Nash shook his head, trying to convey to the dancer that he simply would not be doing that.
“You’re in Italy! Dance with your lover,” he goaded, clearly after a few more glasses of wine than Nash and Rory had consumed.
“Alright, bud, let’s do it,” Rory said, getting up and pulling Nash with him. He had thiswell, what are you gonna do?look on his face, like they had no choice.
Rory looped his arms around Nash’s neck, middle school–style, and Nash found Rory’s waist, doing his best not to pull him in any closer than necessary. They swayed, not yet knowing how to dance with each other, as the guitar player carried on. To one side of them, one of the couples was kissing. Several of the remaining diners, who had not been successfully convinced to join the first couple on the dance floor, were watching on.
“What do you say we bury the hatchet?” Rory asked, addressing the awkwardness they’d let hang between them for days. “We’re going to have more times in our lives where we need to be normal to each other. Sam isn’t going to stop being my brother, or your business partner. Let’s just…let bygones…something. What is the phrase?”
“Be bygones,” Nash supplied, studying Rory closely. If Rory didn’t want things to be awkward between the two of them, he shouldn’t have slipped out of Nash’s hotel room while he was asleep. But maybe it was for the best. He was right. They wouldalways have Sam in common. They had a job to do now, and in the future, maybe they’d need Rory’s help again. It was a business decision.
“I was sure that phrase ended with something cooler. Regardless, let’s be…friends.”
“Friends,” Nash agreed. Rory’s smile was bright, happy like he’d won something. He tightened his arms around Nash’s neck, and Nash realized how close they were standing. Rory tipped his forehead against Nash’s. Nash barely had to look up to meet his eyes. Rory had the kind of body type that prompted people to ask him if he played basketball (he did not, too uncoordinated). People assumed that Nash must have played football with Sam, but he’d never been a sports guy. The closest he got to sports was photographing an athlete’s wedding.
Rory had decided the tension between them was over, and then it just…was. It felt like Sam’s wedding, when Nash and Rory had spent so much time together, and he’d finally let Rory get under his skin after years of being acquaintances. Rory had a lightness to him that Nash had never been able to access in himself. Nash was rigid layers of armor, while Rory was cotton candy.
That damn smile was contagious, and against his will, Nash found himself moving to the music with more intention than just a sway back and forth. He let Rory lead, even though it was clear he didn’t know what he was doing. They floated on the makeshift dance floor, soft grass under the soles of their shoes, until Nash was so beat he was afraid he might not wake up the next morning.
“We have a long day tomorrow,” Nash said, sad to see Rory’s smile dim at the idea of their night ending.
“Yeah, we do.”
Nash tried to pay for their dinner, but was informed it was part of their stay, paid for by the bride and groom.
The grounds weren’t difficult to traverse during the day, but in the dark they both struggled. Nash’s arm shot up more than once to steady Rory when his giraffe legs did something unpredictable over the uneven cobblestones. Finally, Nash’s hand found a spot between Rory’s shoulder blades and stayed there.
“It’s fucking cold in here,” Rory complained, two seconds after getting in bed. It was no use looking at what time it was. The numbers wouldn’t make sense to Nash’s jet-lagged brain. He knew he was tired now, and he’d be tired when he woke up. He set four alarms. “Was it this fucking cold last night?”
The chatter of Rory’s teeth filled the room, and Nash imagined an entire night of trying to sleep while Rory’s teeth clacked away. That had to be an exaggeration, right? Whose teeth honest-to-Godchattered? Nash had no idea how it could be so cold in the almost-summer. He assumed it was something about the building being made out of stone, or the fact that when the sun set, a chill descended.
“It was pretty cold last night,” Nash said, remembering the decision to keep his socks on. He usually slept naked back home, but next to Rory in a strange country meant he was fully clothed beneath the sheets. “I think we were too tired to give a fuck.”
“I give a fuck now.” Nash knew he was in a good mood because Rory’s petulance was cute to him, and not something that made him want to knock Rory’s teeth out. Maybe the hatchet really had been buried.
“I can go get more blankets,” Nash volunteered, though the idea of getting out of bed now that he was in it was as miserable as a transatlantic flight.
Rory grumbled, fucking with the blanket that covered the two of them enough to let a pocket of cold air in. Goose bumps covered Nash’s arms.
“Just—fuck it,” Nash said, reaching out to grab one of Rory’s flailing arms and pulling his body close. After Rory let out a surprised squawk, Nash’s shivering body relaxed. Nash was big-spooning him, and though he had promised himself that there would be no circumstances where he would end up pressing his entire body against Rory’s, he had to admit that the body heat was welcome.
Rory fiddled with the blanket a bit more, squirming in Nash’s arms before he finally settled. The pain he woke up with that morning was a distant memory.
“Okay, this is working,” Rory admitted into the quiet dark of their room. It was working for Nash, too. He pressed the tip of his cold nose to the back of Rory’s neck to make him laugh one more time, before they were pulled into sleep.
