a laugh, full and delighted, before kissing him again just to shut him up. “Hungry, bello?”

Aldo flushed. “That was you.”

The storm smirked, pressing his forehead to Aldo’s. “No, that was you. But don’t worry. I’m starving too.” He kissed him again, slower now, hands roaming over Aldo’s sides, possessive even in laziness. “And not just for food.”

Aldo shoved at his chest weakly, glasses still forgotten, hair mussed beyond repair. “You’re impossible.”

Goffredo grinned wider, teeth flashing, beard brushing his jaw as he murmured into his ear, “That’s Rule #4 now, bello. Feed the storm before he eats you alive.”

And Aldo, despite himself, laughed—soft, ruined, happy.

The rain lashed against the windows, but inside the little flat, the warmth was steady: the hiss of the moka pot cooling, the buttery scent of eggs, the low croon of Andy Williams filling the air.

Aldo pretended to focus on his plate, fork poised neatly, but his eyes kept flicking toward the man across from him—bare chest, damp hair curling at the temples, eyes far too smug for someone who’d already stolen half his breakfast.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Aldo muttered, spearing a bite of toast.

“Like what?” Goffredo asked, feigning innocence, leaning his cheek into his palm as though he had all the time in the world to watch him.

“Like you’re planning something.”

The storm’s grin widened. “I am.”

Aldo sighed, exasperated, but when he lifted the fork, he surprised even himself by holding it out—straight toward Goffredo. “Here. Since you can’t seem to keep your hands off my plate.”

For a moment, the storm blinked, caught off guard. Then his smile turned softer, quieter, and he leaned across the table, taking the bite right from Aldo’s fork.

“Better,” he said, savoring it, voice low.

Aldo’s ears burned. “Don’t get used to it.”

But Goffredo didn’t answer. He only kept watching him, the storm in his eyes softened into something dangerously tender. When Aldo tried to deflect with another bite of his own, Goffredo reached across the table, brushed crumbs from the corner of his mouth with a thumb, and popped it into his own mouth with a laugh.

“You’re insufferable,” Aldo said again, but his voice had lost all heat.

Goffredo leaned in just far enough that their knees touched beneath the table. “And yet, you’re feeding me, bello. Dangerous habit—you’ll make me think you care.”

Aldo’s fork clattered faintly against the plate. He looked down, then up again, cheeks flushed, lips quirking despite himself. “Maybe I do.”

The song swelled, voices threading together—“I practice every day to find some clever lines to say, to make the meaning come through…”—and the storm laughed softly, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe it.

He reached across the table, covered Aldo’s hand with his own, and gave it a squeeze.

Outside, thunder rolled.

Inside, two men leaned closer, the plates between them forgotten, the song spinning on and on.

The record crackled faintly as Andy’s voice drifted warm and low through the room.

“And if we go someplace to dance, I know that there’s a chance you won’t be leaving with me…”

Aldo tried for composure, but the storm’s hand over his was too steady, too certain. The warmth of it seeped into his skin, into his chest, until his resolve frayed. He looked up—and found Goffredo already watching him with that same dangerous tenderness.

The fork slipped from Aldo’s hand. His heart hammered.

“…The time is right your perfume fills my head, the stars get red, and oh the night’s so blue…”

The storm leaned in, slow, giving him every chance to turn away. Aldo didn’t. Couldn’t. His lips parted, breath caught—

“…And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like…”

The kiss landed at the word, soft but certain, sealing them in the music and the rain.

“…I love you.”

It was not desperate, not hurried. Just a brush, then another, lingering, warming, until Aldo leaned into it fully, hand curling in the storm’s hair.

When they pulled apart, Goffredo’s grin was quiet, boyish, almost disbelieving. Aldo’s cheeks were flushed, his lips trembling into a smile he couldn’t fight.

The record spun on, the storm raged outside, and at the breakfast table, two men sat forehead to forehead, breath mingling, something irrevocable written in the silence between them.

The rain never let up. Sheets of it blurred Florence into watercolor, the shutters rattling with every gust. But inside the flat, the world narrowed to softness: the couch, a blanket thrown over both of them, the low hum of Goffredo’s record player cycling through love songs.

At first, they tried to watch a film—something Cary Grant, something old, flickering light across their faces. But before the first act ended, Aldo had dozed against Goffredo’s shoulder, Cesare the shark wedged between them like a witness. The storm didn’t move, save to tighten his arm around him, cheek resting in Aldo’s head, breathing him in.

Later, they roused for tea, for another record, for the lazy sprawl of two men who had nowhere else to be. They kissed in snatches—soft, slow, then deeper, stealing from each other like teenagers who couldn’t quite stop. Aldo tried to scold him once for being handsy, but it was ruined by the way he melted into Goffredo’s mouth a heartbeat later.

The storm outside raged on. Inside, it was just them.

Until—

The lights flickered. Once, twice. And then darkness.

The film died mid-sentence, the record player gave a soft crackle and cut out, the hum of the flat vanished into silence. Only the storm remained, howling against the walls, rain hammering like fists against the glass.

Aldo blinked, pulling back just enough to squint into the dark. “…Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Goffredo said, far too pleased, his grin audible even in the pitch-black.

Aldo groaned, flopping back against the couch. “Of course.”

The storm chuckled, already groping for him in the dark, hands steady and warm. “Don’t worry, bello. I’ve got you.”

And in the silence that followed, with only the storm to bear witness, the couch became an anchor—two men pressed close, the power gone, the world paused, and the fire between them threatening to rise again.

The storm roared, rattling shutters, as if Florence itself was coming apart at the seams. Inside, the flat was swallowed in darkness. For a long, suspended moment, Aldo and Goffredo sat side by side on the couch, the rain their only soundtrack.

Then—click. A dim glow bloomed in the corner: the first of the emergency lights Goffredo had stashed for “inevitable Armageddon.” He shuffled about in the dark, muttering Venetian curses, until the small lamps hummed to life. A few candles flickered on the table, their flames soft and restless.

The flat transformed. The walls glowed gold, shadows long and wavering, turning their home into something intimate, secret.

Aldo watched from the couch, arms crossed, trying for his usual dry composure. “You’ve prepared for this.”

“Of course,” Goffredo said, striking another match. His grin flashed in the candlelight as he lit the last wick. “I have eleven siblings. Power outages were survival of the fittest.”

Aldo snorted. “I should’ve guessed.”

The storm prowled back toward him, the light catching on silver hair, shadows cutting sharp across his jaw. When he sank onto the couch again, the emergency glow haloed behind him, candles dancing at his back.

“Better?” he asked.

Aldo opened his mouth to answer—and yelped instead when Goffredo’s hand found his knee under the blanket.

“Goffredo!”

“What? Checking if you’re warm.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you,” the storm murmured, leaning closer, his voice low and teasing, “are blushing in the dark.”

Aldo’s retort was cut off when Goffredo kissed him—quick, playful, a nip to his lower lip. The kind of kiss meant to spark, not to consume. Aldo pushed at his chest, flustered, but the push melted halfway, fingers curling in his shirt instead.

The storm chuckled, kissing him again, deeper now, shadows shifting with their movement.

The blackout turned fumbling: Goffredo’s hand knocking over Cesare the shark, Aldo laughing into his mouth, shushing him when the storm muttered curses. They kissed like boys again, giddy, tripping over each other in the dark, laughter breaking between gasps.

But laughter blurred into heat. Teasing kisses deepened, Aldo tugged closer, Goffredo’s hands sliding under the fabric of the too-big shirt he wore. Candlelight painted their faces gold, shadows hiding nothing, revealing everything.

Aldo whispered against his lips, “You’re ridiculous.”

Goffredo growled softly, pressing him back against the cushions, forehead to forehead, breath ragged. “And you love it.”

The storm outside raged on. Inside, two men tumbled into shadows and fire, the blackout making their world smaller, hungrier, closer—until there was nothing left but breath and warmth and the danger of how easy it all felt.

The kiss broke on a laugh—Aldo’s, breathless and incredulous—when Goffredo all but pulled him down from the couch to the rug below. It was soft under them, the new one they’d argued over at IKEA: Aldo’s clean lines against Goffredo’s stubborn insistence for something “bold, Venetian, indestructible.” In the end, they’d chosen together. Now it cushioned the weight of them, shadows trembling across the weave.

“Goffredo!” Aldo scolded as he tumbled down with him, glasses skewed, neck flushed red.

The storm loomed above him, hands braced either side of his head, grin wolfish in the flicker of candlelight. “What? The couch was too small. We needed space.”

Aldo, despite himself, flushed crimson. His hand fumbled blindly to the side, snatched Cesare the shark from where he’d been caught between them, and tossed him unceremoniously onto the smaller armchair. “Not here for this,” he muttered.

Goffredo laughed low in his chest, eyes glinting darkly. “Prude.”

“Respectful,” Aldo corrected, though his voice faltered when the storm leaned down, lips grazing his ear, breath hot.

“Then be respectful,” Goffredo murmured, “and let me.”

The words sank like sparks through Aldo’s skin. His fingers clenched at the storm’s shirt, tugging him down until their mouths collided again—no more laughter now, just fire.

The rug became a battlefield and an altar both. Goffredo’s body pressed down, heavy, claiming, while Aldo arched up to meet him, gasping, clutching at his shoulders. Their mouths bruised, their hands roamed, every touch equal parts demand and worship.

Candlelight made them mythic: shadows of two men devouring each other in the middle of a blackout, the storm outside rattling the glass, thunder shuddering through the walls.

Goffredo kissed down his throat, teeth grazing, leaving a trail of hickeys along the pale line of Aldo’s collarbone. Aldo gasped, tugging at his hair, trying to scold even as his voice broke on it. “You—animal—”

“Mine,” Goffredo growled against his skin, biting another mark lower still.

Aldo’s protest dissolved into a whimper, hips rolling up instinctively into the weight pressing him down.

The storm groaned, his mouth finding Aldo’s again, devouring, desperate. “Say it,” he whispered between kisses, voice thick, reverent and hungry all at once.

Aldo shook his head, dizzy, breath catching.

“Say it,” Goffredo urged again, grinding against him, the friction almost unbearable.

Aldo’s voice cracked, the storm breaking him open. “Yours.”

The candles flickered, the emergency lights buzzed low, the storm raged on outside.

And on the rug they’d chosen together, under shadows and thunder, Aldo Bellini let himself be claimed.

The storm’s mouth trailed lower, down the line of Aldo’s throat, down his chest, each kiss sinking deeper into hunger. Aldo squirmed beneath him, glasses askew, sweater rucked high to bare his stomach.

“Goffredo—” His voice broke when the older man’s teeth grazed his skin, his tongue soothing after, leaving heat in every place his lips touched.

“Shh, bello,” Goffredo murmured, kissing lower still, voice rough with want. “Let me taste you.”

By the time he reached Aldo’s waistband, the professor was already trembling, clutching at his shoulders as though he might anchor him. Goffredo tugged the fabric down with slow intent, baring him to the flickering shadows, and then—without warning—he leaned in and pressed his mouth to the soft swell of him, tongue dragging across Aldo’s peach-pink skin in a way that made him jolt.

Aldo gasped, mortified, aroused, undone. “Dio, Goffredo—”

The storm only chuckled, low and filthy, the sound vibrating against him. “Sweet,” he murmured, and then he went lower still, wrapping his mouth around Aldo’s cock with a hunger that stole the breath from the room.

Aldo’s cry was strangled, his hips jerking, his hands flying to the storm’s silver-streaked hair, clutching tight. “Baby—please—”

The storm groaned around him, savoring the sound, the taste, every desperate roll of Aldo’s hips. His tongue laved, teased, sucked him with a patience that was anything but gentle. He wanted Aldo wrecked, wanted him ruined, wanted him his.

Aldo tried to warn him, tried to stammer, “I’m—Goffredo, I’m going to—” but the storm only tightened his grip on his thighs and hollowed his cheeks, taking him deeper until Aldo’s world went white.

The climax tore through him, sharp, shaking, leaving him crying out into the storm’s name like prayer. Goffredo swallowed him down, every drop, every tremor, before pulling back with lips slick and swollen, eyes dark as thunder.

Aldo collapsed back against the rug, trembling, chest heaving, face flushed scarlet in the candlelight.

The storm leaned up over him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, voice hoarse but smug. “My sweet professor,” he growled softly, kissing his stomach “You taste like heaven.”

Aldo could only gasp, dazed, eyes fluttering open to meet his, and for the first time, he didn’t fight the claim.

Not when the storm had already carved it into his body.

Aldo was still trembling when Goffredo pulled up over him again, mouth glistening, eyes dark as sin. The storm’s grin was feral, proud, and his voice came low, rasping against Aldo’s skin.

“Not done with you yet, bello.”

Before Aldo could find words, Goffredo was kissing him again, greedy, wet, feeding him his own taste until Aldo groaned into it, caught between shame and heat. The storm swallowed every sound, every shudder, pinning him against the rug with a weight that left no doubt: he wasn’t letting him go.

Hands skimmed down Aldo’s thighs and legs leaving goosebumps all over him, flushed and wrecked already. Goffredo shoved his own boxers low, his cock heavy and hard between them, brushing against Aldo’s thigh in a way that made him gasp.

The storm’s hand slid down, steady, teasing, stroking himself once before pressing the head against Aldo, slow, deliberate. His voice was a growl against Aldo’s ear.

“You asked me for this, remember?” he rasped, nipping at his earlobe. “Said you wanted me to fuck you. Do you still?”

Aldo’s breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut, words caught in his throat. Then, with a shaky, desperate nod, he whispered, “Yes. Baby, please.”

That was all it took.

Goffredo’s hand was already between them, slicking his fingers with spit, pressing one inside, coaxing Aldo open with a patience that was somehow crueler than haste. He curled it, added another, stretching him, watching every flicker of his face in the candlelight.

“Bellisimo,” the storm murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his throat. “My handsome professor.”

By the time he pressed in—thick, slow, relentless—Aldo was trembling, nails digging into his shoulders, gasping his name over and over like a litany.

“Goffredo—Dio, Goffredo—”

The storm groaned low, forehead pressed to his, sweat beading on his temple as he bottomed out, filling him completely. “Mine,” he growled, voice breaking. “All mine.”

They moved together, rougher than the morning, the storm’s thrusts deep and claiming, Aldo arching beneath him, clinging, whispering baby in every gasp. The rug slid beneath them, Cesare the shark staring from the armchair like a discarded witness.

Goffredo’s mouth was everywhere—sucking bruises into Aldo’s throat, marking his collarbones, biting at his shoulder until the professor cried out and tightened around him. “Say it,” he demanded, ragged, grinding deeper. “Say you’re mine.”

Aldo’s voice broke on a moan. “Yours—God, baby, I’m yours.”

The storm kissed him hard, punishing, fucking him harder, until their breaths tore ragged from their lungs, until the storm’s growls mixed with Aldo’s broken gasps. Aldo came first, undone by Goffredo’s hand around him, spilling hot between their stomachs, shuddering as he moaned into his mouth.

The storm followed, with a guttural curse in Venetian, burying himself deep as if he could brand the claim into him. His roar shook against Aldo’s lips, into Aldo’s chest, filling him as the thunder split the sky outside.

They collapsed together, sweaty, panting, tangled on the rug, the storm’s arms locked tight around him as though he’d never let go. Goffredo pressed kiss after kiss to his temple, his jaw, his swollen lips, whispering hoarse, broken endearments.

Aldo, wrecked and trembling, tucked his face into the storm’s throat, still gasping for breath, still feeling the weight of him deep inside. “Always,” he whispered, the word so soft it could’ve been stolen by the rain.

The candles guttered low. The storm raged on.

And on the rug they’d chosen together, in the glow of shadows and thunder, there was no longer any doubt: they belonged to each other.

The room was quiet except for the ragged sound of their breathing and the storm hammering against the shutters. Candlelight flickered low, gilding their sweat-slicked skin, catching in the silver of Goffredo’s hair, in the damp curve of Aldo’s lips.

Aldo shifted with a soft groan, still trembling, and instead of rolling away, he moved upward—slow, shaky—until he was straddling Goffredo. His knees pressed into the rug, his chest flush against the storm’s, his arms curling tight around his neck.

“Bello,” Goffredo murmured, still hoarse, wrapping an arm instinctively around his waist, the other tracing lazy patterns down his spine.

Aldo tucked his face into the storm’s throat, inhaling him, pressing a kiss to the salty skin there, sighing like he’d finally found where he belonged.

The storm chuckled low, kissing his temple. “Clingy little professor.”

“Shut up,” Aldo muttered, voice muffled against his chest, but his grip only tightened.

Goffredo grinned, smug but melted, and without shifting Aldo an inch, reached up blindly toward the couch above them. His hand fumbled until it found the thick throw blanket they’d left draped there. With a grunt, he tugged it down and spread it over them both, cocooning them in its warmth.

The blanket smelled faintly of cedar and laundry soap, but beneath it was all storm—bergamot, smoke, peach vape lingering faint. Aldo sighed into it, letting himself go limp against Goffredo’s chest, every muscle finally unclenched.

Outside, thunder cracked. Inside, the storm only held him closer, one large hand stroking gently through the short hair at his nape, the other resting heavy on his back.

“Resto qui,” Goffredo whispered, barely audible above the rain. “Sempre.”

Aldo’s lips curved faintly against his skin. His answer came in a murmur, sleepy, unguarded, his voice heavy with devotion and exhaustion both:

“Ti voglio, baby.”

And as the storm raged on, the rug became their bed, the blanket their haven, and the world outside could howl all it wanted—because here, in the wreckage of passion and the hush of afterglow, they had already found home.

The storm outside had not let up, rain thrumming against the glass in relentless rhythm, thunder rolling like a drumbeat in the distance. The candles burned low, shadows swaying on the walls, as the two of them finally pulled themselves up from the rug, blanket still wrapped around their shoulders.

Aldo was glowing and sleep mussed, his lips kiss-bruised, his glasses hanging crooked on his nose. Goffredo, bare-chested, silver-streaked hair damp with sweat and rain, smirked at the sight of him trying to reclaim composure.

“You look wrecked,” the storm teased, voice still gravel-rough.

Aldo swatted him with the blanket and muttered, “You did that,” though the flush in his cheeks betrayed the pride underneath.

In the kitchen, they scrounged for what could be cooked without light. Goffredo, ever the Venetian improviser, dug out a small camping burner he kept for “emergencies” (though Aldo suspected it was really for late-night espresso). Within minutes he had a pot bubbling, pastina simmering in broth, the scent filling the flat with warmth.

Aldo sat at the table, wrapped in the blanket, chin in hand, watching him. He was too tired to argue, too soft to protest. When the bowl was set before him—steam curling, broth golden—he murmured a quiet, “Grazie, baby.”

The storm froze for a heartbeat at the word, then bent down to kiss his temple. “Eat, bello.”

Later, bellies warmed, the two of them ended up back in the living room. Goffredo lit one of the backup candles, setting it in a little glass bowl, and pulled out an old deck of cards, edges softened from use.

“Briscola?” he suggested, shuffling with one hand, the other balancing his vape.

Aldo quirked a brow. “Poker.”

“Strip poker?” the storm asked shamelessly, eyes glinting.

Aldo groaned and tossed a cushion at him. “Normal poker, you menace.”

So they played. Cross-legged on the rug still warm with memory, Cesare perched like a silent judge on the armchair. Goffredo cheated shamelessly, his grin giving him away each time. Aldo accused him of palming cards. Goffredo accused him of counting too well. Between laughter, teasing, and stolen kisses across the cards, the blackout felt less like absence and more like sanctuary.

And when Aldo finally leaned back against him, sighing into the weight of his chest as the candle guttered low, Goffredo pressed his lips to his head and murmured, “Best blackout of my life.”

The hour had grown thick with rain, shadows stretching long across the walls. Dinner had settled, the cards lay abandoned in a careless heap between them, and the blanket still cocooned them both where they sat cross-legged on the rug.

Aldo picked up a coin from the table, turning it between his fingers. His brows arched, a spark of mischief flickering behind his glasses. “Truth or dare. Let’s play.”

Goffredo snorted. “What are we, ragazzi at a sleepover?”

“You’re the one who suggested strip poker,” Aldo countered, smirking faintly. “This is tame in comparison.” He balanced the coin on his thumb. “Heads or tails?”

“Heads,” the storm said without hesitation.

“Tails for me, then.”

The coin flipped high, glinted in the candlelight, and landed with a soft clink on Aldo’s palm. Tails. Aldo smiled in quiet victory. “Looks like I'm starting. So, truth or dare?”

Goffredo leaned back against the couch, long legs stretched out, arms folded like he was humoring a child. “Fine. Truth.”

Aldo twirled the coin once more between his fingers, then asked with deliberate calm: “Why did you move to Florence?”

For once, the storm went still.

The flicker of the candle caught his profile—the crease at the corner of his mouth, the shadow along his jaw. He drew on his vape once, exhaling slow, peach-scented smoke curling toward the ceiling before he answered.

“Venice was… finished,” he said finally, voice low. “Too many ghosts. Too many eyes that remembered me when I was someone else. Florence gave me an excuse. A post. A chance to start over.”

Aldo studied him, quiet, searching. “And has it?”

The storm’s gaze slid back to him, dark, unreadable for a beat. Then softer: “Maybe. Ask me again in a year.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—it was charged, alive. The rain hammered at the shutters, thunder muttered in the distance, but between them was only the hum of unsaid things.

Aldo pressed, lips curving into the faintest smile. “My turn to ask again?”

Goffredo leaned forward, plucking the coin from his hand, holding it between two fingers. His grin returned, sharp-edged but fond. “No, bello. My turn.” He flipped it once, caught it, slapped it onto his palm. “Truth or dare?”

Aldo adjusted his glasses, lifting his chin as though bracing himself. “Truth.”

The storm hummed low in his chest, twirling the coin once between his fingers, eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Alright then. Simple question.”

He leaned in, his voice quiet, almost too casual. “Do you miss New York?”

The words landed softer than a blow, but Aldo still felt them in his chest. He hesitated, thumb rubbing against the edge of the blanket cocooning him.

The rain filled the pause, steady and insistent.

“I miss… parts of it,” he admitted finally, voice measured. “The pace, the rhythm, the city itself. The noise that never stops. The sense that everything is moving forward whether you’re ready or not.” His lips pressed together, eyes flicking down. “But I don’t miss being alone in it.”

Goffredo’s brows lifted, surprised at the honesty. “So you don’t regret leaving?”

Aldo met his gaze, steady this time, a softness tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No. Not anymore.”

The storm sat back slowly, exhaling peach-scented smoke toward the ceiling, his face unreadable in the shifting light. But his hand, when it dropped to the rug between them, brushed the edge of Aldo’s knee as if the truth had tethered them tighter.

“Good,” he said simply. “Because Florence would be a waste without you.”

Aldo flushed, looking away, though the faintest smile betrayed him.

“Your turn,” he murmured, already reaching for the coin again.

Aldo’s fingers toyed with the coin, turning it over once before lifting his gaze. His lips curved with the faintest, most dangerous smile. “Truth or dare, Goffredo?”

The storm grinned, teeth flashing in the candlelight. “Dare.”

Aldo leaned back, crossing his arms, tone deceptively mild. “Fine. I dare you to open the window, find some poor stranger, and tell him exactly how you’re feeling right now.”

For a beat, Goffredo just stared at him. Then he barked a laugh so loud it rattled the candle flame. “Sei pazzo,” he said, shaking his head. “Completely mad.”

“You chose dare,” Aldo replied primly, though the corners of his mouth twitched.

The storm rose to his feet, all six feet of broad shoulders and disheveled silver hair, striding to the balcony doors with theatrical flourish. He threw them open with a crash of hinges, rain misting in from the storm, the city glistening wet and alive below.

A man with an umbrella scurried across the street, head ducked against the rain. Without hesitation, Goffredo cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, voice booming over the downpour:

“MI SENTO INNAMORATO E DISPERATO, COME UN RAGAZZINO!”

(I feel in love and desperate, like a little boy!)

The poor passerby froze, looked up, blinked at the dripping giant shouting from a candlelit flat—and then hurried away faster than before, umbrella bobbing wildly.

Aldo, scarlet to his ears, dropped his face into his hands. “Dio mio. You’re insane.”

Goffredo slammed the window shut again, laughing so hard he was nearly wheezing, water dripping from his hair where the rain had caught him. He collapsed back onto the rug beside Aldo, tugging the blanket over his shoulders with a smug grin.

“Your dare, bello,” he said, still chuckling. “Top that.”

Aldo glared at him over his glasses, but the pink creeping across his cheeks betrayed the fact that his heart was thundering far too fast.

Goffredo was still wiping raindrops from his hair, grinning like the devil himself, when he leaned in close and flicked the coin onto the rug. “Truth or dare, bello?”

Aldo, clearly not thinking—or maybe trying to prove he wasn’t afraid—lifted his chin. “Dare.”

The storm’s grin widened into something wolfish. “Bene.”

Aldo’s brows drew together. “What are you plotting?”

“Simple,” Goffredo said, voice dropping low, dangerous with amusement. “You will go, right now, to our neighbor’s door—knock—and tell them exactly what I am to you.”

Aldo froze. His glasses slid slightly down his nose as he stared, horrified. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious,” the storm replied, settling back against the couch, arms crossed, eyes glittering with wicked delight. “A dare is a dare.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“You knew this when you let me move in,” Goffredo shot back, smug as ever.

For a long moment, Aldo sputtered silently, searching for words. Then, flustered and scarlet, he snapped, “And what exactly am I supposed to say?”

“Ah, that,” Goffredo said, tapping a finger to his chin like he was deep in thought. “That’s the beauty of it. Whatever the truth is, Bello. Whatever I am. Friend. Flatmate. Lover. Storm. Whatever you dare put a name to.”

Aldo buried his face in his hands, groaning. “Dio santo, why do I ever agree to play these games with you?”

The storm leaned closer, lips brushing his ear as he murmured, “Because you like the way I make you reckless.”

Aldo’s entire body went scarlet. He swatted him half-heartedly, muttering, “I’m not doing it.”

But Goffredo only chuckled, low and warm. “Then say it to me instead. Right now. Out loud.”

The challenge hung between them, heavier than thunder.

Aldo shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose, stalling. “It’s midnight, Goffredo. People are asleep. We’ll wake the whole building.”

The storm only smirked, lounging smugly on the rug, arms folded across his broad chest. “And?”

“And,” Aldo sputtered, scarlet, “it’s insane! I’m not disturbing the neighbors with— with—”

“With me?” Goffredo’s grin widened. “Esatto. You’re afraid.”

Aldo glared at him. “I am not.”

“Then prove it.”

Silence. The rain pressed at the shutters, thunder muttered overhead. Aldo’s jaw clenched, his pride tangling with his sense, until finally—muttering furiously under his breath—he stood.

“You’re absolutely insane and impossible.”

“And you love it,” the storm teased, rising to his feet to trail after him like a cat after prey.

They crept down the hall, candle in hand, the shadows long and flickering. Aldo hesitated at the first door, pale wood marked with the number 3. He shot Goffredo with a murderous look over his shoulder.

“Pick one,” Goffredo whispered, maddeningly smug.

Aldo groaned, muttered something in Italian that was definitely not a prayer, and knocked.

For a long moment, nothing. Then a shuffle of feet. The door cracked open to reveal an elderly man in a robe, hair mussed from sleep, spectacles perched crookedly on his nose. He blinked at Aldo in sleepy confusion. “Aldo?”

Aldo froze, throat working. His voice, when it came, cracked like a schoolboy’s. “Uh. Buona sera, Signor Rossi. I—ah—” He shot a panicked glance at Goffredo, who was leaning casually against the wall, grinning like the devil.

The old man frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” Aldo blurted, then immediately shook his head. “No. I mean—” He swallowed, face burning. “This is ridiculous.”

“Say it, bello,” Goffredo prompted, soft but insistent.

Aldo closed his eyes, inhaled once, and then blurted in a rush: “This is Goffredo Tedesco, and he’s—he’s the man I—” He stumbled, caught the storm’s dark gaze, and steadied. “He’s the man I care for. A great deal.”

Silence.

Signor Rossi blinked once. Twice. Then, with the long-suffering patience of a man woken at midnight for such nonsense, he muttered, “Buona notte, Professore,” and shut the door with a soft click.

Aldo wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

Goffredo, meanwhile, erupted into laughter so loud it shook the hallway, doubling over, tears in his eyes. “Dio santo, bello, you actually did it!”

Aldo turned scarlet to his ears, shoving at his chest. “You’re awful. Absolutely awful.”

The storm caught his wrists, tugged him in close, laughter fading into something molten in his eyes. “You said it,” he murmured, voice low, reverent now. “Not to me. To the world.”

And before Aldo could muster another protest, Goffredo kissed him right there in the hall, rain battering the windows, candle guttering in his hand.

The kiss in the hallway was soft, not the ravenous pull of earlier, but warm—like laughter pressed to lips. Goffredo’s shoulders still shook with amusement as he pulled back, forehead resting against Aldo’s.

“You’re ridiculous,” Aldo muttered, but the ghost of a smile lingered in his mouth.

“And you’re mine,” the storm shot back with a wink, tugging him gently toward the flat before Aldo could sputter another protest.

They slipped back inside, candlelight flickering, the rain a steady hymn against the shutters. The blanket waited on the rug, cards still scattered, the coin glinting faintly where it had landed.

“Back to the game,” Goffredo declared grandly, settling cross-legged with the ease of a man completely unbothered by what had just happened. “My turn.”

Aldo sat opposite, pushing his glasses up his nose, reclaiming a shred of composure. “Truth or dare?”

The storm leaned back, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Truth.”

Aldo studied him for a long moment. His fingers toyed with the coin, his throat worked once. Then, quieter than before, he asked:

“Nigel.”

The smirk faltered.

Aldo pressed on, though his heart was hammering. “The name. The plant. Is it the same Nigel?”

The storm’s laughter didn’t come this time. He sat very still, the candlelight carving deep lines into his face. His vape clicked softly in his hand, unlit.

For once, the room felt colder.

“Yes,” he said finally, voice low, roughened at the edges. “The same.”

Aldo swallowed, gaze fixed on him, waiting.

Goffredo’s eyes dropped to the rug, to Cesare slumped against the armchair like a witness to their truths. “The plant was a joke,” he admitted. “A way of… keeping the name close without anyone asking. Except you did.”

Aldo’s chest tightened, but he didn’t look away.

The silence between them now wasn’t heavy—it was fragile. A wire stretched thin, humming with things unsaid.

“Yes,” Goffredo said again, softer this time. His gaze stayed fixed on the rug, voice dragging slow like it had to be pulled from somewhere deep.

“Nigel was… different,” he began, exhaling long. “Italian-American. Sharp. Stubborn. He could argue circles around me and win half the time, which I hated and loved in equal measure.” His mouth twisted faintly. “He liked my cooking. That’s how it started, really. Dinners in Venice. Pasta, risotto, fish on Fridays—like I was feeding something more than just hunger. Like I was building us.”

Aldo sat very still, hands folded tight in his lap.

Goffredo drew on the vape without lighting it, just for the comfort of the motion, then set it aside. His voice roughened. “When my mother died, he was the one who told me to keep cooking. Said it would keep her close. And for a while, it did. Until it didn’t.”

The storm swallowed, throat working. “We burned out. Or maybe I did. He wanted something I couldn’t give him. Or wouldn’t. I don’t know anymore. I thought—” He broke off, shoulders rising, falling. “I thought he was the one. The endgame. And when he left, I stopped cooking. For anyone. Even myself.”

His hands flexed against his knees, knuckles whitening. “The basil plant… was a way of keeping him without admitting I still was. Naming it after him was a joke, but also not. It was easier to water the leaves than to admit I missed the man.”

Silence.

Aldo’s throat tightened. He wanted to reach across the rug, to close the space between them, but the storm wasn’t finished.

“And then,” Goffredo said, finally lifting his eyes—dark, unguarded, cutting through Aldo like a blade, “I met you. And suddenly I was cooking again. Breakfast, dinner, soup when you were sick. Like my hands remembered what my heart didn’t want to.”

The words hung heavy, reverent, terrible in their honesty.

Aldo’s breath caught.

The storm leaned back, exhaling sharp, almost bitter. “So yes, bello. Nigel is the plant. Nigel was the man. And I loved him once. I thought I always would.”

His gaze softened, lingered. “But now…?”

The silence that followed was louder than thunder.

For a long beat, Aldo just sat there, the words settling over him like the rain outside, like something that refused to be ignored. His fingers curled against his knee, nails pressing crescent moons into the wool of Goffredo’s sweater he still wore.

Finally, he shifted forward on the rug, closing the space between them. His hand—hesitant at first, then steady—found Goffredo’s, prying open the fist clenched white at his knee.

“I won’t lie,” Aldo said softly, his accent rounding the vowels, steady despite the ache in his chest. “Hearing it hurts. Knowing there was someone else you thought was—” He swallowed, the word thick. “—the one.”

Goffredo’s mouth opened, but Aldo shook his head, silencing him with a squeeze of his hand.

“But,” Aldo pressed on, voice firmer, “I’m not Nigel. And you’re not who you were then. You’re not the man who stopped cooking, who named a plant so you wouldn’t admit the truth. You’re the man who feeds me every morning, who hums over soup, who drives me mad with your chaos and your noise. And yet—” His lips curved, faint, wry. “—I wouldn’t change any of it.”

The storm’s eyes softened, unreadable and raw.

Aldo leaned closer, almost into his lap now, their knees pressed tight. His other hand rose to Goffredo’s jaw, thumb brushing the line of beard, his touch trembling just enough to betray him.

“I don’t like thinking of you with him,” Aldo admitted, low, almost jealous. “But I hate the thought of you believing you don’t deserve more now. Deserve me.”

The storm let out a sound—half groan, half something shattered—and bent his forehead to Aldo’s.

“And for the record,” Aldo murmured into the small space between them, “you don’t need to name plants after me to keep me close. I’m right here.”

He kissed him then—not fierce, not desperate, but steady, grounding, as if to press the reassurance straight into the storm’s chest.

When they broke, breath mingling, Aldo’s lips curved with the faintest hint of mischief despite the softness in his eyes. “Though if you do buy another plant, and name it Aldo, I’m throwing you off the balcony.”

Goffredo barked a laugh, rough and broken, but real.

And then he kissed him again.

The kiss lingered, a promise sealed in the hush of candlelight and rain. But then Goffredo, ever the storm, pulled back just enough to grin, rakish and fond. He plucked the coin from the rug between them, twirling it once in his fingers.

“My turn again,” he said, voice low. “Truth or dare?”

Aldo adjusted his glasses, still flushed, still catching his breath. “Truth.”

The storm leaned in, eyes catching the candle’s glow. “Arturo,” he said simply.

The name struck like flint. Aldo froze, breath caught. His hand went automatically to Cesare the shark slumped on the armchair, as if even the stuffed witness could anchor him.

“You don’t have to—” Goffredo began, softer now, but Aldo cut him off with a small shake of his head.

“No. You asked. I’ll answer.”

He drew in a breath, shoulders tightening beneath the grey sweater. “Arturo was…” His lips pressed into a line. “He was the one I thought would stay. My constant. My… endgame.”

The storm’s brows furrowed, but he said nothing, letting Aldo go on.

“We met when I was younger. I thought he was everything—bright, sharp, endlessly kind in that effortless way. We built something, but I…” Aldo’s eyes dropped, dark lashes shadowing his cheeks. “I thought it would be forever, and when it wasn’t, I carried it like a failure. Like I was the one who wasn’t enough.”

The storm’s jaw ticked, the rage in him quiet but palpable.

Aldo’s voice softened, distant. “For a long time, I thought Arturo was it. The one who got away. The one who would haunt me.” He exhaled shakily, meeting Goffredo’s gaze with something raw. “But seeing him now… talking to him… it felt like looking at a photograph of myself I don’t recognize anymore. Whatever I thought I lost, maybe I don’t need it anymore.”

The storm’s hand, rough and warm, came to rest over his, grounding him.

Aldo swallowed, the faintest tremor in his voice. “I was wrong before. About who my endgame is.”

The silence between them roared louder than thunder, until finally Goffredo gave a crooked, dangerous smile, voice rough as gravel. “Bello… if that’s your truth, then it’s the only one I’ll ever need.”

Aldo whispered in a voice so small “It’s you…”

The storm didn’t answer with words. He surged forward instead, one strong hand bracing at Aldo’s hip, the other slipping around his back, and in a single pull he had Aldo in his lap.

Aldo let out a startled sound that melted instantly into a gasp as Goffredo’s mouth found his. It wasn’t the careful, grounding kiss from before—it was consuming, demanding, breath-stealing. The kind that made Aldo clutch at his shoulders just to remember where he was.

When they finally broke apart, Aldo was flushed, glasses skewed, his chest rising quick against the storm’s. Goffredo rested his forehead against his, their breaths mingling, and whispered hoarse: “Mio Dio, Aldo…” as though that was all the truth he needed.

But Aldo, ever stubborn, managed a smile—small, wry, trembling at the edges—and said softly, “Truth or dare?”

Goffredo barked a rough laugh against his mouth, then leaned back slightly, dark eyes gleaming with both amusement and something deeper. “Truth.”

Aldo shifted in his lap, studying him with quiet intensity before asking, voice barely above the hum of rain and candlelight:

“Do you ever wish… we had met sooner?”

The storm stilled.

For a moment, only the rain answered, hammering against the shutters, the wax dripping slow from the candles.

Then Goffredo’s eyes softened, breaking open in a way Aldo hadn’t seen before. He cupped Aldo’s jaw with one broad hand, thumb grazing the edge of his mouth.

“Every day,” he said, voice raw. “Every damn day. But maybe… if we had, we wouldn’t have been ready. Maybe I wouldn’t have been the man you needed then. Maybe you wouldn’t have let me in.”

His thumb brushed lower, over the curve of Aldo’s bottom lip, a touch both reverent and claiming. “But now—now I wouldn’t trade it. Not one late morning, not one argument, not one stolen sweater or piece of fruit. Because it brought me here. To you.”

Aldo’s breath hitched, his lips parting beneath that touch, the answer sinking into him like an anchor and a balm all at once.

And then, unable to stop himself, he kissed him again—slower this time, softer, but just as deep.

The kiss lingered, and for a moment it felt like the game was forgotten—like the rain outside and the storm within were all they’d ever need. But then Goffredo pulled back just slightly, lips brushing Aldo’s temple as he murmured, low and playful, “Truth or dare?”

Aldo huffed a laugh against his chest, still catching his breath, still trembling faintly in the storm’s lap. “Truth,” he said, stubborn as ever, glasses slipping down his nose.

Goffredo leaned back enough to look at him properly, candlelight catching on the silver in his beard, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief and something more. He drew in a slow breath, then let the words drop like stones into water:

“Do you ever wish… it was someone else?”

The question hung sharp, dangerous. For a second, Aldo’s face tightened, startled, as though the storm had cut right into the marrow of his thoughts.

But then he steadied. One hand rose—hesitant, then sure—to frame Goffredo’s jaw, thumb brushing the hollow just beneath his cheekbone.

“No,” Aldo said simply. Firmly. His voice low but unwavering. “Not anymore.”

The storm’s breath caught, and Aldo pressed on, eyes dark, almost fierce with honesty. “I spent years thinking of who I lost. Who I thought I wanted. Who I thought I couldn’t live without. Arturo, others, ghosts I carried like chains.” His thumb traced the line of Goffredo’s beard, tender now. “But sitting here, with you…? It’s clear. I don’t want anyone else. I don’t need anyone else.”

Goffredo’s chest rose sharply, a ragged sound escaping him as his grip at Aldo’s waist tightened, pulling him closer as though afraid he might slip away.

Aldo’s lips curved, faint but steady. “You’re it, baby. You’re who I want.”

For once, the storm was silent—not out of restraint, but because there were no words left big enough. Only the kiss that followed, fierce and unyielding, sealing the truth between them.

The kiss broke on a laugh, soft and incredulous, as Aldo pressed his forehead to Goffredo’s. The candle crackled, rain still drumming its wild hymn on the shutters.

“Truth or dare,” Aldo murmured, voice husky, almost teasing.

Goffredo’s grin curved sharp, wolfish. “Dare.”

Aldo narrowed his eyes, lips twitching. He thought for a beat, then with a sly glint said, “Fine. I dare you… to call Giulio. Right now. And tell him exactly how you feel about me.”

The storm froze.

For once, Goffredo Tedesco looked… almost rattled. He pulled back an inch, searching Aldo’s face for any trace of a bluff. But no—his professor sat smugly in his lap, arms folded over his chest like a cat with cream.

“You wouldn’t,” Goffredo growled.

“I would,” Aldo replied, too fast, too smug. “You said dare. You don’t want to back out, do you?”

The storm narrowed his eyes. “You’re diabolical.”

“And you’re stalling,” Aldo shot back, enjoying this far too much.

With a muttered curse in Venetian, Goffredo dug into the cushions for his phone. He flipped it open, thumb hovering. “If Giulio puts me on speaker with Raymond, you’ll pay for this.”

Aldo, flushed but grinning, leaned closer. “Do it, baby.”

The line rang once. Twice.

“Pronto,” Giulio’s gravel cut through, sharp and impatient even half-asleep.

“Giulio,” Goffredo barked, sitting straighter.

“What?” Suspicion instantly thickened the Milanese drawl. “It’s past midnight. Did you set the flat on fire? Did Aldo finally murder you?”

Goffredo’s grin slanted toward wicked. His eyes never left Aldo’s, holding him hostage to the moment. “No fire. No murder. I just… wanted you to know something.”

Silence. Then Giulio, wary: “What.”

“I am madly in love with Aldo Bellini,” Goffredo said, loud and clear, with all the conviction of a man making a proclamation in Saint Peter’s Square. “He drives me insane. He steals my peace, my sweaters, my sleep. And I wouldn’t survive a day without him.”

Aldo’s jaw dropped, color flooding his face.

Giulio’s end of the line went silent for a long beat. Then—“…Maledetto Dio.” A sharp exhale, and then a muffled, “Raymond, you won the bet.”

Raymond’s gentle laugh floated faintly in the background, warm and smug: “Finally.”

Aldo buried his face in his hands, groaning into Goffredo’s shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

The storm hung up without ceremony, tossing the phone aside and gathering Aldo tighter against him. “There,” he murmured, smug and unrepentant. “Dare completed.”

Aldo smacked his chest weakly. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” Goffredo corrected, kissing the crown of his head with infuriating confidence. “Giulio knows it now. The whole damn world will, if you keep playing this game with me.”

And though Aldo muttered another groan, his hands didn’t let go.

The storm still hummed with smug satisfaction, Aldo groaning into his shoulder, cheeks burning. They might have left it there—Giulio scandalized, Raymond triumphant, Goffredo unbearably pleased.

But no.

“Truth or dare,” Goffredo said suddenly, his voice low, challenging.

Aldo lifted his head, glasses askew, eyes narrowed. He should have known better than to answer, but pride slipped out before sense. “Dare.”

The storm’s grin widened, wicked and inevitable. “Then I dare you to do the same. Call Mario. Tell him how you feel about me.”

Aldo gaped. “You—what?!”

“You dared me to confess to Giulio,” Goffredo said, unrepentant. “Fair’s fair.”

“Goffredo—”

“No backing out, bello. Dare is dare.”

Aldo groaned, muttering half a dozen things in Italian and English that would make a lesser man cower. But he reached for his phone all the same, glaring through the flush rising hot across his cheeks.

Mario picked up on the second ring. “Aldo?” His voice was warm, curious. “It’s late, are you alright?”

Aldo’s throat felt dry. He glanced at Goffredo, who sat there like a smug cat, watching every twitch of his face. “Yes, I’m— I just— Mario, I… I need to tell you something.”

His hand trembled, pressing the phone tighter. “It’s about Goffredo.”

Silence on the other end, then a soft intake of breath. “…Go on.”

Aldo exhaled shakily. “I love him. Dio, I love him. He infuriates me, he upends my life, he steals my food and my shirts and makes me feel twenty-five again and ancient all at once. He’s loud, impossible, unbearable. But when he isn’t here, nothing feels right. And when he is—” His voice broke, a whisper now. “When he is…with me, I can breathe.”

The storm beside him froze. The smug smile vanished, leaving something raw, almost stricken, written across his face.

On the phone, Mario let out a low, shaky laugh—strange, unsteady. “Aldo…” He paused, fumbling for words that refused to come. “I’m not surprised. Everyone sees it. The way you look at him. The way he—” Another pause, then softer, almost fond: “It suits you. He suits you.”

Before Aldo could reply, another voice slid in, smooth and unmistakable:

“Who is it, love?”

Aldo blinked. Goffredo swore under his breath.

“…Was that—Thomas?” Aldo stammered.

There was a beat, Mario choking out a laugh, caught in the act. “Sì. It was. He’s here.” Another pause, fumbling now. “We… hadn’t told you yet.”

Thomas’s calm voice came closer, warm, steady: “Congratulations, Aldo. Truly. I don’t think anyone’s surprised—except perhaps you.”

Aldo’s cheeks burned scarlet, burying his face in Goffredo’s shoulder, mortified. The storm, however, threw his head back and roared with laughter, wrapping his arms around him as though to keep him from vanishing.

“Bello, did you hear?” Goffredo murmured hoarsely into his hair, kissing the crown of his head. “You said it. Out loud. To them. To me.”

Mario’s voice, still on speaker, gentled again. “Aldo… you’re not alone in this. Not anymore. You both deserve it. And—” A rueful chuckle. “Dio, I’ll never live down the timing, will I?”

“No,” Goffredo barked, half laughing, half wrecked. “Never.”

Aldo groaned miserably into his chest, muffled, “I hate this game.”

But the storm only tilted his chin up, kissed him long and slow, and whispered against his lips: “You love me. And now, the whole damned world knows it.”

Aldo was still groaning into Goffredo’s chest, wishing the rug would swallow him whole, when the storm tipped them both backwards. They landed in a heap—Aldo sprawled on top of him, glasses skewed, sweater askew, both of them shaking with half-choked laughter.

“Madonna santa,” Aldo muttered, voice muffled against his neck. “I really hate this game. I hate you.”

“Oh, no bello… you don’t, you love me,” Goffredo corrected smugly, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other splayed low across his back. “You said it, bello. To Mario. To Thomas. To me. Out loud. I thought I’d have to wait another year to hear it.”

Aldo’s face went crimson, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he let the laughter spill, nervous and giddy, the kind that cracked open something old and brittle inside him. The storm caught it, matched it, deep and booming—until it tipped into kisses, messy and insistent.

They kissed like boys again, rolling over the rug, bumping elbows against Cesare where he’d been flung onto the armchair. Aldo swatted at the shark with one hand, giggling, “Stop watching us.” Goffredo seized the distraction, pinning him down with a growl, kissing him until neither could breathe.

And then—just as suddenly—the lights flickered.

A hum. A spark.

The electricity roared back to life. Lamps blinked awake, the refrigerator hummed, and the record player in the other room spun to life mid-song, crooning Andy Williams into the air.

They froze, blinking at the glow. Then Goffredo threw his head back and laughed so hard it rattled the shutters.

“Addendum B,” he declared, breathless, pressing his forehead to Aldo’s. “If electricity reveals honesty—” he kissed him again, slow and claiming— “then we must do it again.”

Aldo rolled his eyes, but the flush on his cheeks betrayed him. “You really are impossible.”

“And you love me,” Goffredo said once more, smug and certain, pulling him tighter as the storm outside finally began to ease, leaving only the light, the warmth, and the two of them tangled on the rug, rules burning to ash one by one.

Their laughter spilled into the room, tangled with kisses and lamplight, the storm outside finally quieting to a hush.

And there, on the rug with Cesare watching from the armchair, the rules long forgotten, they sealed their night with Addendum B—ridiculous, tender, and entirely theirs.

The professor and the storm, laughing, kissing, home.

Chapter Text

Weeks had passed since the blackout night, since the laughter and confessions, since Aldo’s voice had cracked open the air and admitted what Goffredo already knew.

And in those weeks, the storm had not hidden.

Goffredo never did.

He was the kind of man who claimed what was his not in whispers but in declarations, not with hesitation but with thunder. He kissed Aldo in the faculty lounge, shameless and grinning, ignoring the scandalized glances of colleagues. He hummed Nat King Cole while sliding a hand to the small of Aldo’s back as they crossed the courtyard. He called him bello in front of students, baby under his breath when handing him a coffee, arm slung over his shoulder as though he’d been born to it.

Goffredo for everything that he was, everything roaring and tender in him, would not for one moment deny what Aldo was to him.

But Aldo—Aldo was another story.

It wasn’t the nights. In the safety of the flat, Aldo was open, unguarded. He leaned into every kiss, curled against Goffredo until dawn, pressed “baby” into his chest like a secret he no longer feared. In their private rooms, the hesitation dissolved into laughter and warmth, into a tenderness so steady it seemed carved into stone.

But outside…

Outside, the fumbling returned.

Sure, he’d said it on the truth-or-dare night, when Mario’s voice had been laughing in his ear, when the electricity had flickered and the storm had kissed him breathless in the dark.

But after—with daylight and eyes upon them—Aldo faltered.

A hesitation before reaching back when Goffredo laced their hands.

A nervous cough when colleagues teased.

A careful step away in the university halls, as though proximity might mean vulnerability, and vulnerability might mean exposure.

He loved the storm, yes. He knew it with a clarity that startled him every morning when he woke to the sound of humming in the kitchen. But the truth was—love came easier in the quiet. In the shadows. In the flat where laughter drowned out doubt.

And Goffredo—loud, unashamed, relentless—saw it.

He didn’t name it, not yet. But in the corner of his eyes, in the sharp edge of his laugh, in the way he held Aldo just a little tighter every night, the storm was waiting.

Waiting for the break.

Waiting for the breath.

Waiting for the return.

It began quietly, almost innocuously. One morning in the faculty lounge, a junior lecturer leaned toward Aldo while stirring sugar into his coffee. “Professor Bellini, forgive me, but I’ve always wondered—Tedesco. He’s always with you, isn’t he? Colleague, mentor… or something more?” Aldo’s hand froze on his cup. A hundred answers flashed across his mind—truthful ones, tender ones—but with Mario hovering nearby, listening, the words shifted into something smaller. “An old friend,” he said smoothly, though the pause before it was just long enough to betray him. Mario’s dark brows rose as he turned, but he swallowed his remark with his espresso. Still, the word friend hung heavy.

A few days later, in the courtyard, a visiting dean struck up a casual conversation as Thomas lingered within earshot. “Bellini,” the man chuckled, “I’ve noticed you and Tedesco often walk together after lectures. Longtime companions?” Aldo adjusted his sleeve, buying himself a second. Thomas’s soft eyes were on him, steady, waiting. “Just a friend,” Aldo replied lightly. The dean nodded, unbothered, but Thomas’s lips pressed into the faintest line. He didn’t challenge him, but Aldo caught the weight of that silence, as though it said: you don’t even believe that yourself.

Raymond’s moment came in a crowded hallway, colleagues gathered after a seminar. Someone laughed and said, “And how is it, sharing a flat with Professor Tedesco? I can’t imagine the two of you under one roof.” Aldo smiled politely, but his answer cut short of truth: “He’s a friend, and we share the flat well enough.” There was laughter at the phrasing, and the conversation moved on, but Raymond lingered a step behind, freckled brow furrowing. Later, when Aldo glanced his way, Raymond’s expression was soft but unreadable, as if he were carrying something Aldo hadn’t dared to voice.

And then, at last, Giulio. Standing outside under the colonnade, cigarette burning between his fingers, he overheard when a pair of visiting scholars pressed Aldo during introductions. “Ah, Bellini—Florence has been lively since Tedesco’s arrival, hasn’t it? And the two of you seem rather inseparable. What is he to you?” Aldo hesitated, just long enough for Giulio’s sharp Milanese eyes to catch it. Then, with a thin smile, Aldo answered, “A colleague. A friend.” The scholars nodded, none the wiser. But Giulio’s jaw tightened, cigarette crushed out harder than necessary, his gaze cutting sideways at Aldo as if to say: coward.

In private, though, there was no falter. Behind closed doors Aldo whispered lover against his throat, called him baby in kitchens and beds, kissed him like confession. There, there was no denial, no hesitation—only the unguarded truth of devotion.

But daylight was different. Before witnesses, Aldo’s lips chose the safer word, and each time it left a fissure behind. Goffredo never hid him, never pretended. He was shameless in his affection, in his claiming. Yet Aldo—Aldo stumbled.

And the boys—Mario, Thomas, Raymond, Giulio—heard every stumble. None of them missed it. And though none spoke yet, they were keeping count.

It kept happening. Always in public, always with an audience, always in those small, cutting moments when the world pressed too close.

At a faculty luncheon, a young professor leaned over and said lightly, “Bellini, you and Tedesco seem inseparable—he must be family, eh?” Aldo forced a smile, napkin twisting under his hand. “No, no… just a friend.” Giulio’s fork scraped against porcelain, eyes flicking toward him sharp as a blade.

At the library one evening, Aldo lingered too long chatting with a colleague about shared housing in Florence. “You live with Tedesco, yes? Must be… an adjustment.” Aldo laughed too tightly. “We get by. He’s… a friend I share the flat with.” Raymond, passing by with an armful of books, slowed, his pale eyes softening, then dimming, as though the words had nicked him too.

Another week, another stumble. During a walk across campus, an alumnus clapped Aldo on the shoulder, teasing, “And what is Goffredo to you now, Professor Bellini? A fellow troublemaker? A partner-in-crime?” Aldo hesitated only a heartbeat before answering, “He’s a friend.” Thomas, walking a pace behind, caught the word. His lips pressed thin, his hands buried deeper into his coat pockets.

And then one night, after yet another dinner at Giulio and Raymond’s, the four of them lingered after Goffredo had stepped out to take a call. The moment the door shut, Giulio set down his wineglass with deliberate force.

“Enough.”

Aldo blinked. “Scusa?”

“Don’t play innocent,” Giulio snapped, eyes dark. “We’ve all heard it. Again and again. Friend.”

Raymond’s tone was softer, but no less firm. “Aldo… you call him everything but that in private. But outside? You shrink it down until it bleeds. If he hears—if he already has—”

“He hasn’t,” Aldo interrupted too quickly, too defensively. His voice cracked on the words.

Thomas leaned forward, quiet and steady as ever. “It’s only a matter of time. And when he does—” His blue eyes searched Aldo’s face with something almost pleading. “You’ll break him. You know that, don’t you?”

Silence fell, heavy and damning.

Mario, who’d been quiet until then, finally spoke, voice rougher, almost protective. “You don’t get it, do you? He’s not hiding you. Not one second. He looks at you like the whole world should already know. And you—you hide him in plain sight.”

Aldo swallowed hard, color draining from his face. He opened his mouth, closed it, then pressed his palms flat against his knees as though bracing for impact.

“I’m not—” His throat tightened. “I’m not ashamed of him.”

“Then stop sounding like you are,” Giulio said, low and cutting.

The words sat there between them, sharp as broken glass.

And Aldo, for the first time, had no defense.

The guilt didn’t leave him. It lingered like a stone in his shoe, like a thorn in his throat, every time he replayed the boys’ words. Friend. Just a friend. Each time it scraped against him until he couldn’t stand the silence anymore.

So at home, he overcorrected.

He met Goffredo at the door with kisses, with arms thrown around his neck before the storm could even set down his keys. He murmured baby, amore, bello mio into his beard like penance, pressing his mouth to his jaw, his temple, his throat until Goffredo laughed, bemused, and swatted at him with mock-exasperation.

In the kitchen, while Goffredo cooked, Aldo slipped in behind him, tucking himself into the storm’s broad back, hands splayed over his chest, cheek pressed to the curve of his shoulder. “Ti amo,” he whispered, unprompted, a dozen times over—each one softer, needier, as if layering plaster over a crack.

At night, in bed, Aldo clung tighter than usual, curled into Goffredo’s chest, Cesare squashed unceremoniously between them. He pressed kisses to his skin in the dark, lips moving across his collarbone, sternum, belly, whispering endearments that burned against his tongue because he only ever dared them here, in the shelter of these four walls.

And Goffredo—blissfully, disastrously oblivious—only basked in it. He soaked in the attention like sun on his face, smug grin breaking into something softer each time Aldo called him baby or amore as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He thought Aldo was simply… finally loosening, finally leaning into what was between them.

“Don’t stop,” he murmured one night, kissing Aldo’s head, voice heavy with warmth. “God help me, don’t stop.”

Aldo buried his face deeper in his chest, the words thick and heavy in his throat.

He would give Goffredo everything—every kiss, every whispered name, every ounce of tenderness he had left in him—so long as it stayed here, safe, unseen.

But fate, as always, was watching. And fate would not let him hide forever.

It started innocently enough. A faculty mixer, wine glasses tinkling, colleagues milling in their tweeds and wool. Someone from literature, half-distracted, leaned toward Goffredo and asked, “And you, Tedesco—who’s that charming man you’re always with these days? Bellini, yes?”

Goffredo’s answer was immediate, proud, unflinching. “My lover.”

The word rolled out without hesitation, solid and sure. But when he looked up from his glass, he caught it—the flicker in the man’s eyes, the brief widening, the quick, polite smile that was just a little too careful. As though he knew something Goffredo didn’t.

The next week, at a small luncheon hosted by the dean, it happened again. A young professor asked idly if Bellini might contribute to an upcoming symposium. Goffredo grinned, clapped the young man on the back, and said cheerfully, “Ask my partner yourself, he’s sitting right there.”

This time it wasn’t just the questioner. Two others at the table exchanged glances. Tight, knowing glances.

And at a third gathering—a casual Friday aperitivo at a little enoteca near Piazza San Marco—a friend from philosophy asked if Goffredo was still living alone. “No,” he boomed, clinking glasses. “With my boyfriend. Aldo. Best move I ever made.”

And that was when he saw it most clearly: the pause, the glance over his shoulder, the quick downward sweep of eyes, and then a hasty change of subject.

The storm stilled.

Across the table, Mario caught it too. Giulio’s brow arched, razor-sharp, the pieces beginning to click into place. Raymond’s kind blue gaze softened in warning, and Thomas—God bless him—sighed, long-suffering, as though fate had just confirmed what they had all feared.

They didn’t say anything—not then. They didn’t need to. The four of them exchanged looks across the table, subtle but undeniable: he doesn’t know.

And Goffredo, for all his bluster, for all his pride, felt the shift. He wasn’t a fool. He knew when a silence carried weight.

Something was off. Something was missing.

Something Aldo hadn’t told him.

The courtyard was full of sun, the air sweet with the last of spring, but the mood at their table was anything but light. Sandwich wrappers and half-drunk fizzy waters lay forgotten as the four of them leaned closer, voices low.

Mario was the first to say it, of course, tearing a piece of focaccia in his hands like it had personally offended him. “He keeps doing it. Friend. Every time. I’ve heard it three times this week alone.”

Giulio snorted, sharp and humorless. “Try four. He said it yesterday when Professor Mancini asked who Tedesco was to him. I was two seats away.” He shook his head, bitterness curling at the edge of his voice. “Tedesco’s out there calling him lover, partner, boyfriend, like it’s gospel. And Bellini’s playing the humble monk, hiding it behind ‘friend.’ It’s a wonder no one’s told him yet.”

Raymond sighed, the sound long and soft, his pale eyes flicking between them. “You know how Goffredo is. Loud about everything that matters. He’s not ashamed. He doesn’t bend. And the truth is… he’s happy. I’ve never seen him so happy.” He paused, his brow furrowed. “Which means when he finds out—”

“—it’ll break him,” Thomas finished quietly, stirring his tea with slow, deliberate circles. He’d been silent until then, listening, weighing, as he always did. His blue eyes lifted, calm but grave. “And it will break Bellini too, though he won’t admit it. This isn’t sustainable. The world isn’t big enough to keep two versions of the truth alive.”

Mario leaned in, voice rougher now. “It’s going to end catastrophically if Bellini doesn’t get his act together. He can’t have it both ways—private devotion at home, public denial everywhere else. Not with Goffredo. Not with that man.”

Giulio’s lips thinned, his gaze flicking across the courtyard to where the storm himself sat a few tables away, laughing at something a colleague said, blissfully unaware. “The tragedy is,” he muttered, “he doesn’t even know.”

For a moment, none of them spoke, the weight of it settling in the spring air like a stone.

Raymond’s hand rested briefly against the table, steady, anchoring. “Then it’s only a matter of time. And when it happens, it won’t just be messy. It’ll be catastrophic.”

The four of them sat back, silent, the same thought hanging between them all: And none of us will be able to stop it.

The symposium in Florence had drawn half the region’s faculty, with Siena sending down a contingent of sharp, curious colleagues. The air buzzed with Latin phrases, research debates, clinking glasses of wine during the break.

It was in that hum that the moment came.

One of the Siena professors, genial, round-faced, smiled as he leaned toward Aldo. “And this is…?” he asked, gesturing at Goffredo, who stood comfortably beside him, dark eyes already lit with pride.

Aldo’s mouth opened. The word should have been easy, natural, true. But with too many eyes on him, too much expectation hanging in the air, the safe word fell out instead: “A… friend. An old friend of mine.”

For one breath, the silence sharpened.

Goffredo blinked once, his smile not faltering, though the edge of it went cool. He lifted his glass, clinked politely, moved the conversation along with all the force of a Venetian tide. To anyone else, nothing had happened.

But Aldo felt the blow land square in his chest.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of panels and polite laughter, Goffredo as genial and charming as ever, too genial, too smooth. He let it slide—outwardly. Inwardly, Aldo knew the cost.

By the time they returned to the flat, twilight pooling against the shutters, the quiet pressed down like a stone. Aldo set his briefcase down, hands clumsy, heart pounding, watching Goffredo unbutton his cuffs with deliberate calm.

“Goffredo…” Aldo’s voice cracked. He stepped closer, tentative, guilty. “I—what I said earlier, it wasn’t—”

The storm’s gaze flicked up, unreadable. “I know what you said.”

Aldo swallowed hard, shame burning his throat. He reached out, fingers brushing the fabric of Goffredo’s sleeve, desperate. “I didn’t mean it. Not like that. Not at all.”

The storm said nothing, waiting.

So Aldo did what words could not. He leaned in, pressed his mouth to Goffredo’s, fierce and aching, an apology stitched in every kiss. “Not a friend,” he murmured between them, voice breaking. “Not a friend, baby. Never just a friend.”

His hands tugged at buttons, pulling Goffredo closer, whispering words he’d never dare in daylight, shameless in the safety of their walls. He kissed down his jaw, his throat, mouthing over skin like confession, like penance.

And when Goffredo finally exhaled, loosening, Aldo surprised him further.

He followed him into the bathroom, steam curling into the hall, shedding jacket and shirt as he went. Without a word, he stepped under the spray with him, warm water pouring over them both. His glasses fogged and slipped from his face, abandoned on the counter.

Arms wound around broad shoulders, foreheads pressed close, lips meeting under the cascade. Aldo kissed him again, harder, surer, as if to drown out the memory of that single poisoned word with every touch, every whispered “baby” that fell against wet skin.

The storm let out a low, guttural sound—anger washed away, tenderness spilling in its place. He held him there, under the water, as though the world outside could never touch them again.

Steam clouded the mirror, fogging the glass, turning the small bathroom into a world sealed just for them. Water pelted against tile, loud, insistent, soaking them both until Aldo’s shirt clung translucent to his chest.

Goffredo’s hands were on him before Aldo could say another word—gripping, turning, pinning him back against the cool tile. The storm’s mouth claimed his with bruising force, teeth catching his lower lip, tongue pushing past defenses as though to drag out every hidden truth Aldo still hadn’t spoken.

Goffredo’s mouth claimed his with bruising force, all teeth and tongue, dragging every unspoken truth out of him. “You call me friend again,” he growled, voice hoarse and dangerous against Aldo’s lips, “and I’ll make you regret it.” His palm slid down over wet skin, gripping hard enough to bruise. “Say it. What am I?”

Aldo gasped, head tipping back, water coursing over his face. “Not a friend—never a friend—”

“Then say it right.” Goffredo’s lips trailed hot down his throat, biting, marking, leaving hickeys in quick succession until Aldo trembled against the wall. “Say it, Aldo.”

“My lover,” Aldo panted, nails scraping down his shoulders. “My boyfriend.”

The sound Goffredo made was guttural, a dark, claiming groan. He dropped lower in a blur, silver hair plastered to his head under the spray, and took Aldo into his mouth—hot, relentless, tongue curling, sucking until Aldo’s knees almost buckled. Aldo cried out, hands tangling in his wet hair, but Goffredo only pressed him harder back against the tile, holding him there until his voice cracked into gasps.

“You take what I give you,” the storm muttered roughly, teeth grazing his thigh before he surged back up, kissing him hard, messy, letting Aldo taste himself.

Aldo cried out, back arching, the water beating down like rain against thunder. He came undone on Goffredo’s tongue, vision flashing white, body trembling, but the storm didn’t let him go.

Instead, Goffredo surged up, kissed him deep and messy so Aldo tasted himself, one hand gripping his chin, the other sliding low, coaxing his body raw and sensitive.

“Too much—” Aldo whimpered, squirming, but Goffredo only smiled darkly against his lips. “Then you’ll learn.”

He flipped him, chest pressing Aldo against tile, slick bodies grinding together as he thrust into him with aching, claiming force. Aldo gasped, forehead thudding against the cool wall, every inch stretched, every nerve on fire.

“You’re mine,” Goffredo growled into his ear, punctuating each thrust with a bruising kiss to his shoulder, his neck, his spine. “Not a friend. Say it.”

Aldo sobbed out the words, voice hoarse but certain. “Yours—always yours—my baby, my love—”

The storm moved with punishing rhythm, hips snapping, wet skin slapping under the water, every thrust forcing the confession deeper. Aldo’s body shook with it, wrung raw until the heat coiled, broke, and he spilled with a strangled cry. But Goffredo wasn’t done—not until he pushed him through aftershocks, claiming him until Aldo’s voice dissolved into his name, nothing else left.

When at last the storm relented, he caught Aldo as he sagged, pulling him close, holding him upright against his chest. His lips softened, trailing reverent kisses along wet skin, washing punishment into devotion.

“Basta, bello,” he whispered, low and tender now, thumb brushing Aldo’s soaked cheek. “You’ll never have to hide me.”

And Aldo, shaking, kissed his throat, his jaw, whispered back through broken breaths, “Never again. Never, baby.”

The storm kissed him slow and endless, cradling him under the spray until the world narrowed to steam, skin, and the sound of their ragged hearts—punishment and love, fierce and unbreakable.

They stumbled from the bathroom dripping, toweling at hair half-heartedly, the air between them still thick with steam and something darker. Goffredo’s skin gleamed in the lamplight, the silver at his temples damp, his chest still heaving with the wreckage of what they’d just done.

Aldo, flushed and unsteady, reached for the dresser—pulling open the top drawer, fingers brushing over neatly folded shirts. He tugged one free, dark cotton soft against his palms, lifting it as if he might finally cover himself, retreat into some semblance of composure.

But the storm wasn’t finished.

In two strides Goffredo was behind him, hand closing over his wrist before the shirt could slip over his head. The garment fell uselessly to the floor. Aldo barely had time to gasp before he was pinned back against the mattress, the storm’s weight pressing him down, his wrists caught easily in one hand.

“Baby—” Aldo’s voice broke, the word slipping out on a whimper—not fear, never fear, but anticipation, heat curling low in his belly.

Goffredo leaned down, teeth grazing his jaw, his voice rough and certain. “Did you really think I was done with you?”

Aldo shook his head, breathless, though the movement turned into a tilt of his chin, baring his throat in instinctive surrender. His body arched beneath Goffredo’s, desperate, wanting, every nerve alive from the punishing shower and now aching for more.

The storm’s free hand roamed over him—palm sliding down damp skin, over his ribs, his stomach, lower still until Aldo writhed, gasping into the press of his hand. “You’re mine,” Goffredo murmured, kissing him hard, swallowing the desperate sounds that spilled from him. “Still mine.”

Pinned, trembling, lips swollen from too many kisses, Aldo gave in—gave everything—eyes fluttering shut as his body bowed up to meet him.

The storm’s weight held Aldo down, lips crashing to his, biting and devouring until Aldo’s head spun. Goffredo’s hand caught his wrists, pinning them hard above his head, while his body pressed down, relentless.

“You called me your friend?” Goffredo snarled against his mouth, the word spat like venom. “Is that all I am to you?”

Aldo barely managed to shake his head before Goffredo’s hips slammed into him, hard, punishing. A cry tore from Aldo’s throat, his back bowing off the mattress.

“Does a friend fuck you like this?” Goffredo growled, voice raw, each thrust snapping Aldo further open. He let Aldo’s wrists go only to drag both hands down his body, nails scratching along his ribs, before one palm clamped over Aldo’s throat. Not choking—never choking—but claiming, pressing just enough that Aldo felt it, that he couldn’t escape the storm’s grip.

“You’re mine,” Goffredo hissed, his dark eyes burning down at him. His other hand gripped Aldo’s hip bruisingly tight as he drove in harder, angrier, as though carving the words into him with every snap of his hips.

Aldo moaned, strangled and desperate, voice breaking around his plea. “N-no, baby, you’re not my friend—you’re not—”

The word baby sent a shiver through Goffredo, but he didn’t ease up. If anything, he grew rougher, pounding into Aldo until the bedframe creaked in protest. His hand squeezed just enough at his throat to make Aldo gasp, his lips falling open in a wrecked whimper.

“That’s right,” Goffredo growled, lowering his mouth to bite hard into his shoulder, then his jaw, leaving deep hickeys in his wake. “No one else gets to hear you call me baby. No one else gets to see you like this.”

A sharp slap landed across Aldo’s ass, the sound cracking through the room, making him jolt and cry out. Goffredo groaned low at the sound, hips thrusting harder, another slap following, rough and claiming. “You think friends do this?” His voice dripped with fury and need.

“Goffredo!” Aldo gasped, body trembling, eyes glassy, tears at the corners from the sheer force of it. “Not a friend. Never a friend. Baby—please—”

The storm snarled, dragging Aldo up by the throat just enough to make him look at him, chest to chest, sweat-slick and gasping. “Say it again. Say my name. Make me believe it.”

“Goffredo,” Aldo sobbed, clutching at his arms now, nails raking skin. “Goffredo, baby, I’m yours.”

The storm groaned, kissing him savagely, swallowing the confession as he fucked him even harder, relentless until Aldo broke apart around him with a scream. Goffredo didn’t stop—he slammed through the aftershocks, hand stroking Aldo mercilessly, coaxing another release from him until Aldo’s body shook, oversensitive and undone, his voice gone raw from crying his name.

Only then did Goffredo finally spill inside him with a guttural sound, collapsing against him, lips still pressed to his throat, growling low like a man who had staked his claim and would never let go.

“You’ll never call me friend again,” he whispered, his hand sliding from Aldo’s throat to cup his jaw, thumb brushing over his swollen lips. “Not when you’re mine.”

The room was wrecked. Sheets tangled, the bed skewed, their bodies slick with sweat and spent release. Aldo lay trembling, lips swollen, his skin marked with bruises and bites, breath dragging ragged in his chest.

Above him, Goffredo was still gasping, chest heaving, his forehead pressed to Aldo’s temple. The hand that had gripped his throat so firmly now cradled his jaw with trembling gentleness, thumb stroking as though to erase what he’d done.

And then, quietly, Goffredo broke.

Hot tears fell against Aldo’s neck, hidden in the shadow where the storm tucked his face. His arms wrapped around Aldo like a vise, holding him too tight, as though terrified he might vanish. His voice came rough, hoarse, barely holding together:

“Perdonami, amore… I’m sorry—I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t—I won’t do it again. Just—please. Don’t hate me. Don’t—” His words cracked, breaking under the weight of his breath. “Forgive me.”

Aldo’s own eyes blurred as he felt it: the storm’s tears, searing, wet against his throat. He lifted a shaking hand, threading it into Goffredo’s damp curls, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. His chest ached with the sharpness of it—the rawness, the vulnerability beneath all the fury.

“Baby,” Aldo whispered, voice wrecked but steady, lips brushing the crown of silver-streaked curls. “It’s alright. I’m here. I’m not leaving. I forgive you.”

But Goffredo only clung tighter, his whole body taut with guilt, his shoulders shaking faintly. He still wouldn’t lift his head, wouldn’t meet Aldo’s eyes, as though to look at him might break him further.

So Aldo kissed his hair, again and again, soothing, anchoring, letting his arms wrap firmly around him until the storm began to settle, until the anger ebbed away, leaving only trembling devotion.

The room was wrecked. Sheets tangled, bodies damp and trembling, their breaths still ragged in the aftermath.

But Goffredo wouldn’t look at him. Wouldn’t even lift his head from where it was buried against Aldo’s neck. His arms were locked tight around him, holding on like a drowning man to shore, his voice raw, breaking, repeating the same words over and over.

“I’m sorry… amore, I’m so sorry. I won’t—never again, I won’t—perdonami, ti prego. Please, forgive me. I love you, I love you, I—” His words fractured into whimpers, muffled against Aldo’s skin, endearments slipping between the apologies, a boy’s voice wrapped in a storm’s body, trembling.

Aldo’s chest ached at the sound, at the way the man who never bent was now folded small in his arms. He knew, deep down, that the sting of it all had been partly his fault—that the word “friend,” spoken too often, had seeded this pain. So he pulled him closer, tighter, cradling the weight of him.

“Baby,” Aldo whispered, kissing his damp curls, trying to coax him up, trying to make him meet his eyes. “Look at me. Please.”

But Goffredo shook his head against him, refusing, clinging all the more fiercely. “No… no, don’t—just stay. Let me stay like this.” His voice cracked again, a whimper muffled into Aldo’s throat. “Please, amore… just let me hold you. Don’t let me go.”

So Aldo didn’t. He curled around him instead, threading his fingers through his silver curls, whispering soft reassurances into his ear, letting him hide, letting him weep, letting the storm bleed its fury into love.

And there, tangled in covers heavy with heat and ache, Aldo held him until the trembling slowed, until exhaustion pulled them both under. The apologies didn’t stop, nor the quiet “ti amo” pressed into his skin. But Aldo silenced his own guilt by answering with closeness—because he knew, more than ever, there was no undoing, no turning back.

Only them.

Only this.

It took coaxing—gentle words, a hand stroking his curls—for Goffredo to finally loosen his hold. Only then, when Aldo whispered that they needed to clean up, did he relent. They moved quietly through the motions, washing, drying, pulling on soft clothes. But the silence weighed heavy.

Back in bed, Goffredo pulled Aldo close again, arms like iron around him, but still he wouldn’t look at him. His face pressed into Aldo’s shoulder, his eyes fixed anywhere but his. When Aldo whispered his own apology—soft, hesitant, admitting his fault—Goffredo only tightened his grip, still mute, still unwilling to let the words come.

So Aldo let him be. He stroked his back, kissed his temple, whispered little nothings into the dark until sleep eventually claimed them both.

Morning brought rainlight seeping through the shutters, pale and cool. Aldo stirred, stretching faintly, only to find Goffredo awake already—lying beside him, watching.

The storm’s dark eyes were raw, ringed with exhaustion, but softened in a way that unmade Aldo’s breath. His gaze trailed over every mark he’d left—hickeys blooming across Aldo’s neck, his chest, his ribs—his eyes lingering as though ashamed and reverent all at once.

“I’m sorry,” Goffredo whispered, voice rough, breaking. His hand rose, trembling slightly, to brush Aldo’s jaw with a tenderness that undid everything that had come before. “I shouldn’t have… not like that. I hurt you. I never wanted to—” His throat closed on the words.

“You didn’t,” Aldo cut softly, but the storm pressed on, the apology tumbling again and again, desperate to be heard, desperate to be believed.

Aldo touched his hand, lacing their fingers together. And in that moment, he felt it—something shifting within Goffredo. The anger was gone, the jealousy muted, but what remained was heavier, deeper: fear, devotion, the kind that terrified him to admit, the kind that rooted itself in every word he whispered now.

Something had changed. Irrevocably.

The rainlight fell pale across the bed, making the marks stand out sharper against Aldo’s skin. Goffredo’s hand lingered at his jaw, trembling with guilt, the apology still hovering on his lips.

Aldo caught that hand, threaded their fingers together, and leaned in until his forehead touched Goffredo’s. His voice was quiet but firm, steady in the way Goffredo wasn’t. “You didn’t lose me. You won’t lose me. Not for this. Not for anything.”

He pressed a kiss to the storm’s temple, then another along his cheek, slow, deliberate, before tilting down to kiss the bruises Goffredo had left on his chest—soft kisses over dark hickeys, claiming them as his own, proof not of shame but of belonging.

When Aldo looked back up, his eyes were clear, unflinching. “Don’t hide from me, baby. I chose this. I chose you.”

Something flickered in Goffredo’s gaze then—something sharp and aching, an emotion too deep for words. He wanted to believe it, wanted to hold it, but beneath the tenderness a quieter terror curled: the fear of losing this, of losing Aldo, of holding too tightly until it all slipped through his fingers.

So he said nothing. He only pulled Aldo closer, kissed his head, and whispered, “Ti amo.”

Aldo smiled faintly against his chest, his breath warm where it pressed. “I love you too.”

And though Goffredo let himself soften in that moment, though he held Aldo as though he were the only thing anchoring him to the world, the fear lingered, buried deep where even Aldo’s tenderness couldn’t yet reach.

The boys were the first to notice. Not Aldo, never Aldo—he was too close to see the change.

It came in little slips, small moments that to anyone else might have seemed trivial, but to Mario, Giulio, Raymond, and Thomas it was stark as a flare in the dark.

A colleague asked Goffredo in passing at the faculty lounge, “And you? Are you here with your partner?”

Goffredo, who had once answered without hesitation—lover, boyfriend, partner, depending on his mood—smiled too smoothly and replied, “A friend.”

The word sat foreign on his tongue, brittle as glass.

Raymond’s brow creased. Giulio’s mouth quirked in a knowing frown. Mario, sharp-eyed as ever, caught the flicker in Goffredo’s gaze as though he’d tasted ash in his own mouth but swallowed it anyway.

Thomas said nothing then, but later, alone, he exhaled long and heavy. He knew fear when he saw it.

Goffredo thought he’d hidden it well. He thought he’d tucked it deep enough, only letting it slip in those small exchanges when Aldo wasn’t there to hear. A single word—friend—spoken carefully, as if repeating Aldo’s own defense of him might somehow protect him from the sting of believing he’d assumed too much.

Until fate, merciless as ever, stirred the pot.

The soiree was warm light and clinking glasses, a gathering of colleagues from Florence and Siena, professors and lecturers mingling beneath the gilded chandeliers of a borrowed palazzo hall. Aldo stood proud, pressed and perfect in his grey suit, Goffredo at his side, rumpled in dark wool and open collar, as though the role of “date” had been stitched into his very posture.

Introductions circled, hands were shaken, smiles exchanged. And when the inevitable moment came, when Aldo gestured to the man beside him, he said the word like it cost nothing:

“This is my friend, Goffredo Tedesco.”

The syllables landed like a stone dropped into still water.

Goffredo smiled. Warm, even. Effortless. He laughed at the right beats, shook hands, charmed as though nothing had struck him at all. Not a flicker of reaction crossed his face.

Even when Aldo glanced at him sidelong, searching, perhaps, for something—approval, comfort, reinforcement—Goffredo only smiled, still and steady.

He didn’t falter when the night wore on, when glasses of Chianti loosened tongues and laughter echoed off marble. He didn’t falter as they left together, coats pulled close against the night air, shoulders brushing on the walk back to the car.

And when they reached the flat, when Aldo turned to him with a faint, uncertain smile—he still didn’t falter.

“Goodnight,” he said softly, kissing Aldo’s temple before slipping into his own room.

The storm smiled through it. Didn’t react. Didn’t ask. Didn’t say a word.

But beneath the calm, the silence roared.

It was the first time in months that they didn’t fall asleep tangled together.

Aldo lay in his own bed, the sheets cold, the silence heavier than he’d imagined. The rain that had once been comfort was now only a reminder—a reminder of the storm on the other side of the wall. He tossed, turned, buried himself beneath the covers. Nothing helped.

Cesare, flopped in the corner, stared at him reproachfully with his stitched grin. Aldo sighed, dragged the stuffed shark into his arms, and pressed his face against the faded cotton.

But sleep didn’t come.

Finally, long past midnight, he gave up. Barefoot, Cesare tucked under one arm, he padded down the hall and stopped at Goffredo’s door. The faint light beneath it made his heart twist—he wasn’t asleep either.

Aldo knocked once, soft. Then, before he could lose his nerve, pushed it open.

Goffredo was sitting propped against the headboard, hair mussed, a book open but unread in his lap. He looked up—and for all his bluster, his grin, his pride, his eyes softened instantly.

“Bello?”

Aldo stood awkwardly in the doorway, clutching Cesare like a boy. His voice was quiet, small. “Can I… sleep with you tonight?”

Goffredo’s answer was immediate. “Of course.”

The storm shifted aside, lifting the covers, waiting until Aldo slid in beside him, Cesare tucked between them like a silent witness. Goffredo wrapped an arm around him as though nothing had changed.

But Aldo, pressed against his chest, felt it. The silence where laughter usually lived. The weight in the way his hand lingered on his back.

“Are you okay?” Aldo asked finally, tilting his head to search his face.

“Yes,” Goffredo said, smiling.

Aldo frowned. “Are we okay?”

For a moment, the storm’s smile didn’t falter—but Aldo saw it, the way it didn’t quite reach his eyes, the hollowness it carried. Still, Goffredo kissed his temple, whispered low:

“Yes, bello. We’re okay.”

Aldo held him tighter, burying his face against his chest. And though Goffredo curled around him, kissed his head, whispered little comforts until his breathing evened—something in Aldo knew.

The storm had smiled for his sake.

But inside, the storm was still raging.

The next day was worse, Goffredo went through the motion of walking with Aldo to school, and kissed him on the forehead as they went their separate ways for the day until they see each other again around lunch time.

When lunch ended, Goffredo leaned down as if by habit, brushed a quick kiss to Aldo’s temple, and murmured, “Class.” His smile was small, gentle, and then he was gone—coat slung over one arm, striding out with the same storm-shadowed composure he had carried all morning.

The moment the door shut behind him, the boys moved.

Mario hooked Aldo by the elbow, Giulio flanked his other side, and Raymond and Thomas trailed behind, herding him into an empty seminar room before Aldo could protest.

“What—” Aldo started, but Giulio cut him off, sharp as ever.

“What happened?”

Aldo blinked. “What?”

Thomas’s voice was quieter, but no less pointed. “Don’t play dumb, Aldo. Something’s wrong. He’s not himself. And you know it.”

Raymond folded his arms, steady and grave. “He hasn’t looked at you the same all day.”

Aldo sank into a chair, glasses slipping down his nose, Cesare’s absence suddenly keen in the crook of his arm. He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow. “It’s… complicated.”

Giulio scoffed. “Then uncomplicate it. We’ve seen the two of you—lately you’re inseparable, sickeningly so. And now he’s giving you half-smiles like he’s afraid to breathe. What changed?”

The silence stretched until Aldo’s shoulders sagged. His voice came low, guilty. “It was me.”

The boys exchanged glances.

Aldo fumbled with his words, staring at the tabletop. “I—when people ask what he is to me… I panic. I say ‘friend.’ Always. Because I don’t know what else to say. Because I don’t know if he—if we—”

Mario let out a groan. “Oh, Aldo.”

But Aldo wasn’t finished. His cheeks flushed, his voice cracked as he forced the rest out. “And he heard. He didn’t say it then, but later… he—he fucked me like—like he was punishing me for it. Rough. Left me bruised all over.” He tugged the collar of his shirt unconsciously higher. “And after, he—he cried. Said he was sorry. Said he wouldn’t do it again.”

The room went still.

Raymond’s gaze softened, though his words were firm. “And now?”

“Now he barely touches me,” Aldo admitted, chest tight. “Like he’s afraid if he does, he’ll break me. Or lose me. Or both. And I don’t—” His voice cracked again, sharp with frustration. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

Giulio swore under his breath. Thomas sat down across from Aldo, leaning forward, steady and calm. “You need to talk to him, Aldo. Not just kiss him quiet. Not distract him. Talk. Or this silence between you will only grow.”

Mario nodded, gentler this time. “You can’t keep calling him ‘friend’ out there and ‘baby’ in here. He deserves better than that. And so do you.”

Aldo swallowed hard, throat tight. The boys exchanged glances again, a mix of sympathy and exasperation, but none of them pressed further.

Because the truth was already clear: if Aldo didn’t face this, it would cost him.

That evening found the three of them tucked in a quiet corner of a wine bar off Piazza della Signoria, half-lit by flickering sconces and the gleam of half-empty glasses. Giulio was in his usual fine suit, Mario in his casual ease, and Goffredo—storm-worn, sleeves rolled up, shoulders heavy—looked older than the night deserved.

For a while, it was jokes and old stories, Mario teasing the barman, Giulio cutting dry commentary into every lull. But eventually, Mario leaned back, narrowed his eyes, and asked softly, “Alright, fratellone. What’s eating you?”

Goffredo’s jaw tightened. He swirled the Barolo in his glass, watching the way it caught the light, stalling for time. Giulio’s gaze was sharp as ever, patient but unrelenting.

At last, Goffredo let out a bitter laugh. “He calls me his friend.”

Giulio frowned. “Who?”

“Aldo,” Goffredo said, voice low, the word dragging like stone. “When people ask who I am to him. He says friend. Every time.” He tipped back his glass, swallowed hard. “And I let it slide. Until I couldn’t.”

Mario leaned forward. “You confronted him?”

The storm’s mouth twisted into something like shame. “Not with words.” He paused, jaw working. “With my hands. My body. I—” He broke off, raking a hand through his silvered hair. “I fucked him like I was furious. Punishing him. Left marks. Hickeys. Bruises he had to cover.”

Giulio let out a low whistle. “Merda.”

“And after,” Goffredo continued, quieter now, staring into the table as though it might swallow him. “I held him. And I cried. Like a boy. I apologized until I had no voice left. And he—he forgave me. Said nothing, just held me back. But now?” His voice cracked, raw. “Now I can’t touch him. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll break him again. So I don’t. And he thinks I don’t want him.”

Mario reached across the table, rested a hand on his arm. “No, fratellone. He doesn’t think you don’t want him. He’s terrified you’ll leave him.”

Giulio’s gaze softened, rare and sharp all at once. “And you? You’re terrified he’ll never claim you out loud.”

The storm let out a breath, ragged and tired. His hands trembled faintly where they gripped the stem of his glass. “Because maybe he’s right,” he whispered. “Maybe I’m just a friend, and I’ve been fooling myself all this time.”

Mario squeezed his arm, firm and brotherly. “No, Goffredo. He loves you. He’s just an idiot who doesn’t know how to say it where others can hear.”

Giulio smirked, though his voice was low and sure. “And if he doesn’t learn fast, I’ll kill him myself for wasting what’s in front of him.”

The storm laughed weakly, but the sound was cracked at the edges. He dropped his head into his hands, hiding his face, his voice muffled. “Dio. I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”

The flat was quiet when the door finally clicked open. Morning light spilled in behind him, the storm’s hair damp from the mist outside, shirt wrinkled, tie askew, the faint sourness of a night out clinging to him. He looked… tired.

Aldo, already at the table with coffee cooling in his hands, looked up sharply.

“Where were you?” His voice was careful, though the edge of worry bled through.

Goffredo paused mid-step, then let the bag he carried drop on the counter with a dull thud. He didn’t quite meet Aldo’s eyes. “Stayed over at Mario’s,” he said, tone too casual. “We got drunk. He took me back with him—closer than here. I wasn’t in any state to drive.”

The words were simple, harmless even, but they lodged like stone in Aldo’s chest. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then only nodded. “Right.”

Goffredo disappeared into the shower soon after, steam and the hiss of water filling the silence. Aldo sat at the table, staring into his coffee, his own reflection warped in the dark surface. Something had shifted. He could feel it.

Later that day, the truth landed with cruel precision.

The faculty lounge was buzzing with post-class chatter, cups clinking, paper rustling. Giulio, lounging like a cat, smirked over his espresso. “You let him walk in here looking like that this morning? Dio, Bellini, he looked like he hadn’t slept in a year.”

Aldo stiffened. “What do you mean?”

Giulio arched a brow, leaning back. “I mean—he was with us. Drinking. Talking. Saying things you should have heard, but didn’t.” His smirk softened, eyes sharp. “You think calling him friend is harmless. It isn’t. It’s cutting him open, piece by piece.”

Mario, quieter, leaned in. “He told us, Aldo. About the… other night. About the bruises, the hickeys, the guilt. How he cried after. He’s drowning in it. Afraid to touch you. Afraid he’ll break you. And then afraid you’ll never claim him for what he is.”

The words landed heavy. Aldo’s hands tightened around his cup, knuckles white.

Giulio’s voice, softer than Aldo had ever heard it, cut the silence. “He loves you, Bellini. And you’re killing him by pretending otherwise.”

Aldo’s chest seized, guilt crashing through him, sharp and suffocating. He thought of Goffredo that morning—his wrinkled shirt, his tired eyes, the smile that hadn’t reached anywhere near his heart.

It hit Aldo like thunder.

He’d waited too long. Too many “friends.” Too many silences.

Maybe—just maybe—it was already too late.

The flat was too quiet when Aldo came home. No hum of vinyl, no soft clatter of pans in the kitchen, not even the faint curl of peach-scented vape in the air. Just silence, heavy as a cathedral.

He found Goffredo in the sitting room. He was already changed—dark shirt, trousers, his old leather satchel by the chair. Beside it sat an overnight bag, zipped shut.

Aldo froze in the doorway. “You’re going out?”

Goffredo didn’t look at him at first, just adjusted the strap of his watch, methodical. When his eyes finally lifted, they were softer than Aldo expected, but miles away. “Staying at Mario’s tonight.”

Aldo’s stomach plummeted. “Why?”

For a moment, the storm’s mouth curved as though he might give one of his usual glib answers. But it faltered. He exhaled instead, long and rough. “Because, bello… I think we need to revisit the agreement.”

The word cut through Aldo like a blade. He stepped forward, hands curling into fists. “Revisit?”

Goffredo’s gaze didn’t waver, though the sorrow in it was clear. “When we began this, there were rules. No stealing food, no flirting, no—” He gave a bitter half-smile. “—no feelings. We burned through them all. But now… now I think we’re breaking each other instead.”

Aldo shook his head quickly, desperately. “No. No, that’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?” Goffredo’s voice was low, unflinching. “Out there, I’m your friend. Here, I’m your—” He faltered, swallowed, tried again. “I don’t even know anymore. You call me baby when no one hears, and friend when the world does. I can’t—” His breath broke. “I can’t keep splitting myself in two for you, Aldo.”

The silence stretched, jagged. Aldo’s chest ached, every word lodging deeper than the last. He wanted to reach for him, to beg, to explain—but the overnight bag was there, immovable, real.

Finally, Goffredo’s eyes softened, almost breaking. “I love you too much to let this destroy me. So maybe a little space… is what we need.”

Aldo’s throat closed. “And if I say I don’t want space?”

The storm’s smile was small, cracked at the edges. “Then you’ll have to start saying it where people can hear.”

He reached for the bag, slinging it over his shoulder. For a moment, Aldo thought he might look back, might give him a final kiss, some tether to hold onto. But he didn’t.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Aldo in the silence, staring at the hollow space he left behind.

And in that silence, one truth carved itself into Aldo’s chest:

He had to choose.

Claim him. Or lose him.

One night stretched into two.

Two into three.

The flat was still lived in—records on the shelf, Cesare slouched against the armchair, the basil and rosemary still on the balcony—but it felt hollow. Too quiet. The mornings were wrong without music drifting from the kitchen, wrong without coffee already waiting, wrong without Goffredo humming off-key into his cappuccino foam.

Aldo woke each day to silence and the faint scent of him fading from the air. He went to bed each night with the other side of the mattress cold.

On the fourth day, Mario appeared at the flat with Giulio in tow, both carrying that strange carefulness that set Aldo immediately on edge. Mario lingered in the doorway, shifting awkwardly, the strap of a bag cutting across his chest.

“I—I came to get some of Goffredo’s clothes,” Mario said softly, almost apologetically, his gaze darting anywhere but at Aldo.

Aldo’s heart lurched. “Clothes?”

Mario nodded once, quick. “He asked me. Just a few things, enough for the week.”

Giulio, leaning against the doorframe with his usual sharp-eyed scrutiny, didn’t bother to soften the blow. “He’s staying at Mario’s flat. Easier for him, closer to campus.”

The words sank like stones. Aldo’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. No argument, no plea. Just silence and the sound of his own pulse in his ears.

Mario glanced at Giulio, then back to Aldo, and for once there was no grin, no teasing remark—just something rawer, quieter. “He just… needs space, Aldo. He’s not angry. Just…” He trailed off, fumbling, eyes soft with something like guilt. “Hurting. You know how he gets.”

And Aldo did. He knew it too well. The memory crashed back: the lasagna, the shouting, the way Goffredo had disappeared into thin air afterward—still existing everywhere else, still teaching, still laughing with colleagues—but gone from him. Only from him.

And now it was happening again. The same hollow absence, the same vanishing act, as though Aldo had pulled a curtain down over his own life without meaning to.

Giulio’s voice cut through the silence, low and dry but edged with a kind of warning: “You’ll have to decide soon, Bellini. Because he won’t wait forever.”

Aldo swallowed hard, fingers tightening uselessly at his sides. He had thought he’d already lost him once. He didn’t know if he could survive losing him again.

The days without him had stretched into something unbearable—hollow meals, restless nights, hours at his desk where nothing on the page made sense. Silence had become a punishment, heavier than words ever could be. And Aldo knew, finally, that it would devour him whole if he let it. He had to do something—had to claim Goffredo out loud, before the world swallowed him in doubt.

But before he could put a plan to it, before he could summon the words, fate moved first.

It was late—lamplight spilling across the stairwell, the echo of rain still clinging to the stone walls—when Aldo pushed open the heavy door to their building. His satchel dragged at his shoulder, his thoughts a jumble of confessions half-formed. He climbed the last step, and then—

There he was.

Goffredo stood at the door of their flat, key poised at the lock, a massive overnight bag at his feet, and in one arm—clutched absurdly, endearingly close—a brand-new IKEA plush whale.

Cesare had a brother.

For a moment time stopped, the world narrowing to the line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders, the dark eyes that met his across the hall. Something raw flickered there—hesitation, hope, hurt—all wrapped into one unbearable gaze.

Aldo’s breath caught. His satchel slipped from his shoulder, thudding against the stone. He didn’t think. He didn’t plan.

He ran.

Goffredo opened his arms before Aldo even reached him, and Aldo launched himself forward, colliding into him with all the weight of weeks unsaid. The storm caught him effortlessly, strong hands locking tight at his back as Aldo clung, legs wrapping around his waist, burying his face into the crook of his neck.

The plush whale tumbled to the floor, forgotten, as Goffredo lifted him against the door.

For the first time in weeks, Aldo could breathe.

The hallway was dim, the old bulb buzzing faintly, the scent of rain still drifting in from the stairwell. But in Goffredo’s arms, Aldo felt as though the whole world had cracked open and finally let him breathe.

He clung tighter, burying himself into the familiar warmth of him, his glasses skewed, breath trembling against Goffredo’s neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, over and over, the words muffled into his skin, like prayer, like penance.

Goffredo held him just as fiercely, one arm wrapped tight around Aldo’s waist, the other braced against the door to steady them both. His chest rose ragged, and though his voice was rough, his lips kept finding Aldo’s temple, his head, the damp curve of his cheek. “Bello, no… don’t. Don’t be sorry. I thought—” His voice broke off, swallowed by the press of Aldo’s mouth against his jaw.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Aldo breathed, pulling back just enough to find his lips. The kiss was messy, desperate, their mouths clashing as though they’d both forgotten how to stop. Aldo cupped his face, fingers trembling, thumbs brushing away the sheen of tears Goffredo refused to let fall.

The storm groaned low in his chest, kissing him back, murmuring against his mouth, “Ti amo, I never stopped… I can’t stop.”

Aldo only tightened his grip, legs locked firmer around his waist, as though letting go would undo them both. He kissed him again, slower this time, tender, his own whisper breaking free: “I love you too. I should have said it sooner. I should have—”

“Shh.” Goffredo pressed his forehead to his breath, hot and uneven. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

In the narrow hallway, with their satchel and the plush whale forgotten at their feet, they kissed like men who had almost lost each other, clinging as though the door behind them led not just to a flat, but to the only home either of them had ever truly wanted.

It took a few ragged breaths for them to untangle from the hallway embrace. Aldo finally slid down from Goffredo’s waist, though his hands refused to let go entirely. He bent, scooped up his satchel with trembling fingers, and Goffredo reached for the key still dangling in the lock.

The door gave way with a soft groan, and they stepped inside together—bags dropped in a careless heap just past the threshold, the new whale (Cesare’s brother) unceremoniously abandoned on the couch, staring at the room like witness to a storm.

The flat was dim, quiet, holding its breath.

And then Goffredo turned, eyes dark, jaw set—and Aldo surged into him, catching his mouth in a kiss that burned with all the words they hadn’t spoken.

The storm groaned low, lifting him again without thought, pressing him against the door until the frame rattled. Their mouths clashed, teeth scraping, then softened—slow, reverent—before urgency swallowed them again.

Shirts peeled away first, tugged impatiently over heads, tossed somewhere near the shoes they hadn’t removed. Goffredo’s hands roamed greedy and desperate, skimming Aldo’s chest, his waist, the curve of his hips. Aldo’s fingers fisted into the curls at his nape, tugging him closer, closer, as though he could anchor himself to the very heart of him.

They stumbled, still kissing, through the narrow hall—buttons half-undone, trousers shoved low, socks abandoned in their wake. Each kiss was a promise and a plea, tenderness spilling into raw need, a desperate attempt to erase the ache of those nights apart.

By the time they fell into the bedroom, breathless and half-undressed, the world had shrunk to only them: skin on skin, gasping, whispering apologies and confessions against each other’s mouths.

“I missed you,” Aldo breathed, frantic, pressing kiss after kiss down Goffredo’s throat, his chest.

“You’ll never lose me,” Goffredo vowed, low and rough, his hands shaking as he traced every inch of him, as though relearning the map he already knew by heart.

The bed caught them, covers tangling as passion surged, tenderness lacing every touch. It was not just hunger this time—it was reclamation. It was devotion.

And as clothes gave way to skin, and skin to desperate worship, there was no space left for doubt. Only forgiveness. Only love.

By the time they stumbled into the bedroom, they were already naked, the trail of clothes a map of every frantic kiss and half-broken moan along the way. Aldo barely hit the mattress before Goffredo was on him, kissing him like he wanted to consume him whole—teeth, tongue, growls tearing from his throat.

“Fuck, Aldo,” Goffredo rasped against his lips, breath ragged, “I thought—I thought I’d lost you.”

“You didn’t,” Aldo gasped, nails clawing down his back, leaving angry red tracks. “I’m here. Baby, I’m here—so don’t you dare stop.”

“Never,” Goffredo snarled, sliding his fingers into him with ruthless intent, preparing him fast, stretching him until Aldo was trembling, clutching at his shoulders. “You’ll take me—every inch. You’ll feel me for days.”

Aldo’s moan cracked into a plea. “Yes—please, baby, fuck me—”

When Goffredo finally pushed inside, it was brutal, a single deep thrust that had Aldo crying out, back arching off the mattress.

“Dio santo—” Aldo sobbed, legs tightening around his waist. “You’re so—big—”

“Mine,” Goffredo growled, hips snapping hard, relentless. “You hear me? You’re mine, Aldo. No one else gets this. No one else touches you. Only me.”

“Yes! Yours—always yours!” Aldo’s voice broke into a wail as Goffredo angled deeper, hitting him again and again until his vision blurred. His hands fisted into Goffredo’s hair, yanking, dragging him down into another bruising kiss.

The bed slammed against the wall, the sheets twisted beneath them, their voices filling the room—Aldo’s high, desperate cries; Goffredo’s low, guttural groans, every thrust punctuated with a curse, a claim.

“Say it louder,” Goffredo demanded, hand sliding up to grip Aldo’s throat—not choking, just holding him, owning him. “Tell me. Say who you belong to.”

Aldo gasped, moaning helplessly under the weight of him. “You, baby—you—I belong to you—fuck—don’t stop—”

“Good boy,” Goffredo groaned, biting down on Aldo’s shoulder hard enough to mark. His mouth left hickeys everywhere—neck, chest, down his ribs—claim after claim etched in purple and red.

Aldo writhed beneath him, desperate, nails digging into his back, his thighs clamping tighter around his waist. “Harder—please, harder, baby—”

And the storm obeyed, pounding into him with a ferocity that bordered on savage, grunting into his ear, “You drive me insane. Days without you—do you know what that did to me?!”

Aldo cried out, tears brimming, pleasure overwhelming. “I missed you too—I missed you so much—I need you, baby, please—”

Their bodies collided in frantic rhythm, slick, desperate, animal. And when Aldo shattered first, clinging, screaming his name, Goffredo roared into his neck, slamming deep as he spilled inside him, the sound of it raw, wrecked, primal.

But he didn’t stop. Even as Aldo trembled, oversensitive, Goffredo stroked him back up again, mouth hot and wet around him, coaxing another release with ruthless devotion. Aldo screamed, voice cracking, sobbing his name as he came again, wrung dry, wrecked beyond reason.

Finally, finally, Goffredo collapsed over him, both of them shaking, sweaty, covered in bite marks and bruises. His voice was hoarse as he pressed kiss after kiss to Aldo’s swollen lips, his temple, his damp hair.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, raw, desperate still. “Forever. You hear me, Aldo? Forever.”

And Aldo, voice broken but steady, whispered back, “Forever, baby. Always.”

They were wrecked.

Every muscle trembling, every breath ragged, their bodies sticky and fever-warm. But even then, Goffredo would not leave Aldo untended. He pressed a final kiss to Aldo’s temple before rolling out of bed on shaky legs, muttering in Venetian under his breath as he grabbed a towel.

“Stay,” he ordered, voice still rough, storm-rasped. “Don’t move, bello. I’ll take care of you.”

Aldo lay there flushed, chest heaving, hair a dark, damp halo against the pillow. He could barely lift his arm when Goffredo came back, kneeling by the bed, wiping him clean with slow, reverent hands. Every stroke of the cloth softened into a caress. Every touch lingered, fingers trailing along Aldo’s hip, the inside of his thigh, his belly—devotion woven into the act.

Aldo managed the faintest smile, voice hoarse but teasing. “You’re fussing.”

“Damn right I am,” Goffredo muttered, though the heat in his gaze belied his grumble. “Look at you. You’ll be sore for days.”

“Your fault,” Aldo whispered, eyes heavy but glinting.

“Always.” Goffredo leaned down, kissing the words from his lips, slow this time, languid, gentle—nothing frantic, only warmth.

When he was done, he tossed the towel aside and slid back under the covers, pulling Aldo into his arms immediately. He wrapped the thick blanket over them both, holding him as if letting go was not an option. Aldo tucked himself against his chest, pressing his face into the crook of Goffredo’s neck, inhaling him—bergamot, smoke, peach vape, and something uniquely his.

They lay tangled like that, skin against skin, every mark Aldo had left still burning red across Goffredo’s shoulders, every bruise and hickey from Goffredo’s mouth stark against Aldo’s pale skin. They were a map of each other now.

Soft kisses trailed between them in the quiet. Goffredo pressed one to Aldo’s damp head, to the tip of his nose, to the corner of his mouth. Aldo kissed the hollow of his throat, his chest, the faint stubble of his jaw.

Neither spoke for a long time. They didn’t need to. The storm outside rattled faintly against the windows, but in their bed it was only warmth, only breath, only the cocoon of being found again after nearly losing it.

Eventually, Aldo’s voice broke the silence, low and raw. “Never leave me like that again.”

Goffredo tightened his hold around his waist, a quiet hum against his chest. “Never,” he promised, the word muffled, kissed into his skin.

Goffredo exhaled shakily, burying his face in Aldo’s head. His lips brushed over the crown of his head in a kiss so soft it ached.

And there, beneath covers heavy with heat and the ache of reunion, they drifted—kiss after kiss, whisper after whisper—until sleep finally claimed them, entwined and inseparable.

The storm had quieted into a hush. Their breathing synced as though their bodies had finally relearned the rhythm they had nearly lost, warmth heavy between them, exhaustion softened by the nearness they had both craved.

Aldo shifted, pressing closer, his nose brushing the line of Goffredo’s jaw. The storm hummed at the touch, tilting slightly to meet him halfway. They traded lazy kisses, lips brushing more than claiming—soft pecks to temples, to cheeks, to the corner of mouths—like they couldn’t stop reassuring themselves that the other was real.

It was between one of those kisses, Aldo’s mouth at the hollow of Goffredo’s throat, that he finally murmured, voice low, husky from the hours behind them: “The whale…” His cheek rubbed against Goffredo’s chest as if to hide from his own curiosity. “The one you brought back. Why?”

Goffredo followed his gaze to where the plush slumped on the couch, absurd and endearing all at once. He chuckled, the sound rumbling under Aldo’s ear. “Cesare looked lonely,” he said simply, fingers wrapping themselves on Aldo’s head “He needed a brother. So… Giovanni.”

Aldo lifted his head just enough to meet his eyes, his lips quirking. “Giovanni?”

“Giovanni,” Goffredo confirmed with a soft grin. “Cesare and Giovanni. Perfect.”

“Ridiculous,” Aldo countered, though he was already smiling as he sank back down, fitting himself tighter against Goffredo’s side.

“Perfect,” Goffredo whispered again, pressing a kiss to Aldo’s head

Silence stretched, broken only by the patter of rain against the shutters. Aldo’s arms looped tighter around him, his voice smaller now, edged with the vulnerability he never showed anyone else. “I’m glad you’re home.”

Goffredo’s breath caught, his chest lifting and falling with the weight of it. He stroked lazy circles at the small of Aldo’s back, steady, grounding. “So am I,” he murmured, voice thick, almost breaking.

“I’m still sorry,” Aldo whispered.

The storm tilted his head, lips finding Aldo’s temple, a kiss that lingered—no heat, just the quiet absolution of touch. “I know,” he said softly, almost pleading. “Enough apologies tonight, bello.”

Aldo closed his eyes at the words, letting the reassurance settle, letting himself be folded into the safety of arms that held him tighter than any storm could.

And so he slept, tucked against the warmth that smelled of bergamot and smoke, the absurd little benediction lingering in the air between them. Giovanni.

Morning came slow, draped in pale light that spilled through the shutters, softened by the lingering rain. The flat was hushed but for the faint creak of wood and the low, steady breath of the man who still held him close.

Aldo stirred first, cheek pillowed against Goffredo’s chest, the scent of bergamot and smoke still clinging to the sheets. He blinked sleep-heavy eyes open, letting them adjust to the light—then froze.

The sight made him laugh under his breath, muffled against warm skin. Across Goffredo’s collarbone, trailing down his chest and along his shoulders, the evidence of last night had bloomed—deep hickeys, some smudged with teeth marks, each one a dark, unmistakable claim. They trailed like constellations across muscle and skin, unapologetically visible.

“Dio santo,” Aldo whispered, lips brushing the storm’s skin as he spoke. “You look like you’ve been mauled.”

Goffredo stirred, lashes fluttering, his arm tightening instinctively around Aldo’s waist. He cracked one eye open, groggy but amused. “Mauled, hm?” His voice was rough with sleep, low and warm. “That what we’re calling your enthusiasm now?”

Aldo flushed, burying his face in the crook of his neck to hide his smile. “I was not enthusiastic.”

“You were feral,” Goffredo corrected with a grin, his hand sliding lazily up and down Aldo’s spine. “Don’t think I didn’t count how many times you left your name on me.” He tilted his head toward the window, voice smug even in its softness. “Half the faculty will know by lunch.”

Aldo groaned, pinching his side lightly in protest, which only made Goffredo laugh, warm and rumbling, before catching his hand and kissing his knuckles.

“Mauled,” Aldo repeated, feigning indignation even as his lips curved into a smile against Goffredo’s chest. “Utterly mauled. You look indecent.”

“Then good,” Goffredo murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Now everyone will know I’m yours.”

The words lingered between them, heavy with truth, softened by the morning light. Aldo’s heart clenched, but instead of answering, he let himself settle deeper against him, fingers tracing absent patterns over the marks he’d made.

If mauled meant this—meant belonging—he thought he could live with it.

The storm chuckled low, dragging him closer until Aldo was tucked once more into his side, Cesare and Giovanni sprawled at the foot of the bed like silent witnesses.

And for the first time in weeks, morning felt safe again.

The rain hadn’t stopped. It tapped steady against the shutters, a soft percussion that only made the bed feel warmer, the embrace heavier. Goffredo lay on his back, still half-asleep, while Aldo sprawled across him—cheek against his chest, one leg tangled between his, Cesare’s plush fin still clutched in one hand.

The storm’s fingers moved idly up and down his spine, lazy, thoughtless, just enough to keep him anchored.

“You know,” Aldo murmured, his voice husky with sleep, “I think Nigel, Frank, and Arturo looked a little sad yesterday on the kitchen sill. Too pale in there. So I moved them back out on the balcony.”

Goffredo huffed a sleepy laugh, his chest vibrating beneath Aldo’s cheek. “Did you now? Gardening in secret while I slept?”

Aldo hummed, tracing slow circles on his ribs with his fingertips. “Nigel seemed happier. He—” A pause, soft and conspiratorial. “He probably wants another brother.”

That earned a low groan, amused and indulgent. “Another one? Bello, we’ll need a second balcony at this rate.”

Aldo lifted his head just enough to meet his eyes, glasses crooked, hair a dark, messy halo. “A thyme plant,” he said with solemnity that didn’t match the sparkle in his gaze. “We’ll call him Fredo.”

For a beat, Goffredo only stared at him, torn between exasperation and the ridiculous rush of fondness in his chest. Then his arms tightened around him, pulling him flush against his body with a suddenness that made Aldo squeak.

“Fredo,” Goffredo repeated, deadpan, his lips brushing Aldo’s head. “You want me on the balcony every morning calling for Fredo?”

“Yes,” Aldo said primly, nose nudging his throat before pressing a kiss there. “Nigel, Frank, Arturo, and Fredo. A proper family.”

The storm laughed then, low and wrecked, kissing his temple before resting his cheek against Aldo’s bald head “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me,” Aldo mumbled, half-daring, half-soft, already burrowing back down into the warmth of him.

Goffredo’s arms tightened once more, his mouth brushing the crown of Aldo’s head. “I do,” he whispered, so quiet it could have been mistaken for the rain.

And there, tangled in sheets heavy with warmth and whispers, even the absurd names of potted herbs felt like vows.

By the time they finally pulled themselves from the bed, the rain had lightened to a soft drizzle, Florence blurred beyond the wet glass. They moved through the flat in lazy tandem—Aldo shuffling in one of Goffredo’s shirts again, skin damp from a quick rinse, while Goffredo took to the kitchen, barefoot, sleeves rolled, humming under his breath.

By the time they finally pulled themselves from the bed, the rain had lightened to a soft drizzle, Florence blurred beyond the wet glass. They moved through the flat in lazy tandem—Aldo shuffling in one of Goffredo’s shirts again, hair damp from a quick rinse, while Goffredo took to the kitchen, barefoot, sleeves rolled, humming under his breath.

The record player crackled to life with an old love song, its gentle croon threading through the clink of pans. Eggs sizzled, tomatoes hissed, bread toasted golden. The storm moved with his usual flair, flipping, stirring, tasting, tossing Aldo an amused glance every time he stole too near the stove.

“Stay out of my kitchen, bello,” he warned, catching Aldo’s hand mid-swipe as he reached for a piece of tomato.

“It’s my kitchen too,” Aldo muttered, blushing faintly as Goffredo kissed his knuckles before letting him go.

They sat down finally, plates steaming, Cesare and Giovanni stationed loyally on the couch as if presiding. The drizzle still tapped at the shutters, and the basil, rosemary, and oregano—Nigel, Frank, and Arturo—looked smugly green outside on the balcony, their leaves quivering with rain.

Goffredo sipped his coffee, eyes dancing. “You know,” he said, voice low with mock seriousness, “maybe you were right about thyme. Fredo would fit in nicely out there.”

Aldo stifled a laugh into his coffee cup. “Now you’re indulging me.”

“Indulging us,” Goffredo corrected smoothly, then leaned back in his chair with a grin that was equal parts wicked and tender. “And perhaps… one more. Sage. A sturdy plant, wise and grounding. We’ll call him…” His eyes softened as they landed on Aldo. “…Aldino. Just to keep Fredo company.”

Aldo groaned, hiding his face behind his hand, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet you love me,” Goffredo countered easily, reaching across the table to brush his fingers over Aldo’s wrist.

The words came unguarded this time, slipping past Aldo’s lips like they belonged there: “Ti amo, baby.”

The storm stilled, his grin softening into something quieter, heavier. He squeezed Aldo’s hand, thumb brushing over his pulse. “Ti amo anch’io, bello.”

For a moment the breakfast, the rain, the whole city disappeared. It was only them, the warmth of eggs and toast and coffee gone cold, whispered vows in Italian thickening the air between them.

Aldo leaned across the table, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Aldino,” he murmured against his lips, laughing softly. “Fine. But that’s the last one.”

“Of course,” Goffredo agreed solemnly—though his eyes, wicked and fond, promised otherwise.

The drizzle had burned off by midmorning, Florence gleaming damp and bright as they left the flat together, the weight of umbrellas forgotten in favor of easy laughter. They walked in tandem, shoulders brushing, Cesare and Giovanni watching from the couch as if guardians of their peace.

By the time they reached the university, the rhythm of the day had already begun—students spilling across the courtyard, colleagues murmuring over coffee. Goffredo was ready to peel away, to duck toward his lecture hall, when Aldo stopped him.

Before the storm could ask, Aldo rose onto the tips of his loafers, tugged gently at his sleeve, and kissed him. Full on the lips. No hesitation, no half-measure—just a simple, quiet claim that silenced the lounge for one startled heartbeat.

The boys saw it, of course. Mario’s grin nearly split his face, Giulio muttered a gleeful finalmente, Raymond looked ready to tear up, and Thomas’s soft smile said everything else.

Goffredo blinked, stunned, then laughed—low and disbelieving, giddy with it—before brushing his thumb across Aldo’s cheek. And then he left for class with a swagger that had nothing to do with his lecture notes.

Later, with visiting professors from Rome crowding the symposium, Aldo spoke as though there had never been doubt. Introductions were made smoothly, deliberately, with not one stumble.

“This is Professor Goffredo Tedesco,” Aldo said, steady and sure. “My colleague… and my boyfriend.” Once, with a glint in his eye, even softer: “My better half.”

The words landed like sunlight breaking cloud. Goffredo—who had thought himself a storm, who had thought himself always waiting, always second—finally knew what it felt like to be chosen out loud, undeniably, in the full blaze of the world.

And for the first time in a long time, everything felt right.

Chapter Text

The lunch bell had barely rung, and the faculty lounge was already buzzing with the low hum of voices, the scrape of chairs, the clatter of cutlery. But at the far end of the long oak table, the six of them carved out their own corner of chaos. Plates piled high, wine glasses filled just enough to count as respectable, laughter spilling freely into the air.

Aldo sat with his sleeves rolled, light shining on his bald head, spectacles catching the light. He was mid-sentence, half-heartedly scolding Raymond about eating dessert before finishing his pasta, when Goffredo leaned across and stole a forkful from his plate without the faintest shame.

“Goffredo—” Aldo tried to sound exasperated, but his mouth betrayed him, tugging upward in that reluctant smile that had once been all too rare.

“Amore,” Goffredo interrupted, eyes gleaming with mischief as he chewed, “you know food tastes better when it’s yours.”

The others groaned in chorus. Giulio muttered something about figli adolescenti, Thomas shook his head fondly, Raymond muffled a laugh into his napkin, and Mario pretended to gag.

But Aldo didn’t shove him away. He didn’t even blush anymore. Instead, he calmly reached for his glass of water, as if this were perfectly ordinary—and when Goffredo leaned in again, shameless as ever, he pressed a quick kiss to Aldo’s cheek.

The table erupted.

“Madonna santa!” Giulio cried, slamming his palm to the wood. “In front of my lunch?”

“Better than behind your back,” Raymond teased.

Thomas smothered a grin while Mario leaned theatrically across the table. “Get a room,” he sing-songed, though his eyes softened at the way Aldo didn’t pull back—how he simply accepted it, even welcomed it, tilting slightly toward Goffredo like a man who had finally stopped fighting gravity.

And then, just to prove the point, Aldo turned his head deliberately—so that when Goffredo leaned in a second time, it wasn’t his cheek he kissed, but his lips. Quick, but unhurried, and impossibly sure.

For once, Goffredo wasn’t stealing anything. Aldo was giving it.

The kiss landed like a spark in dry tinder.

“Ecco!” Giulio practically leapt out of his chair, smacking the table so hard that Raymond’s glass wobbled. “That’s it. That’s the kiss. Pay up, bastardi. I told you this would happen before midterms!”

“You did not,” Mario shot back, already rifling through his wallet with a wicked grin. “I said before the term ended, I was closest. I should collect.”

“You’ll collect nothing until you’ve paid into the pot properly,” Giulio retorted, stabbing the air with his fork. “I’m the banker. Banker’s rights.”

Raymond, misty-eyed and useless, waved a napkin at them both. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, leave them alone. Can’t you see? It’s—oh—look at them.” His voice caught, tender in spite of the commotion. “He finally said yes without words.”

Thomas, ever the diplomat, raised his wineglass with the poise of a statesman. “Let us agree,” he declared, “that no matter who wins the betting pool, this is a victory for us all.”

“Diplomatico del cazzo,” Giulio muttered, but even he couldn’t hide the twitch of a smile.

Meanwhile, Goffredo leaned back in his chair as if the whole lounge had just become his stage. He looked incandescent, smug, positively radiant under the warm light. He didn’t even need to say anything—the curve of his mouth said it all: Chosen. Claimed. Finally.

And Aldo—sweet, stubborn, careful Aldo—looked like a man who had finally set down his armor.

He reached for his fork again, as though nothing were unusual, but when one of their colleagues from the literature department passed behind them with a bemused glance at the table’s uproar, Aldo didn’t hesitate.

“This is Goffredo,” he said, voice steady, almost proud. “My boyfriend.”

The word hung there, bold and unashamed, like a banner unfurled.

The colleague blinked, startled, then offered a polite nod before shuffling on. But others were already turning their heads, curiosity piqued. The rumors that had circled the faculty for months suddenly had a name, a shape, a truth that Aldo himself had given them.

No room for confusion. No denials or careful evasions. Not anymore.

And if Goffredo had looked radiant before, now he practically glowed—like every rule they’d once written, every line they’d once drawn, had been rewritten into something far stronger. A promise.

The table was in uproar now, as though that kiss had detonated a small bomb right in the middle of their lunch.

Giulio threw down his napkin like it was a gauntlet. “No, basta. I am sending you both an invoice. Emotional damages. Hazard pay. You can’t just spring that on a man in the middle of his lasagna.”

Mario perked right up, already thumbing at his phone. “New odds!” he announced gleefully. “First fight in public: five to one it happens before Christmas. Three to one that Goffredo storms out dramatically. Ten to one Aldo actually apologizes first.”

“Mario,” Thomas cut in, his voice the calm, careful blade slicing through chaos, “there will be no gambling on the longevity of their relationship. We should respect their privacy.”

“Privacy?” Giulio barked, gesturing wildly between them. “They just kissed in broad daylight! Over penne arrabbiata! Privacy is dead!”

Raymond, dabbing at the corners of his eyes again, ignored all of them. “It’s beautiful,” he sighed, smile tremulous. “Like the last act of a play when the lovers finally stop being idiots.”

Through it all, Goffredo was unbothered. He leaned lazily against Aldo’s shoulder, stealing forkfuls whenever he pleased, occasionally tilting his head to brush the corner of Aldo’s jaw with his lips. Aldo, for once, didn’t flinch or flush—he just let it happen, sliding his free hand beneath the table to rest against Goffredo’s thigh.

Between the clamor, they had their own little world.

“You know,” Aldo murmured quietly, voice pitched for Goffredo alone, “we still haven’t picked up Fredo.”

“The thyme?” Goffredo’s lips quirked, amusement soft in his eyes. “Yes. But if Fredo gets lonely, we should get Aldino too. Sage and thyme. A good pair.”

Aldo huffed a laugh, his nose brushing Goffredo’s temple. “You’ll talk to them, won’t you?”

“Of course. Fredo will complain, Aldino will sulk, and we’ll mediate.”

Aldo shook his head, smiling despite himself, and before he could reply, Goffredo stole another kiss—this one quick, feather-light, like punctuation to a private joke.

Giulio groaned so loudly the whole lounge turned to stare. “Basta! I can’t live like this. Do you two have no decency?”

But they didn’t answer him. Not really. They were too busy laughing softly into each other’s mouths, their little conversation about plants and promises continuing under the cover of all that noise, while the others flailed helplessly around them.

Goffredo had never looked more at home. And Aldo had never looked less afraid of being seen.

Mario was still typing furiously into his phone, face lit with the glee of a man who had just discovered a new market to exploit. “Alright, alright, new line on the betting pool! Two to one they adopt a cat within the year. Five to one it’s before summer. Ten to one the cat ends up named after a pope.”

That finally cracked Aldo. His shoulders shook with laughter, and even Goffredo bent forward, pressing his forehead to Aldo’s temple as he wheezed. “A pope? What—Innocent? Clement? Cat the Sixteenth?”

Raymond was aghast. “You cannot gamble on the lives of cats!”

“Why not?” Giulio barked. “If they treat the cat the way they treat each other, it’ll live better than all of us combined.”

Thomas, trying for dignity and failing, raised his glass again. “The only wager I’ll allow is that they’ll be happy. The rest of you can keep your odds to yourselves.”

“Boring,” Mario muttered, already sketching imaginary payout tables on a napkin.

Through the din, Goffredo flicked his watch, exhaled, then stood, his chair scraping softly against the floor. He leaned down without hesitation, cupping Aldo’s jaw, pressing a brief but certain kiss to his lips.

“Last class of the day,” he murmured. “I’ll see you later, amore.”

Aldo’s hand lingered on his wrist for a heartbeat longer than necessary, reluctant to let go. But then Goffredo was striding off, shoulders squared, the faintest grin still tugging at his mouth.

The chaos resumed at once—Mario now loudly setting odds on whether the cat would outlive the plants, Giulio threatening to throttle him, Raymond sputtering that they should all be ashamed, Thomas attempting in vain to restore order.

But Aldo wasn’t really listening anymore. Not properly.

He sat there, chin in hand, gaze soft and distant as he watched the door swing shut behind Goffredo. His mouth curved—fond, unguarded, almost dreamy—as though the noise around him were little more than background.

For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t worrying about what anyone might think. He was too busy thinking about Goffredo.

The sun was low by the time they slipped out of the university, the cobblestones still warm underfoot. Goffredo’s bag hung heavy on his shoulder, Aldo’s hand tucked loosely in his, their steps falling into that quiet, unthinking synchronicity that came only after long days spent together.

“So,” Aldo mused, tilting his head, “what do you want for dinner? Pasta again?”

“You say that like it’s a complaint,” Goffredo teased. “But fine. We could do risotto. Or—”

“Risotto takes too long.” Aldo wrinkled his nose, an expression so boyish it made Goffredo’s chest ache. “Maybe something quick. Pizza?”

They turned a corner—and the conversation stopped dead.

Because there, in the window of a little pet shop, a tiny black fur ball had plastered itself against the glass, claws scratching, eyes wide and golden as it yowled with startling force. The little thing pawed madly, as though it had been waiting for this exact moment, for them.

Aldo froze. His mouth opened, then curved upward in the kind of smile Goffredo had only ever seen in glimpses. Bright, unguarded, almost giddy.

“Oh.” He pressed a hand to the glass, leaning in close. “Look at him.”

The kitten mewed louder, batting insistently at the pane.

“Aldo…” Goffredo began carefully, already recognizing the signs—the softened eyes, the animated gestures, the way Aldo’s entire frame seemed to vibrate with barely-contained excitement.

“We can’t just leave him here,” Aldo said, voice pitched with conviction, as though the tiny creature’s fate depended solely on him. “Look—he chose us. He chose me.”

And Goffredo—watching the way Aldo’s face lit up, cheeks flushed, glasses slipping slightly down his nose as he bent closer—knew he was finished. He’d seen Aldo thoughtful, Aldo flustered, Aldo stubborn, Aldo tender. But this—this spark of almost childlike joy—was something else entirely.

He’d never seen him so alive.

“Amore…” Goffredo murmured, brushing his knuckles against Aldo’s spine, lips quirking despite himself. “You’re already in love, aren’t you?”

Aldo glanced up at him, eyes shining with something fierce and certain. “Completely.”

And just like that, Goffredo knew the black little fur ball had already won.

The bell above the pet shop door jingled when Aldo tugged it open, the smell of hay and cedar shavings drifting out with the cool air. Goffredo sighed, half-resigned already, but let himself be pulled along.

“Just to meet him,” Aldo said firmly, as though declaring terms of a contract. “We can’t ignore fate.”

“Fate,” Goffredo repeated dryly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward.

The shop girl led them to a little enclosure, and the moment the door opened, the kitten barreled out with all the force of destiny itself. Straight into Aldo’s waiting arms. The tiny claws hooked into his shirt, the little body pressed against his chest, purring so loudly it sounded like a motor trying to shake itself apart.

“See?” Aldo’s voice had gone soft, awed, as he cradled the wriggling fur ball close. “He chose me. Again.”

Goffredo couldn’t even muster a retort. He was too busy watching Aldo—how animated he was, how his whole face lit with warmth, glasses slipping down his nose as he laughed when the kitten climbed to his shoulder. There was a brightness in him Goffredo had never seen shine quite so freely, and for a moment, it stole his breath.

The kitten leapt from Aldo’s arms onto Goffredo’s chest with startling accuracy, claws digging lightly into his sweater. Goffredo caught him out of instinct, blinking down as the little black head butted against his jaw.

“Even him,” Aldo teased, stepping closer, eyes wide and gleaming. “He approves. Look at that.”

Goffredo opened his mouth, prepared to deliver the reasonable argument—plants first, pets later—but Aldo was already sliding closer, hands curling behind his neck.

“Amore,” Aldo whispered, brushing a kiss to the tip of his nose.

Goffredo felt the protest falter.

“Just think about it,” another kiss, this one light and quick against his lips.

The kitten purred louder. Aldo’s eyes softened into something impossible to deny. Puppy eyes, patient and devastating.

Goffredo groaned under his breath. “This isn’t fair.”

“It’s fate,” Aldo countered, smiling like he’d already won.

And truthfully—he had.

Goffredo cleared his throat, adjusting the kitten in his arms like he was negotiating with a very small, very determined dictator. “We have plants to keep alive first,” he tried, tone deliberately measured. “Fredo and Aldino, remember? A cat is… commitment.”

Aldo tilted his head, still smiling that dangerous smile. “And you’re not afraid of commitments, are you, amore?” His fingers tightened gently at the back of Goffredo’s neck, pulling him down just enough that their foreheads brushed.

Goffredo opened his mouth again, surely to mount another defense—only to find Aldo’s lips catching his in another quick, decisive kiss. Not heated, not lingering—just certain. The kind that turned rules into promises without saying a word.

The kitten purred even louder, batting at Goffredo’s chin as though seconding the motion.

Aldo leaned back just far enough to look at him, eyes shining with unguarded warmth, glasses slipping again. “He’s already ours, Goffredo. You can even choose his name. Right now.”

For a moment, Goffredo held the stare, pretending—just pretending—he could still stand his ground. But the combination was lethal: Aldo’s conviction, the kitten’s little paws kneading his sweater, the soft press of lips still ghosting his own.

He exhaled, low and defeated, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Federico.”

Aldo blinked. “Federico?”

“Yes,” Goffredo said, brushing a knuckle down the kitten’s sleek back. “Strong name. Loyal. Sharp. A little dramatic.” His gaze flicked up to Aldo, warmth brimming in his eyes. “It suits him.”

Aldo’s grin broke wide and boyish, his laughter bubbling up as he nuzzled against Goffredo’s cheek, pressing another kiss there, soft and triumphant. “Federico,” he echoed, voice certain. “Welcome home.”

And just like that, they were three.

The bell jingled again as they stepped out of the pet shop, the evening air cooler now, the sky dipped in soft oranges and lilacs. Goffredo cradled the kitten against his chest, one broad hand steady beneath the tiny body, while Aldo walked at his side with his phone already raised.

“Smile,” Aldo ordered, though his grin was already splitting his face. He snapped the picture—Goffredo looking faintly sheepish, Federico tucked under his chin like he belonged there.

Within seconds, the group chat was vibrating with replies.

Giulio: I KNEW IT. WHERE’S MY MONEY.
Mario: THE CAT IS REAL?!! Odds recalculated: 0:1. You owe me all.
Raymond: OH. MY. HEART. 🥹
Thomas: Congratulations, both of you. I suggest you draw up custody agreements for the plants before the cat destroys them.

Aldo chuckled, tucking his phone away. He glanced up at Goffredo, his expression softening in a way that no photograph could have captured. “We’re going to need a few things tomorrow. IKEA trip. Litter box, bowls, toys—”

“Furniture,” Goffredo added, half-grinning down at the kitten. “A throne, perhaps.”

“Whatever he wants,” Aldo said simply, slipping his hand into Goffredo’s free one.

They fell into step again, Federico nestled and purring like he’d been carried this way his whole life. For a stretch of blocks, it was just the three of them, the city humming around them like background music. Aldo leaned against Goffredo’s shoulder now and then, gaze lingering on the kitten, already looking like something fuller, rounder—a family.

And then, as if fate wanted to drive the point home, one block from their building, they stopped dead again.

A sidewalk stall stood open, stacked with pots of herbs and greenery, fragrant in the dusk. And there they were: the perfect potted thyme, its leaves bright and bushy, and the perfect sage beside it, silvery and strong.

Aldo bent over them, laughing softly. “Fredo and Aldino,” he said, voice warm. “Together, at last.”

Goffredo looked from the plants to the cat in his arms, then to Aldo—smiling, animated, lit from within. For once, it didn’t feel like life was taking from him. It felt like it was giving.

“Fate’s stirring the pot, amore,” Goffredo murmured, kissing the crown of Aldo’s head. “And for once, it’s in our favor.”

Federico darted from room to room the moment they set him down, his little paws skittering across the hardwood floors as though the flat were a kingdom he had always been destined to rule. He mewed at the corners, pawed at chair legs, and then launched himself onto the couch cushions with a wobbling leap that nearly unseated Aldo’s glasses from the coffee table.

Aldo laughed, shedding his jacket, and gathered the potted thyme and sage they’d brought home. He carried them carefully to the balcony, arranging them alongside Nigel, Frank, and Arturo—the elder statesmen of their little green parliament.

“There,” he said proudly, dusting his hands. “All together now.”

Goffredo padded out barefoot behind him, mischief already dancing in his eyes. He dug into his desk drawer and came back with a sheet of googly eyes and a black marker. By the time Aldo turned back, Goffredo was busily sticking little eyes onto the pots and sketching cheerful smiles beneath them.

“Goffredo,” Aldo said, half-laugh, half-sigh, but he was smiling anyway, his heart softening in that familiar way.

“They deserve personalities,” Goffredo said solemnly, setting Sage—Aldino—with a particularly dashing grin beside thyme, Fredo, who now had wide, startled eyes. Frank, Nigel, and Arturo looked on like disapproving professors with absurdly large pupils.

Inside, Federico pounced on the corner of the rug, his tail flicking as he wrestled it into submission. Aldo and Goffredo returned to the sofa, collapsing side by side, curling instinctively into one another.

Aldo reached for Cesare the shark and hugged him to his chest, while Giovanni the whale flopped comfortably across Goffredo’s lap. Federico, triumphant from his skirmish with the rug, leapt onto the armrest and peered down at them with regal satisfaction.

“Look at him,” Aldo murmured, his voice soft, lips brushing the edge of Goffredo’s shoulder. “Already at home.”

Goffredo tilted his head until his cheek rested against Aldo’s temple, watching the kitten’s every pounce and tumble with something dangerously close to fond pride. His arm tightened around Aldo’s waist.

“Already ours,” he corrected gently.

And for a long, unhurried moment, they stayed just like that: Cesare, Giovanni, Federico, Aldo, and Goffredo—curled together in the small flat, as though the world outside had finally settled into place.

Morning sunlight spilled across the flat, warm and golden, catching dust motes that swirled in the air. Federico had taken the night like a prince—alternating between tumbling across their bed, batting at Aldo’s glasses case, and finally curling between them in the early hours, purring loud enough to make sleep almost impossible.

By breakfast, he’d already claimed the windowsill as his throne.

“Alright, piccolo,” Aldo said firmly, crouching beside him with Cesare the shark tucked under one arm. “We’ll be gone a few hours, but you’ll have company.” He placed Cesare upright against the sill like a watchman, then arranged Giovanni the whale nearby, flopping him into a dignified guard position.

Goffredo, chuckling, brought the plants in closer to the window as though gathering a council. Nigel the basil, Frank the rosemary and Arturo the oregano, Fredo the thyme, and Aldino the sage now formed a small green semicircle around the kitten. Goffredo stuck another pair of googly eyes on Aldino’s pot, just to be sure the guardians looked attentive.

“There,” he announced. “The finest uncles a cat could hope for.”

Federico mewed once, tail curling around him as he nestled down in the middle of his strange family. Cesare’s wide felt grin seemed to beam approvingly.

Aldo’s hand found Goffredo’s as they slipped on their coats. “IKEA run,” he said with mock gravity, as though announcing a holy pilgrimage. “Bowls, litter, scratching post…”

“And a throne,” Goffredo added solemnly.

They laughed as they stepped out of the flat, the air crisp and bright. Outside, the red Mini gleamed at the curb, a familiar splash of color against the pale morning. Goffredo slid behind the wheel, Aldo tossing the list onto the dashboard.

As the engine hummed to life, Aldo leaned over, kissing his cheek before settling back. “Who would’ve thought,” he said softly, looking out at the street, “plants, a cat, and IKEA. Feels like a family already.”

Goffredo’s hand found his thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze as he pulled them into traffic. “Because we are.”

And with that, the little red car carried them off, leaving behind one very small black kitten guarded faithfully by a shark, a whale, and five watchful uncles in clay pots.

The sliding doors whooshed open, and the familiar smell of wood polish and coffee hit them at once. Aldo grabbed a cart with the seriousness of a man preparing for battle.

“Cat things only,” he said, pointing a firm finger at Goffredo. “Bowls, litter, scratching post, bed. Nothing else.”

Goffredo raised both hands in mock surrender. “Sì, amore. Only cat things.”

But of course, the first showroom pulled them under.

They paused at a display couch draped with a gray throw and a stack of pillows. Aldo’s lips quirked as he leaned closer. “Do you remember?”

“How could I forget?” Goffredo smirked, brushing his hand across the fabric. “Cesare.”

Aldo laughed, remembering that trip months ago—back when Goffredo had just moved into the flat, when everything between them was still a blur of teasing and tentative touches. Goffredo had scooped Cesare the shark into the cart on a whim. Aldo had rolled his eyes back then. And yet Cesare had slept at Aldo’s side more often than not ever since.

“And my bed,” Goffredo added as they passed the bedroom sets. He trailed his fingers along the polished wood, a glint of memory in his eye. “A few months after I moved in. You supervised, remember?”

Aldo’s smile softened. “I supervised because you nearly assembled it upside down.”

“I built it with my hands.”

“I built it with my eyes,” Aldo shot back, smug.

They both chuckled, their steps slow as they wandered past more displays. The rug, the throw they’d bought last winter, the ridiculous fish pillows Goffredo had declared “essential,” the bookcases still standing proudly in the flat—each aisle was like retracing steps of their flirtation, all the way to now.

“Cat things only,” Aldo reminded him again. But by the time they reached the shelves, Goffredo had already stopped, eyes gleaming at a tall, elegant bookcase.

“Aldo. Look at her.”

Aldo groaned. “We don’t need another bookcase.”

“Every book deserves a home,” Goffredo countered solemnly.

So of course, when they reached checkout, the cart was stacked far beyond feline essentials.

Aldo had chosen a new bed, finally giving up his old one with a shrug that belied how much it meant. Together they picked out fresh covers and pillows, lingering far too long in the linens aisle, laughing as they debated colors until settling on a set they both touched at the same time.

They found mugs that matched—simple, white, with just enough elegance to feel like a pair. Goffredo slipped a turtle plush into the cart and named him Jacopo on the spot. Aldo just shook his head, but his lips betrayed him with a fond curve.

And of course, the cat haul: scratching mats, a soft little bed, litter and box, a rainbow of toys, and even a larger pot for the plant uncles—Nigel, Frank, Arturo, Fredo, and Aldino would need more room now that the family was expanding.

As they neared the registers, Aldo spotted it: a throw so rich and textured it seemed to glow. He tucked it into the cart with a satisfied hum. Goffredo, not to be outdone, tossed in a small pillow embroidered with the letter A and another with the letter G.

Aldo stared, then huffed a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And cute,” Goffredo corrected, leaning close enough that Aldo’s heart stuttered.

“Yes,” Aldo admitted, lips brushing into a smile as he kissed him there in the middle of the checkout lane. “And cute.”

They settled into the familiar spot by the wide window, trays balanced between them, rain pattering gently against the glass. The world outside blurred in silver streaks, and inside it was warm with the smell of coffee, cinnamon, and furniture polish.

Aldo leaned his chin against his hand, glasses fogged faintly from the shift in temperature, watching the drizzle. Goffredo slid into the seat across from him, already spearing a meatball from Aldo’s plate without shame.

“Some things never change,” Aldo muttered, though his voice carried more amusement than reproach.

“Some things shouldn’t,” Goffredo said around the bite, grinning as he reached for another.

But Aldo was quicker this time—fork darting across the table, snatching a bite from Goffredo’s plate. He chewed slowly, smugly, while Goffredo stared at him like he’d just committed a crime.

“You’ve grown bold,” Goffredo murmured, but there was warmth in it—pride, almost, as though he adored every new layer Aldo showed him.

Aldo only shrugged, lips twitching. “I had to adapt.”

They both laughed, leaning in across the table as though the whole café belonged to them.

The cinnamon bun sat between them, sticky and fragrant. Just like before, they tore it apart with their fingers, sharing soft bites, the sugar dusting Aldo’s lips until Goffredo leaned forward and kissed it away.

And still—the couple from before sat two tables over, eyes darting between them with undisguised delight. They had watched last time too, when Goffredo had been only flirting, leaning too close, stealing food with that glint in his eye. But now… now Aldo didn’t fluster or resist. He fed Goffredo bites from his own plate, let him steal unabashed, smiled against every kiss.

When Aldo slid the last of his coffee across the table, Goffredo finished it in one swallow, then leaned forward and kissed him pointedly. The couple giggled behind their hands, clearly giddy.

Aldo pulled back slowly, his gaze soft, steady. “You know,” he murmured, “maybe we should revisit our agreement. Change the rules.”

For a moment, Goffredo only looked at him, eyes dark and luminous, the rain reflected in them. Then he nodded, smile curling slow and certain. “As soon as we get home.”

The kiss that followed was sweeter than the cinnamon bun—slow, sure, unhurried, sealing the promise without a single word more.

The watching couple sighed, swooning openly. And Aldo, for once, didn’t care who saw.

By the time they made it back, the rain had eased into a fine mist. The flat felt warmer than usual when they stepped in—Federico mewing eagerly at the door, Cesare the shark and Giovanni the whale still loyally stationed beside the plant uncles.

Aldo crouched immediately, letting Federico crawl into his arms while Goffredo hauled the bags to the kitchen. Soon the living room was a small battlefield of cardboard and plastic, IKEA instructions scattered across the floor like paper shields.

The first order of business was Federico’s kingdom: the scratching mat unfurled, the soft little cat bed tucked neatly near the balcony, the litter box assembled and set discreetly in the bathroom. Federico prowled each item in turn, approving with a flick of his tail before pouncing back onto Aldo’s lap.

“Jacopo!” Goffredo announced dramatically, holding the turtle plush aloft before setting him proudly beside Cesare and Giovanni. “A noble cousin joins the family.”

Aldo laughed, adjusting his glasses. “The family keeps growing.”

Then came the bed. Aldo stood in the center of the room with a kind of quiet reverence as Goffredo opened the box, pulling out the frame, the headboard, the bolts. They worked side by side—Aldo holding pieces steady, Goffredo assembling with practiced hands until at last it stood, new and solid.

Aldo smoothed a palm over the fresh wood. “My bed,” he said softly. Then he looked up, gaze steady. “No—our bed.”

Goffredo arched a brow. “And mine?”

“Our bed,” Aldo repeated without hesitation, his voice firmer this time. “Always.”

Goffredo’s throat tightened, but he said nothing, only helped Aldo spread out the new covers, tucking in corners, smoothing fabric until the linens lay crisp and perfect. Two pillows side by side. Two mugs on the counter. Two names on everything that mattered.

When the flat was quiet again, Aldo pulled out the old sheet of paper—the Agreement—and spread it across the kitchen table. The inked lines of their past selves stared back at them, equal parts playful and cautious. Goffredo fetched a pen.

They spread the Agreement across the kitchen table, the paper worn soft from months of being pinned and unpinned, the ink faded in places where Aldo’s neat script had once tried to hold the line between them. Goffredo uncapped a pen, tapping it against the margin.

“Alright,” he said, mouth quirking. “Shall we begin revising our constitution?”

Aldo adjusted his glasses, lips twitching. “Only if you promise not to filibuster.”

“Amore, when have I ever—”

“Always.”

Goffredo laughed, leaning in. “Fine. Article One.” He drew a slow line through the old clause about privacy in common areas, then rewrote carefully:

New Article 1: Smoke (vape) on the balcony; kisses in the kitchen.

He slid the pen to Aldo. “Approved?”

Aldo studied the words as though weighing their gravity, then nodded once. “Approved. Though I reserve the right to kiss you on the balcony, too.”

“That’ll be a future amendment,” Goffredo murmured, and stole a kiss across the table before Aldo could scold him.

They moved on. Aldo’s turn. He crossed out another line—flirtation must be kept discreet. His pen hovered only briefly before he wrote, hand steady:

New Article 2: Flirting permitted; love encouraged.

He looked up, meeting Goffredo’s eyes with a calm boldness that was still new, still precious. “No arguments?”

“None,” Goffredo said softly, his grin tempered by the shine in his gaze. “It’s my favorite clause so far.”

They laughed together, the pen passing back again. Goffredo’s strokes were bolder this time, swift, certain as he drew through another line about “shared meals must remain respectful.” In its place, he wrote:

New Article 3: Food is shared; so is the life that comes with it.

He set the pen down, watching Aldo’s reaction.

Aldo read it once. Then twice. His throat bobbed, his glasses slipping lower down his nose as he pushed them back up with a finger. Slowly, deliberately, he signed his name at the bottom as though ratifying a treaty.

“Approved,” he said, voice low but steady.

Silence lingered for a beat, warm and full. Then Aldo reached for the pen again. Without a word, he bent over the margin, his handwriting small, careful, almost intimate:

ever mine, ever yours, ever ours.

He underlined it once, slid the pen aside, and leaned back.

Together, they pinned it to the fridge again. Not The Agreement. Not anymore. The title was neatly struck out, replaced in Aldo’s clear script with new words:

Our House Rules.

Goffredo read them once more, his chest heavy with something too big for words. Then he turned, cupped Aldo’s face in his ink-stained fingers, and kissed him right there in the kitchen—slow, sure, sealing each article not with ink but with warmth.

Federico wound between their ankles, purring as though to bless the covenant, while Cesare and Giovanni and the plant uncles stood sentinel from their corners.

And for the first time, it felt like there were no rules left to protect them—only promises to keep.

They stood there for a long while in front of the fridge, the paper fluttering slightly each time the window let in a breeze. Federico had already lost interest, chasing the corner of a cardboard box across the floor.

Goffredo slipped behind Aldo, wrapping his arms around his waist. He pressed his chin to Aldo’s shoulder, lips brushing the curve of his neck. “You know,” he murmured, voice low, “we still haven’t tested the new bed.”

Aldo rolled his eyes, though the smile betrayed him instantly. “It’s just a bed, Goffredo.”

“Mmm. A bed we built together. A bed we dressed together. A bed that’s now ours.” His mouth wandered lower, kisses trailing against warm skin until he found the hollow beneath Aldo’s jaw. He lingered there, lips pressing, teeth grazing just enough to make Aldo’s breath catch.

“Goffredo—”

“Think of it as… quality control.” He kissed again, firmer, until the first bloom of a hickey darkened under his lips. “We must be sure it lives up to expectations.”

Aldo tried for a protest, but it dissolved into a soft laugh, then a hiss when Goffredo marked another place just below his collar. His hands clutched at Goffredo’s arms, the heat curling low in his chest, the sheer inevitability of it undoing him.

“Fine,” Aldo whispered, turning just enough to capture his mouth. “But only for research purposes.”

“Of course,” Goffredo replied against his lips, grinning as he kissed him again, deeper this time, already steering him gently toward the bedroom.

The flat hummed around them—Federico’s tiny paws scrabbling across the rug, Cesare and Giovanni watching from their perch, the plant uncles silent witnesses by the balcony. And in the center of it all, Aldo let himself be led, laughing breathless, knowing full well that this test would leave its marks not just on the bed, but on him too.

The months that followed blurred into a rhythm of shared mornings and long nights, laughter folded into laundry, kisses tucked into coffee spoons, arguments ending with apologies under covers. The flat grew around them—plants on the balcony multiplying, shelves filling with books, music drifting from Goffredo’s record player until it became the soundtrack of their days.

Seasons passed. Rainy evenings curled together with Federico purring between them, sunlit mornings with windows thrown open to the sound of the city. Trips to IKEA that ended in pillow forts, dinners that ended in kisses in the kitchen, fights that ended in laughter and inked amendments to the House Rules.

One year exactly after Goffredo had moved in, the flat was alive with voices. All six of them crowded inside, glasses raised, laughter bouncing off the walls. It was a housewarming—and more. The landlord had decided to retire, selling the flat, and Aldo and Goffredo had bought it without hesitation. These walls weren’t just rented shelter anymore. They were theirs. And so, between toasts and clinking glasses, the housewarming blurred into a small, intimate wedding reception.

“Finally,” Giulio grumbled, though his eyes were suspiciously bright. He and Raymond exchanged a knowing glance—they’d had their own wedding a few years before, quieter, smaller, but no less full of joy. “Now the balance is restored.”

Mario produced his gift with a flourish: a neatly wrapped frame, tied with ribbon. Inside, cross-stitched carefully in rich thread, were the House Rules. The words—Smoke on the balcony, kisses in the kitchen; Flirting permitted, love encouraged; Food is shared, so is the life that comes with it—stood bold and proud, surrounded by little stitched leaves, hearts, and tiny caricatures of a shark, a whale, and a turtle.

“To hang in the living room,” Mario declared, cheeks flushed but eyes soft.

Aldo and Goffredo unfolded the wrapping together, and the room went still for a moment. Aldo pressed his lips tight, his throat thick, while Goffredo reached to touch the glass with reverence. “Grazie, Mario,” Aldo murmured, his hand slipping into Goffredo’s. “It’s perfect.”

Federico had a companion now—Lori, a golden retriever puppy who ran and ruled the entire flat as though he’d always belonged. The plant uncles flourished in their corner of the balcony, lush and leafy, presiding over every dinner party like benevolent chaperones. Cesare, Giovanni, and Jacopo had a new brother, an IKEA octopus named Vincenzo, who sprawled lazily over the back of the couch.

The living room was alive with evidence of their life together—Goffredo’s records and player taking pride of place, Aldo’s neat rows of books blending seamlessly with Goffredo’s more chaotic stacks, mugs that matched, pillows that didn’t, photographs in mismatched frames. A collage of chaos and order, Venetian passion and Roman steadiness, built into permanence.

Later, as the evening waned, the six of them sat together, glasses drained, laughter softening into warmth. And in the quiet lull, Aldo leaned into Goffredo’s side, his gaze sweeping across the room—the framed House Rules, the plants, the cat, the dog, the plush family, their friends, their life.

And as the laughter faded into contented silence, Goffredo’s record player crackled to life, the needle settling onto vinyl. The familiar harmony of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young filled the room, warm and unhurried:

 Our house is a very, very, very fine house
With two cats in the yard
Life used to be so hard
Now everything is easy ‘cause of you…

Aldo rested his head against Goffredo’s shoulder, Federico curled at their feet, Lori slept peacefully, and belly up on the armchair, Jacopo, Cesare, Giovanni, and Vincenzo standing sentinel nearby, and the plant uncles swaying gently in the night breeze from the balcony. Their friends’ laughter lingered like incense in the air, stitched into the walls that now belonged wholly to them.

And in that moment, framed by music, by love, by the permanence of walls and vows and the tender absurdity of their little family, it was clear: nothing had been lost, only rewritten.

Forever began here.