Chapter Text
Pennyrile
Rome, Lazio, Italy
June 3, 1944
They were in William’s bed. There was nothing between their bodies anymore. No clothes, no separation. Not anymore. They were entwined, joined in primal and intimate way that Red couldn’t have known he needed until it happened. Red felt his heart beat in time with William’s, as they shared the very life-force that animated them. It at once felt like it took so long and not long enough, time and space being both irrelevant and all that remained.
All that remained apart from their bodies, together.
Just as Red had imagined, had hoped—familiar and terrifying and intimidating and comforting and so, so perfect.
They weren’t in the bed.
They were together in an alcove Altare della Patria. People were around—the vanishingly small number who cared to be there in these small hours of the morning. The darkness or the corner or their stealth concealed them from those passers-by. The lack of solitude made the acts all the more alluring for the fear of being seen, though they both seemed to know that hidden in this safe place, it was impossible.
They drank each other in.
No: they’d spent the evening on Gianicolo Hill.
The short hike afforded them total privacy and solitude—their groans and cries could be heard only by the star-lit sky as they joined together, and separated. After they’d lain together, they rested on the grass, watching the wine dark sky grow a pale grey in the east, a pale grey soon pierced by the blazing amber rays of the sun, bathing Rome in a glorious golden glow.
It was beautiful.
Red woke up.
He glanced at the clock in his room. Noon.
He yawned.
He looked at the book on his bedside table—A Farewell to Arms, on loan from William—but he couldn’t think of anything less exciting than picking it up again.
He wondered what the kitchen was serving for lunch today.
Red had long since gotten over the discomfort of those dreams: now the attraction had been acknowledged, accepted, nurtured—now he and William were together—he’d started to enjoy them. He had been so worried William would hate him for having them.
Now they were…
…a possibility…
…and he’d started to wonder if the reality would be as good.
He liked the way he felt in his dreams. He was not nervous and insecure and unable to speak, unable to put voice to those feelings, wishing that William would try and press on again, so Red didn’t need to say anything but let his wordless desire speak for him.
As though it hadn’t already.
He thought again, about those dreams, the feelings they awoke in him. He knew he wanted to ask for… more, to put this new longing into words, to face the nerves and the fear that the nerves had formed from.
Maybe he’d do it tonight.
