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The Venice nights are stifling, the air so thick it feels as though one can reach out and collect water in his palm. It causes Charles’ hair to stick to his forehead in awkward clumps. Sitting across from him, Sebastian reaches out to brush them to the side, and Charles unconsciously leans into the touch.
The wine is iced, giving them some comfort in the impossible heat. It would perhaps be better if they were inside, as the beauty of the night sky does not make up for the lack of breeze. But there is a different sort of comfort to be found in the shadows.
Charles takes a clumsy drink, wine spilling from the corner of his mouth. Quick as a cat, Sebastian leans in to lick it away, his path leading him to Charles’ mouth. The kiss is heavy with the flavors of wine and tobacco, and something else—a sense of need, of release. Sebastian runs his hands through his damp hair, and as they drunkenly fumble at each other everything—the heat, the press of the city—seems to fall away, into the privacy lent by darkness.