‘Alright, I stand corrected.’ George brings Charles even closer. ‘This is the you I’ve missed greatly.’
Charles takes the longest breath in and lets it rest in his lungs while he soaks everything up.
The touch of his unfailing adopted brothers. The sound of laughter and blossoming relationships. The smell of a cocktail Patty wouldn’t have made for anyone else. The sight of a drunk and effusive Loris. And the taste of the future he’s ready to leap at.
He doesn’t record the moment in fear it will never occur again. He simply bookmarks it, in case he ever wonders how to describe home.
Another two months later
‘Are you alright?’
Charles blinks and averts his misty gaze from the computer screen to find Enrica Bianchi’s maternal look.
Five minutes ago, she gave him the spot at her desk and sat in the opposite corner of her study with a book and her phone.
‘You seem a bit stunned.’
Enrica’s English is flawless, but her Italian accent is thick, and she struggled with Charles’ London one when he expressed his excitement at full gallop upon entering her home. Since, they’ve settled for an unhurried flow that contributes to the museum vibe and timeless feel of her villa.
‘I am. Loris makes such a little deal of the email he sent you. I wasn’t expecting that. Thank you for showing me.’
‘But if he asks, I didn’t, remember?’
Charles turns an imaginary key in front of his lips. ‘I’ll go back toKaunasbefore he wonders what’s up.’
‘I will grab some appetisers and join you for a chat about Olwinski.’
‘Perfect.’
He thanks her once again and leaves the door open behind him, as he found it on his way back from the bathroom.
The decor of the study stopped him, a sign from Enrica beckoned him in, and her mention of Loris’ email drove him to pierce the mystery around it.
How many times will Charles’ mind blow before it malfunctions for good? He doesn’t trust Loris to be done plot-twisting him. Next, he will likely serenade him like the reincarnation of Pavarotti.
Charles turns into a sun-kissed hallway and smiles uncontrollably. Loris is waiting in the doorway to the salon whereKaunasis hung, his arms crossed over his skin-tight t-shirt.
‘Did you go on a full tour without me?’
‘No.’
Charles won’t lie but won’t explain, which is nonessential anyway, because Loris’ suspicious brow disappears as soon as Charles tangles his fingers into his hair. It’s grown longer, and lighter from days of coaching outdoors.
Loris is unfairly tanned and mesmerisingly fit. As magical as their afternoon is, Charles is itching for some privacy. Making out in the toilets of Florence airport, where they reunited earlier, only increased his longing.
‘What was that for?’ Loris asks when Charles breaks the insistent kiss he went for on impulse.
‘I don’t need a reason after three hundred years.’
It was only three weeks ago that Loris came back to London, for theopening of the exhibition at the Camden Art Centre, but they felt like centuries to Charles.
Thankfully, it was the last but one period they had to spend apart.
The rugby summer camp is over, and Charles has completed his contract with the firm. After four days in Tuscany, they will separate again for a fortnight of holidays with their respective friends. Then they will prepare together, in Andrésy and in Hampstead, to leave everything and everyone behind.
‘We should reconsider the Rome plan,’ Charles says, inhaling the fragrance of Loris’ neck. ‘Live here instead.’
‘In 2020, maybe. We’ve agreed to work at the guesthouse. And this offer from my step-dad’s friends is the only reason you can get a permit.’
