“Oh. Well”—he brushes his fingers across his face again, trying to push his hair back—“I can’t imagine the bed head and drool are doing me any favors.”
“Says the man who looks stunning on a daily basis.” I scoff, sliding my hand up his spine and back down again, loving how soft his skin is. “The bed head is doingmea favor—proof you’re human and not a hallucination.”
Yawning, he arches his back and shuffles close enough to kiss my chin before sitting up. The blanket slides down his chest, pooling at his waist in a spill of white. Rolling onto my back, I flatten my hand on his lower back and stroke up as far as I can reach, unwilling to lose all skin-to-skin contact just yet. He peeks over one pale shoulder.
“Vatican City today?” he asks.
“Vatican City half the day,” I counter. “Second half of the day, hotel room?”
Laughing, he spins around and plants a hard kiss on my mouth. I let out a startledumph, before putting a hand on the back of his head and enjoying myself. I coax him down until he’s lying on top of me, free hand traveling down to cup his ass.
“Vatican,” he says, words caught between a gasp and a laugh when I lick behind his earlobe. “We have to get…we need to get ready!”
He playfully bites my shoulder. Groaning, I let him go and turn my head to the side to watch him stroll naked to the bathroom. Stretching my limbs out, I rotate my feet, which are dangling off the end of the bed. I’ll wait for Niilo to finish in the bathroom, brush my teeth, comb my hair, and call it a day. Propping myself up on our pillows, I rest my hands on my abdomen and enjoy watching Niilo go through the motions of his morning routine.
“Probably don’t need to get dressed quite yet, right?” I comment mildly, when he reaches for his bag. Mouth pinched in humor, his eyes flick to mine, knowing and fond. I give him what I hope is a convincing smile.
“Silly man,” he notes, but doesn’t get dressed until minutes before we’re walking out the door.
CHAPTER 8
Niilo
Roman’s jawdropped when he saw the exterior of St. Peter’s Basilica, and has yet to fully climb back into neutral position. He keeps mutely shaking his head, and giving me a grin that sayswow, are you seeing this?I grin back, because it is rather hard to believe that places like this exist in the world.
“I can’t wait to visit the Sistine Chapel,” he says as we join the throngs of people heading inside the Vatican Museum. I’m wearing a full-sized shirt today, not looking to be banned from entering by showing off my navel. Roman looks particularly delicious in the same dark-wash jeans he wore the first time we had dinner, and a black T-shirt.
“It’s…well, indescribable, really. Are you familiar withThe School of Athens?”
“The painting?” he asks, putting his hand gently on my upper back and angling his body to block anyone from cutting us off as we walk inside.
“Mm. By Raphael. It’s my favorite.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” he enthuses, looking positively ecstatic about the prospect.
The Gallery of Maps ends up being a surprise favorite, so we linger there as Roman does his best to inspect every inch. We argue good-naturedly about our preferences, and crane our necks looking at the ceiling, because every inch of the Vatican is its own work of art. The Raphael Rooms are a less surprising favorite, and Roman is suitably enamored withThe School of Athens. I have no good reason for it being my favorite, other than the amorphous and unknowable longing I feel when I look at it. We stand and gaze at the piece, tourists walking through the room with barely a pause, parting around us like a river.
“Raphael painted himself in,” I whisper, feeling the need to maintain the sanctity of the room. As it did the first time I saw it, the art makes me feel as though it deserves my respect.
“Where?” Roman replies, voice equally as low, as though he’s picking up on the same energy I am.
I point out Raphael’s narrow face, next to Ptolemy, and Roman shakes his head in awe.
“Painted himself right in there with Plato and Aristotle,” he comments, sounding reverential. “Bold move.”
“Isn’t it grand?” I agree, feeling proud of the long-dead painter.Good for you, I think, gazing up at his face, frozen in time and forever celebrated. I slide my hand into Roman’s and give him a little tug. “Come on.”
The Sistine Chapel is perfectly quiet as we enter, per the observed silence of the room. Roman’s soft gasp feels loud in the cavernous space, but only because he’s so close to me and the room so still. We stand, shoulder to shoulder, fingers brushing but no longer holding hands, and gaze at what might be the most impressive work of art ever created.
I’m not Catholic, or particularly religious in any sense, but the frescoes transcend even that. Tears prick my eyes as I tip myhead back, and look at the famous ceiling for the second time in my life. The room feels heavy with awe and something akin to melancholy. Fifty-one decades separate us from Michealangelo, but it feels as though you might see him—standing on his scaffolding, neck craned as he paints the ceiling—if one were to simply squint hard enough.
“Well,” Roman says, the moment we exit. He doesn’t continue, apparently at a loss for words, but rubs his chest as though feeling an ache. I wait for that hand to drop before reaching for it. I understand the sentiment. It’s hard to describe the magnificence of that room; hard to imagine it when you’ve only visited through photographs or the television.
“I know,” I agree, and he sends me a grateful smile.
“I wish you could take pictures, but at the same time…” He pauses, taking a deep inhale and shaking his head. “Sometimes it’s nice to just stand there, you know? To justbe.”
I beam at him. “Yes, exactly. Flash photography is dangerous to art, so while I understand the practical reason to ban it…I wonder if it’s not, at least partly, to maintain the sanctity of that room.”
