TWENTY-THREE
DARIO
Afull suitcase stands on its wheels at the doorway of Villa Meraviglia.
Tonight is the first night Dario sleeps somewhere other than the villa in almost a year.
He enlisted Paola’s help in packing since he has nearly forgotten what one brings on an overnight trip. He’d packed underwear but no socks, toothpaste but no toothbrush.
In the midafternoon, he and Charlie check into the panoramic suite on the top floor of a boutique hotel that’s only a stone’s throw away from the action of the blues festival. It took some major string-pulling to score this reservation, given that the whole village is booked up for the duration. Luckily, the Cotogna name carries a lot of weight when he needs it to.
The king bed in the room is crisply done up in white sheets with a romantic, cream canopy floating above. It faces a floor-to-ceiling sliding glass door. Outside, a stone terrace offers 360 degree views of the glassy lake. A hot tub already turned on bubbles nearby.
“I can’t wait to soak in that tonight,” Dario says, stopping himself from trying to spot Villa Meraviglia all the way on the other side of the lake. Home is not calling to him as hard as it usually does or, if it is, he has closed his ears off to it.
“Not your arm, though. Your tattoo is still healing for the next two to three weeks,” Charlie says. He has been slathering Dario with Aquaphor for the last twelve hours. “You have to avoid directly submerging it and keep it out of the sunlight, which I guess won’t be a problem for you given you’re always wearing your suit jacket.”
Dario shrugs, which causes his raw skin to itch. He taps the tattoo through his shirt to assuage the niggling sensation. His eyes roam over Charlie, who leans against the hot tub, gaze trained on the view. The only view Dario cares about is the bulge in the front of Charlie’s tan shorts. Tonight, he wants to take Charlie’s cock inside him. He burns for the throb of that, the ache of it. It’s the one thing that’s going to get him through overcoming his agoraphobia and attending Beau’s concert.
In town, they walk up the steep staircase to Rocca del Leone. Blues fans from all over the world are gathered, talking about the acts they have seen and drinking colorful cocktails and pale beers. Music floats on the air. Dario counts his steps instead of thinking too hard about how many people surround him.
They take dinner on the outskirts of the action, sitting at a café table as far away as possible. Over seafood and white wine, they talk of their favorite music genres. Dario doesn’t want to come across as corny or pretentious, but he is afraid he sounds it as he talks even more about opera. Unlike his mother, he can’t sing for his life, yet the arias have always lifted his spirits in a way no other song style can.
Rising from the plaza is a slow-moving, ginormous Ferris wheel. Instead of letting Charlie get lured in by the rhythmic sounds emanating from the medieval fortress where thefestival’s main stage is, Dario tugs him toward the ride. The two of them get strapped into the metal seat.
The cart hoists them back and up. They hold hands over the safety bar, and this sort of public display of affection already feels natural and helps to rewrite the romantic rejection Dario associates with this town. The simple act has Dario hardening in his slacks. Charlie Moore has reverted him back to the careless, hormonal nature of his teenage days.
“I used to be scared of heights,” Charlie relays when they hit the apex.
They can see clear into the fortress from here. Listeners are packed in tight, swarmed up toward the lip of the stage. Dinner roils in Dario’s stomach, and he wonders how he’s going to ever survive in there.
“How did you get over it?” Dario asks.
“I guess like you. Exposure therapy.” Charlie wraps an arm around Dario, obviously sensing his need for it. “There was this carnival every year in a town not too far from me. It happened at the end of the summer right around the start of school, so it was a big social thing. In the sixth grade, which was my first year of middle school, a bunch of us got driven over by someone’s parents—I don’t remember whose—and left on our own for the first time. Just up and handed some cash and a bunch of ride tickets while the adults went to drink by the petting zoo area. I was having an amazing time. We played games and ate cotton candy. Everything was going so well that I thought middle school was going to be a blast. In America, that’s basically unheard of. But then this girl, Sandra, who I’d won a stuffed animal for, suggested we go on the Ferris wheel. I froze up when we got to the front of the line. I wouldn’t hand over my ticket. I lied and said I had to use the bathroom and ran for the Porta-potties.”
“Aw, Charlie,” Dario says, understanding how embarrassing it must’ve felt back then, but still finding the story sweet.
“Nobody talked to me the whole ride home and come the first day of school, those kids didn’t even look at me when they passed me in the hall,” Charlie says. “The next year, when the carnival came around, I vowed to ride that Ferris wheel until I wasn’t scared anymore.”
“That worked?” Dario asks, amused.
Charlie nods. “I rode it for six whole loops. But I had downed two corn dogs and chili fries right before getting on. So I got so sick to my stomach that I ran off and immediately vomited into a trash can. The stomach sickness was worse than any fear over the ride ever was. From then on, heights didn’t really faze me, but I never had a corn dog again.”
“Is that a great loss?” Dario asks.
“Not if I’m getting a lifetime of Paola’s cooking,” Charlie says, wiggling his naked ring finger.
By the time they’ve swung back into the station, Dario is prepared to face the crowds.
They scan their tickets, pass through security and enter the festival. The boisterousness spooks Dario back a step. But only a step. One foot after another, he acknowledges his fear and confronts it anyway.
Music has the power to transport the listener, so Dario lets his ears take him on a journey while his body copes with the unwarranted stress.
As two bodies in a sweaty mass of them under the setting Umbrian sun, Dario and Charlie move together at the periphery of the crowd. Dario stands in front, Charlie right behind. Charlie’s hands wrap around Dario’s middle with a protective air. His embrace chases away intrusive thoughts. The sensual sway of their bodies to the unexpected rhythms becomes hypnotic.
Dario Cotogna never gets to be just a face in the crowd, so he relishes this time together away from duties or title. Each anxious thought that hitchhikes beside the highways of his mind, he acknowledges and then drives right past. He is transcendental as fuck as he leans back into this tall, solid man who smells of sweat and tropical sunscreen and optimism.
The sun gives way to the moon, and they’re still locked into the music. They grab alcoholic drinks and locate chairs to rest their tired feet before the headliner.
