“What is it?”
“The Lanterna, the big lighthouse?”
“I’m game if you are.”
Noah was game, but it turned out Ramin’s definition of “a bit of a walk” was different than Noah’s. He was properly sweating by the time they reached the wooden path up to the Lanterna. His underarms were wet, and he was terrified the ballpoint ink on his forearm would stain his shirt. Or worse, transfer right through, and then everyone would see his notes about blowjobs.
His singlet wasn’t particularly breathable, either. It had been made for looks, not for moisture wicking, so now his sweat was mixing with the remnants of Ramin’s saliva, and he just felt sticky and gross.
Ramin was sweating, too, the exertion making his skin glow a rosy tan-pink. Noah could smell the sun on his skin, and it was getting harder and harder not to drag him into a dark corner and lick him all over.
To his surprise—and utter delight—Ramin had reached over and taken his hand partway through the walk. Noah wasn’t sure what had his heart hammering more: the uphill climb or the feel of Ramin’s hand in his.
They drew closer and closer, the white and red tower growing ever larger, jutting out over the harbor. The path wound higher, past a security booth, switching back a few times, up a cobbled path and onto thepromontory. It took them through a small (unimpressive, if Noah was being honest) park, a little museum about the history of the Lanterna (more impressive, and Noah was entranced by a display of how Fresnel lenses worked—Jake would’ve loved it), then up to the huge ivory-colored lighthouse itself.
Noah craned his neck to look up, up, up toward the top, where the little viewing deck that was their goal lay.
“There’re a lot of stairs,” Ramin warned.
“I’m good.”
Noahthoughthe was good, but there werea lota lot of stairs. One hundred and seventy-two, the sign said.
Their day had been pretty easy so far—no Death March of Fun—but these stairs might give Angela’s travel planning a run for its money.
Noah was in good shape. Great shape, even. He was at the top of his age bracket in his CrossFit classes. He could still run an under-seven-minute mile. He could bench press nearly a hundred pounds. But these stairs might actually be the death of him. His right knee gave an awkwardcrackleas they passed another cramped landing.
“Oof,” Noah muttered, more from surprise than discomfort.
“You okay?” Ramin paused, concern written across his face.
“I’m fine. Don’t you have any spots that justsnap-crackle-popthese days? Once I hit thirty-seven I started finding them everywhere.” He sighed, rubbing at his knee. “I can squat four hundred pounds, but apparently I can’t handle a hundred stairs.”
“Wait, really?”
“I mean, yeah.” His personal best was 450, but that had been back in his late twenties.
“No wonder you have such a nice butt.”
“Not as nice as yours.” The one redeeming part of this climb had been the view of Ramin’s behind in those pink shorts of his.
Noah was obsessed.
He wanted to knead it. Kiss it. Worship it. Celebrate Ramin’s whole body the way he deserved. He wanted Ramin to feel precious andbeautiful and wanted, because he was all of those things, and Noah needed him to know it.
Ramin was blushing, but he cracked a grin. “My eyes are up here, buddy.”
Noah giggled—which made Ramin laugh—and followed.
He’d read once that the more positive you were about aging, the better you aged, and Noah had taken that to heart. In fact, he was looking forward to being an eccentric grandfather (or even great-grandfather), like a cross between Nonno and a mad scientist.
Still, the last couple years, he’d definitely felt his body changing. He spent more time with sore muscles after a heavy lifting day. The younger members at his gym had started finishing their WODs before him, when he used to be one of the first ones done. Before he’d gotten on the plane to Italy, he’d even plucked a gray eyebrow hair.
But he was wiser now, too. More content.
He had a life. He had Jake.
He had—or at least hoped he had—Ramin.
