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Light & Water Ch. 01

By: original_cinnamon



"Nothing is simpler than to lose oneself in Venice; and nothing is more fun than to be in this labyrinth without a Minotaur, as a Theseus without an Ariadne's thread."

Jean-Louis Vaudoyer

Venice is sinking, so they say. The same They that mutter darkly about climate change and super volcanoes, but are reticent on the whole subject of exactly what We should do about it (it being Our responsibility, not Theirs). It was something Dan thought about as he looked out of the hotel window, across the terracotta-tinted wedding cake rooftops that led down to San Marco, and the vaulted beauty of the Palazzo Ducale in the dusk. 

There were the canals, of course. You couldn't escape them, because they changed the very light of the city – made it ethereal and set it apart from all other places. When night came, and the lanterns lit up in the gondolas (more halogen lamps now, not as romantic as the old-fashioned ones, but more safety conscious), it was as if the boundaries of space, time and culture, life and death, were crossed. The Grand Canal was full not of gondolas, but of paper boats carrying candles and flowers to long dead ancestors, and the people belonged anywhere and nowhere. Venice was itself, and another place, because water is always the gateway to distant worlds. 

No, you couldn't escape the canals in Venice and, if you had a soul, you wouldn't want to. 

When Dan had mentioned his holiday plans to friends at work, they'd all cooed over the canals. Everyone seemed to know someone who'd honeymooned in Venice, or at least had a dirty weekend. It was something demanded by the precepts of literature. Keith Waterhouse to Thomas Mann, everyone had something to say. Chiefly, it was 'Ah, Venice… ' 

No wonder the damn place had a Bridge of Sighs. 

Even Alan – cold-blooded, cynical Alan, who claimed he'd sucked the nectar from life by his thirtieth birthday and was bored even then – even he had closed his eyes, exhaled a stream of passionate air through his nostrils and said, 'Magnifico!' 

Over a Prêt baguette and a cappuccino, he told Dan he was jealous. 

'You'll adore it. All the artists do. It's like a big Wendy house of a city, covered in filigree and rubbed with gilding paint, just for all the creative types to play in.'

Dan had sniggered good-naturedly. He was more an illustrator than an artist, he commented, but Alan waved the fact away. 

'Shut up, I'm rapturing. Anyway, who knows? You might even find a strapping olive-skinned gondolier to — ' Another vague, swishy hand wave. ' — punt your canoe.'

'I don't think so.'

Trepidation earned Dan one of Alan's speciality sneers. Years of English public school education, naturally plummy vowels and a secret ambition to be Quentin Crisp had honed them to a vicious perfection. 

'Well, you can't spend the rest of your life moping, Dan. And holidays are supposed to be for dirty, nasty little flings. Why do think I go to Blackpool every year?'

It was something Dan didn't want to dwell on. Not here, and not now, looking out at the dying light over the Palazzo, shimmering in reds, oranges and purples. He watched the sunset until its conclusion, until the last stains left the sky to be overcome by the lights from buildings and, beyond the Square, boats. It was beautiful, if you accepted the smell. 

You didn't see that in images, and Dan supposed that that was part of the joy. What he did – the inspiration he would draw from this place – it was all pages in glossy magazines, selling a dream of high living and romantic beauty to an eager public. His pictures, Alan's words… or those of his other colleagues. 

Dan let the thick, beige curtain fall over the city, and turned back to the quiet, neutral space of his room. The Antigo Trovatore was a comfortable hotel, not too pricey, not too cheap, central and with good service. Taking advantage of all the deals of the season, Dan had been able to book two weeks. He looked at his single suitcase, sitting bleakly on the dressing table. It would have been nice if it wasn't a twin room, but he'd had to take what he could get. 

Still, there were ensuite facilities and, after a hot shower in the clean, white bathroom, Dan reluctantly gave into jet lag and decided to hit the hay. It was barely nine thirty, local time, and after experimenting with various positions (left bed, right bed, pushed together, pulled apart), he settled in the bed nearest the window, wrapped in a towel and leafing through the movie guide. 

It seemed a little odd to be alone in Venice, perhaps because he'd never been. Dan felt briefly that he was fighting convention, taking a stand against society in declaring his independence. He sure as hell wasn't going to wish that Paul was there. 

Six months had passed, somehow, since they split up. It felt like nothing; the blink of an eye, probably fighting back tears. Not a happy time, but then the two years that preceded it hadn't been so great. 

If Dan found himself thinking of when they first met, at a gallery show in Shepherd's Bush, drinking cheap champagne and being polite about the pictures; if he found himself thinking of the witty, attractive man who had shared his taste in art and then shared the taste of his kisses in the car park, he got angry. It wasn't, and had never been, enough. 

He had never thought Paul was perfect. No, Mr. Average Height, Mousy Blond and Passable wasn't dramatic in his appeal. It was his way of putting you at ease that hit the target. 

He remembered their first night together, after a couple of what could loosely be termed dates and a general pretence at romance. Paul's lips on his, breaths whispering between them, fingers stumbling over buttons and zippers… he was gentle, kind, passionate. 

It took a few months for Dan to notice the undercurrent. At first, Paul started to take longer over penetration, insisted on topping more often. 

'I just want to be in you,' he'd say, gazing seriously at Dan, dishevelled and magnetically naughty. 'You have such a great arse. No-one's ever pumped my cock like you.' 

Sex would be harder, rougher. Words like 'whore' and 'cum-slut' would sneak in, leaking from Paul's mouth as he fucked, dribbling down to Dan's ear as he leaned over him, ramming his cock home. 

At first, it was fairly subtle, and so it was new and exciting. By the end of their first year together, Dan was mistaking control for safety, and not going out so much. He agreed to indulge one of Paul's fantasies, and play with some handcuffs. 

In the morning, when his wrists were scuffed and his backside torn, he knew it was time to do something about it. Paul, naturally, was mortified. He wept, so distressed that Dan hadn't been happy with things, and swore that they could work it out. 

They went, as a couple, to a Christmas party in Lancaster Gate, kissed under the mistletoe, and left as the image of happy, stable lovers. 

At home, Dan initiated sex for the first time in weeks, and ended up with a rutting bronco behind him, grinding his face into the pillows. 

He left four days after Paul hit him. It was during an argument – he'd suggested that there were other ways to have fun than just lubing up and sticking it in, and been rewarded with a full facial. 

'Ah! D'you like that, you fucker?' 

Paul obviously wasn't expecting 'No.'

They fought, rather than just disagreed. Books and papers were flung off surfaces, the plastic phone and a bedside lamp were smashed, and then Paul swung a backhander, catching Dan on the cheekbone. A small gash opened up, half-dry spunk flew into the air, and somewhere amid the pain, humiliation and betrayal, Dan seemed to watch himself punch Paul on the nose. 

As if he was viewing the scene from above, like a hospital operation, he watched the two naked bodies brawl, heard himself screaming obscenities, and then saw the fist come flying. He would, if he could, have shouted out and warned himself, because he was so busy letting out the months of frustration in a succession of four-letter words that it was unlikely he could duck to avoid it… but it was too late.

He arrived at work on Monday morning, a single man with a black eye and a puffy, purple cheek, but with a seed of self-respect germinating. He didn't press charges, in the long run. Didn't even report it, despite the exhortations of everyone who saw the damage. There didn't seem to be much point. 

Besides, as Dan put the movie guide down, crawled under the covers and switched out the light, it was Paul's face that hovered behind his eyes, and Paul's body that he stretched out his arms for, twisting and frowning in his sleep. 

***

In the morning, Dan took breakfast on the balcony and, after half an hour of gazing at the Piazza San Marco and the Palazzo, decided to be a proper tourist and walk down there. It wasn't far from the hotel, so he had a quick shower, dressed in jeans and a shirt, threw on his trusty leather blazer, popped a stick of gum, and went downstairs. 

The concierge assured him that the Piazza was an excellent choice for the visitor, explaining in great, effusive detail the story of how a sixteenth century Venetian ambassador to Istanbul had brought the kahavè bean back from his travels to roast, grind and serve as an exotic stimulant beverage. 

In no time, a cloak of cafés had sprung up around San Marco, and the concierge particularly recommended the Café Quadri, if Sir could get a table. 

'It was open in 1775, signor, so they have plenty of time to get the coffee right, si?'

Dan smiled, thanked him, and said he would look out for it. Before he could get away, the young man was telling him how the legendary Giacomo Casanova had frequented the cafés of San Marco and – with a pointed look at one of the maids, running her trolley through from the ground floor rooms – reminded him what a romantic city Venezia was. 

Dan gave him another tip just to shut him up. 

He felt better about his dreams out in the cool, crisp air. He had been right, it was the quality of light. Like the reflections of blue tiles in a swimming pool, or leaves above a woodland creek, it made the whole place shimmer slightly. Of course, it could just have been the sense of expectation that thousands of tourists invested in the place. 

Still, Venice in mid-October was quieter than in much of the year, and Dan was even able to get a seat in the famous Quadri Coffee Rooms. He slotted himself in between the rather oppressive mirrored walls and overwhelming panelwork, probably very little like the original eighteenth century designs, and studied his fellow tourists over his espresso. 

There were fat, brightly clothed American women – not the loud shrews of stereotype, but another generation. They clung to their girlfriends' elbows, shared the same colour of bright red lipstick, and were proud to know the history of a place they were bold enough to visit. 

Japanese students, sans cameras, sat in small groups, with dyed blonde forelocks and high IQs, giggling over the Casanova part of the history. 

There were even some Venetians in the building – couples meeting for a coffee, or an early lunch in the ristorante upstairs – even one or two people who lived near San Marco and just enjoyed Quadri, sitting, unfolding their copies of L'Arena or Il Gazzettino, and trying to carve a small window of peace amid the bustle. 

Dan noticed the man as he stood, looking for a table in the encroaching scrum, and assumed he was one of the latter faction. He was tallish, dressed in a pale, crumpled suit with a light shirt open at the neck, showing a tight arrow of flesh pricked with dark hair. Automatically, and embarrassingly, Dan caught himself eyeing up what might lay beneath the wrinkled fabric of those trousers. He looked away (they were too baggy to tell properly, anyway), and decided not to peek again. The resolution didn't last and, as he tried to surreptitiously scan the dark, hooded eyes, open forehead and large, mobile mouth, he was caught out, and the man began to approach. 

Silently, Dan cursed. He hadn't intended any invitation to share his table but, obviously, there were worse candidates than attractive Italian men. He smiled, earning a white-toothed grin from the stranger. 

'Ah, grazie. It's not usually so busy in here.' He looked around him, placing a paperback book and a tall cappuccino, crested with what could almost be shaving foam (none of that wussy Starbucks froth here!), on the table. 

There was a vague scent of cloves and citrus about him. Dan quietly noted all the features of his hands, movement and expression and intoned inwardly, with the utmost solemnity, 'Phwoar'. 

'You're a resident?' he asked, wracking his brain for a way not to say 'do you come here often?'. 

The Italian sat down, giving Dan another gracious, warm smile. He looked young, although his hair was starting to recede slightly. His skin was lightly tanned, a cool olive complexion with a shadow of dark stubble playing around his jaw, less obvious in the light. Dan guessed he wasn't much older than thirty.

'No, on holiday. I'm from Modena. Mi chiave Cesare… ciao.'

'Dan… Daniel.' 

Dan tried to ignore the thrill of contact as they shook hands across the table, but a certain kind of electricity pulsed in Cesare's warm, firm hand. Unbidden lines of prose sprang into his head:

This grasp was as soft as a child's, as expert as a whore's, as strong as a fencer's.

The Italian gave a slight backward tilt of the head, regarding him with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes. 

'Inglese, si?' 

Dan nodded. 'Si.' 

'First time in Venezia?'

'Mm-hm. Only got in last night, so this is my first full day.'

'Ah, I come three times before. Once, when I was a boy, with my family. Two, when I was a teenager, with my friends, three, last year and now I am back again. It's a beautiful city.'

Dan listened to the sound of his voice; low yet not that deep, like a light tenor. Although his Italian wasn't good enough to judge regional accents, he loved the way words sounded when they came from Cesare. 

'It is,' he agreed. 'Water and light.'

'Prego?'

'The canals, the way they reflect the light… it's like the whole city shimmers.' 

Cesare smiled again, and Dan reminded himself what he was not here for. 

'Ma guarda! Il poeta!' Cesare seemed delighted with the description. 'That is very true. You are a poet, a writer?'

'No, no. No, I do pictures… photos and artwork and things, for a magazine. And other things. Freelance work, generally.'

'Really? An artist.' He raised his eyebrows. 'I am impressed. I am a schoolteacher, which I don't think is an art.'

Dan grinned over his hot, dark coffee. 

'Oh, I don't know. If it isn't, it should be. What age kids do you teach?'

'I teach scuola elementare, so they start at six, and I have them in my clutches for five years – not always the same class, but, si, that age. Diavolini, sometimes, but why else do you do things, if it is not for the children?'

He held up his hands in a characteristically Italian gesture that made Dan want to chuckle. He didn't, not wanting to seem rude, but Cesare's enthusiasm was contagious. 

He had wonderful hands, though. 

Long fingers with large, smooth joints, big square palms and neatly trimmed nails. No wedding band, Dan noticed, inwardly reprimanding himself for doing so. A holiday screw like that had as much class as going on a cookery course and fucking the chef. Especially when he'd told himself he wasn't here for that. Looking, no touching. 

Of course – and Dan was not a great believer in games of chance – if Cesare happened to be interested, which he almost certainly wasn't… but if he did, it might be a different matter. 

Dan took another sip of coffee. Turkish courage. It was cooling rapidly, but still tasted good; an excellent blend, just the right side of bitter, with depth, darkness and complexity. He was going to have to know. He cleared his throat. 

'So, do you have kids yourself?'

Cesare licked cappuccino foam off his upper lip in a movement that made Dan's cock twitch. The reaction was unexpected, and he drowned it in coffee. 

'No, no children. No wife. A bachelor with — ' He looked Dan straight in the eyes. ' — nobody special in my life. It's very sad. I am even alone on holiday.'

Amid the dramatic architecture and noise of city life, a choir of angels sprang out of the ceiling and began to bellow Handel, banging incongruous tambourines and shouting 'Yee-haw'. Dan ignored them. 

'I see,' he said, carefully, and licked his lips. 'Me too.'

Cesare raised his cup to his lips, his eyes never leaving Dan's. I know you, they seemed to say. I have found you.

'I don't think it is good to be alone, Daniel. Not with so much beauty to see.'

Dan swallowed. The angels had retreated, and were replaced with a succession of small, niggling creatures with eight legs, high-pitched voices and bad attitudes. Dan called them 'whattifs'. 

Still, some of the things they whispered about were tempting, as well as scary. 

'Maybe.'

Cesare smiled again. 'So, as it is your first time in Venezia, perhaps I can show you some of the best places to see, if you like?'

Dan felt his pulse quicken, and his jeans grow tighter. 

'Would you?'

'My pleasure – you will find many guides in the city, but I think they are little caro… expensive, for what you get. I read poco, I know a little about the history. See the bell tower di San Marco, over there?'

Dan craned in his seat, following the line Cesare pointed with his spoon. 

'Mm-hm.'

'El paron de casa, they call it. The Lord of the House. You know, each of the five bells has a name.'

'Yeah?'

'Si.' 

Cesare was looking pleased with himself. Dan wondered if he made a habit of seducing tourists, and pushed the thought to the back of his mind. It was sightseeing, not seduction. So far. 

'If you are finished, your coffee — ' The Italian glanced at his watch, a flash of chrome in the thin sunlight. ' — there will be a tour starting soon, I think. We could walk around the outside, see the rest of San Marco, while it is quieter.'

Dan looked over at the throngs of people feeding pigeons, taking photographs and staring up at the long windows of buildings, pressing down on them with centuries' weight. 

'Good idea,' he said. 

As they rose from the table, Cesare paused to pick up his book, brushing against Dan's arm. His scent, in closer proximity, was delicious. 

'Pratolini?' Dan glanced at the title and author. 

'You read Italiano?'

'No, not that well.' They were leaving the café, heading out across the square, through the throngs of people, but their pace was leisurely. Nothing on earth could hurry this. 'But I read a short story of his – in translation. Very good.'

Cesare laughed, a rippling, smooth sound. 

'You read nothing until you read Italian novels in Italian. It's not so rich a language as English, maybe… but it's more beautiful. We have passion in our words, a little Mediterranean fire.' 

Dan felt himself walk closer to Cesare; his excuse was the press of people, but his motive wasn't. Hundreds of pigeons rose from the square, their wings beating in perfect time.

***

They spent the better part of the day together, exploring unspeaking each other's thoughts and desires. The flirting continued beneath the bell tower, in front of the old façade of the Palazzo, even at the hallowed altars of churches, in the sight of a thousand Catholic martyrs. 

Light and water conspired to fill Dan's vision with nothing but his handsome companion, to make the air between them vibrate with an increasing tension. Yet, they both hung back. A couple of times, he wondered if Cesare was really interested, or just displaying the effusive hospitality of a bored man on a break. 


Light & Water Ch. 01



It was at those moments that the Italian would brush closer to him, guiding him by the elbow to a particular statue, a jewelled artefact behind glass in the Palace… and his touch would linger, fingers firm and questing, curving to hold his arm. 

Dan listened to Cesare talk about the great buildings of the city; the Basilica, the Procuratie… he could name all the bells in Il Paron, and explain when and why they were rung. 

'Marangona, for ringing when work started and ended. Maleficio, for executions, Nona for the ninth hour, Trottiera and Pregadi to call the meetings in the Palazzo. In 1902, the whole tower collapse. Boom!'

Another large gesticulation. Dan decided that, if he taught classes with this same enthusiasm, Cesare must be a great teacher. 

'My God! Was anyone hurt?'

'Non, non… un miracolo, they say. No-one was hurt. Not even a pigeon!'

Cesare grinned as such a bird flitted by Dan's head, making him duck. 

By the time the autumn light was fading, Dan was happy to be entranced. He watched Cesare's face as he spoke, in his mind already tasting his skin, kissing his lips, following the treasure trail of hair from the base of his throat to wherever it roamed, yet content to let those thoughts contain his desires. 

The urgency of first attraction had subsided a little; no more the desperation to grapple with clothes and flesh, though every part of Dan's body seemed to have eyes to follow Cesare with, hyperaware of the physical space he occupied. He felt a visceral pull towards the other man – his scent, his warmth, the solidity of his presence – but the promise was almost as good as the image of its fulfilment. 

Dan was about three-quarters certain that, if he asked, Cesare would come to his room, but puzzled over how to ask the question. 

As they stood once more in front of the Café Quadri, debating whether or not to try for a table in the ristorante, Cesare asked if he was tired. 

In truth, Dan's feet had been aching for a while. The square was huge, the buildings massive, and the entire place a riot of colour and sensation. He had a mild headache, but it didn't seem to matter. 

He couldn't imagine doing anything else other than walking around Venice with this man… well, he could, but there was the issue of how to bridge that gap. 

So, he said he was fine. 

Cesare opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it, and just smiled instead. 

It hit Dan like a thunderbolt, the stupidity of it. The way two grown men could tiptoe across eggshells with each other, terrified of being seen to speak a truth. He squinted at the antipasto on the menu, pinned outside the café, and said:

'It looks very full. If there aren't any cancellations, where's better to try?'

Cesare named a handful of ristoranti and osteria he'd tried, and suggested one. 

'It's quite near my hotel. I'm staying at the Locanda Barbarigo… very beautiful. It's close to the Canale so, at night, you can hear the gondoliers sing.'

Dan bit his tongue, spurring up the words before they had chance to escape him. 

'That sounds wonderful. Maybe we could go to your hotel – I'll buy you a drink in the bar. Repay you for such a fantastic day.'

The look on Cesare's face was worth a thousand uncertainties. His eyes lit up, and he nodded with surprising restraint. 

'Molto bene… I would like that very much.'

It grew dark as they walked, and Dan felt Cesare brush closer to him, shoulder to shoulder, their fingers nearly touching. When he glanced at the Italian, he was looking straight ahead, with a expression of fixed determination. 

Dan wondered whether or not to grasp his hand, but decided against it, however tempting. 

***

The Locanda was an old hotel, or at least, an old building. As with everything in Venice (or so it seemed), Cesare had a few words to say about its history. 

'All this,' he said, as they stood outside, 'was the Palazzo Barbarigo, the house of a family of glassblowers, long time ago. Sixteenth century. They did all these mosaics for their house.' 

Dan looked up at the colourful murals that decorated the small building, intense against its bright stucco and painted woodwork. It was dwarfed by the buildings around it, but was perfect within that – as if it could have been built no other way. 

'I do have a confession.' Cesare's voice was low, directly by his ear. Dan felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.

'Hmm?'

'The hotel is only two floors. There isn't much of a bar – but we could take a drink in my room, if you like.'

Dan felt the smirk spread across his face. 

'OK. To be honest, I wondered when you'd ask.'

Cesare laughed softly. 

'Please. Wait a few minutes, then ask for Signor Rossi in the Arlecchino Room. I have some brandy up there, is that — '

'Fine.'

Cesare looked over his shoulder once as he walked away. Dan briefly considered the implications of their separate arrival, and decided that everyone must have their own Blackpool. 

The Locanda was very pleasant – small, cosy, decked out in frighteningly detailed seventeenth century Venetian style. Gauze and gilding covered every available surface, huge mirrors hung opposite the tall windows, and it made Dan think of his grandmother's Victorian parlour. 

Still, the young woman at the desk was very helpful, and directed him to the correct room on the first floor. She seemed surprised that Signor Rossi had a visitor, which Dan supposed boded well. 

There were only a few rooms, and Cesare's was the smallest. White predominated, as a theme, in the heavily gilded repro Rococo furniture, the flimsy curtains, even the drapes over the four-poster bed, far too big for the room, but impressive nonetheless. 

'It's like a theatre set,' Dan exclaimed, as Cesare opened the door, already clutching a half-full tumbler of brandy. 

He looked around the room and grinned at Dan. 

'Si. Not exactly my taste, but very comfortable. Here, a drink. Napoleon brandy. It's good.'

He pushed a second glass into Dan's hand and closed the door. 

'Scusi… I know it's ridiculous to be nervous, but — '

Dan took a sip of the brandy to Cesare's gulp. Strong stuff to be tossing back like water. No more games, he decided. 

'Cesare?'

The confident, demonstrative man of the day was gone and, in his place, there was a lost boy, his eyes crying out from a man's face. 

'It's all right.'

Dan stepped closer. 

'Look. I can go if you want — ' A look of hurt crossed Cesare's face. ' — or I can stay. We can have the drink, and we can talk. Would you like to talk?'

Cesare sank onto the white-covered bed, holding his brandy in both hands. 

'Oh, Daniel… sei un angelo.'

Dan stepped closer, linking his arm around the dark wood of the post and pressing his temple to it. It felt cool, when everything else was suddenly warming up. He wondered idly if he should have stuck to his guns and left men out of it. 

'No. But I'm listening.'

Cesare looked up at him with grateful eyes. 

'It's very difficult for me, being… omosessuale. I come from a very old-fashioned, very Catholic family, and my job — ' He held up his hands, the brandy in danger of sloshing over the glass. 'I don't tell people.'

Cesare paused, taking another gulp. 

'I am a man of twenty-eight years, in the twenty-first century, and I don't tell people, Daniel.' He stared at his black leather shoes, giving his toes an experimental flex within them. 'I am afraid. Always, afraid. It's archaic.'

Dan put his glass down and lowered himself to the bed. 

It was the closest they'd been all day. He felt Cesare's breath jar as their thighs grazed each other, their shoulders and arms pressed together through the burdensome fabric of clothes. He took the Italian's hand, prising his fingers from the glass. 

'Don't be scared.'

Cesare gripped Dan's hand tightly. He was sweating. 

'Bacciami,' he whispered, eyes closed.

Leaving the other glass on the bedside table, Dan leaned forwards, taking Cesare's jaw in his free hand. He stroked the stubble with his thumb, enjoying the roughness and the tremor his action caused. 

He touched the Italian's lips lightly with his own before returning, pressing into him in a fuller kiss. 

Cesare moaned, releasing Dan's hand to clutch at the lapels of his jacket, rake hungry fingers through his hair, and grip his shoulders. His firm, dry lips opened, and he drank in Dan's kiss like a drowning man. 

Their tongues danced, wet and firm, tasting and testing each other. When Dan pulled away, a soft cry of disappointment broke from Cesare's lips. Dan dove straight for his neck, licking, kissing and nibbling at the flesh. He traced the smell of cloves and citrus to a shampoo, perhaps shower gel, and burrowed into Cesare, trying to devour it all. 

The Italian flexed against him, tugging at Dan's hair. 

'Si, cosí, cosí… '

Dan's fingers found the opening of Cesare's shirt, warm against his body, and slipped inside, buttons pinging open on their progress. The hair on his chest was thick and coarse, but not abundant, covering the upper part of his torso and pecs. 

Dan found his large, flat nipples and began teasing them to life with pinching, rolling motions. Cesare's breath was hot on his neck, his hands pulling Dan's leather jacket down, away from his shoulders. 

'Daniel… the bed. Please?'

Dan pulled away, nodding, stripping his clothes as quickly as possible. Cesare followed suite, hands shaking as he unbuttoned his trousers. Dan helped – sexy strip shows were nice, but needed a certain time and place. This wasn't it. As Cesare rolled backwards onto the bed, pulling the last leg free, he seized and flung the suit pants away as if they were on fire. 

Crawling up the covers to meet his mouth again in another hard, determined kiss, Dan felt Cesare's hands glide across his back, the Italian's body arching to meet him. His hard cock, still encased in his underwear, grazed Dan's hip, feeling hot and damp through the cotton. 

Dan sat up, his knees across Cesare's waist, surveying his body and his flushed face, eyes glazed with pleasure. The Italian stretched his hands out, murmuring words too quick for comprehension, his fingertips skimming Dan's biceps. 

He was well built – the body of an active man, but not an athlete. Dan stroked his hands thoughtfully down Cesare's torso, feeling the crisp hair give way to softer skin. He ran his thumbs over the contours of muscle and bone, revelling in the twitches it brought to the Italian's imprisoned cock. 

Cesare ground upwards, his bottom lip in his teeth, eyes closed. 

'Santa Maria… Daniel, please.'

Dan's own cock was craning upwards, his balls massaged by the movement of the man beneath him. 

He hadn't come on holiday for this. Not for a fuck, not to be a counsellor – but there was Cesare, was writhing between his legs. It didn't seem real, in this room of fantasy and pretence. A space between times. 

Cesare's hands dropped to the pillow, his head between them as he looked imploringly at Dan. His eyes begged for comfort, contact… everything that, by his own admission, he forbade himself. Dan could not remember feeling so powerful. 

'Tell me what you like,' he said, quietly. 

Cesare swallowed. 

'Fuck,' he managed. 'Fuck me.' 

Dan nodded, easing him out of the tight cotton briefs, wet with precum. His cock was thick, heavily veined and hard as a rock. It sprang to attention as Dan pulled his underwear down, peeling the briefs past Cesare's hairy thighs. The head was almost purple, pearly drops of liquid seeping from his piss-slit. As Cesare moved to get condoms from his suitcase, his cock twitched visibly, begging for release. 

He thrust the wrapped condom into Dan's hand and lay back down on the bed, face down, gathering the pillows into his arms. 

'Please… fuck.'

'Lube?'

Dan unwrapped the condom and slipped it over his achingly stiff member. So much for taking time over a thing. Could the Italian be a virgin? 

'No… there's some sun cream on the nightstand. Daniel — ' Cesare twisted to look over his shoulder. ' — not in culo. Please? My thighs… I don't want to feel… un finnochio. It will still be good for you. Tight. Prometto.'

Dan tried to disguise his frown. Such a nice, good-looking guy — Cesare's apologies struck at his heart. He grabbed the sunscreen, after a couple of fumbles, and smeared some liberally on his cock. It was cold, but felt good. 

With his fingers slippery and gentle, he massaged the backs of Cesare's thighs, until the crisp curls of dark hair grew flat and wet. The Italian moaned appreciatively, and squeezed his legs together as Dan's fingers dipped into the dark crevice between them, just below his arse. 

Dan smoothed the lotion all over Cesare's thighs and buttocks, making tentative voyages towards his arsehole that, each time, were met with a whimper. He stroked his perineum instead, fingers brushing the rear of his scrotum, until Cesare's whole body seemed to tremble with pent-up lust. 

'Daniel, now! Please… voglio venire con te. Not long now.'

'Shh.'

Dan stroked the back of his head as he positioned himself over Cesare's legs, guiding his cock into the crease between thighs and buttocks. 

Propping himself on his elbows, he slid in gently, eliciting a long, low, guttural moan from Cesare. 

Dan started with a slow, steady rhythm, each stroke propelled from his toes, rubbing as much of his body against Cesare as he could. A delicious friction resulted from the contact of their skin, and the slick penetration of his cock. 

It wasn't as tight as fucking his arse – or as wet as the couple of women Dan had screwed – but Cesare's obvious pleasure made it a highly charged erotic experience. His muscles clenched around Dan's cock while, his own member rubbing against the sheets and covers, his flesh shivered and shook. He mumbled curses and sweet nothings as Dan fucked, slowly and steadily building his pace. 

Cesare arched back into each thrust, calling for more until Dan increased his speed. Anchoring himself against Cesare's knees, he began to thump harder into the other man, silencing his moans with the pressure of his body, until the only sound in the room was the slap of Dan's balls and pelvis against Cesare's skin, and two sets of heavy, ragged breathing. 

Dan felt his balls tighten, white-hot fire coursing the length of his dick as he got ready to blow. Cesare gave a soft whimper into the pillows, bunching up handfuls of the sheets as Dan pressed a hand down on his back. 

'I'm coming… fuck, yes… now… '

He exploded, bucking into the Italian's body with more force than he intended, filling the condom with a copious load. Less than a minute later, Cesare stiffened, groaned what might have been Dan's name, and lay still, breathing rapidly. 

Dan sat back to remove the condom, and realised that he'd left a vivid red handprint on Cesare's back, where he'd held him down. And he wasn't moving. His cock now flaccid, shrivelling, he held the cooling condom in his fingers and felt slightly sick.

***

Wordlessly, Dan got off the bed, flushed the condom and wiped his cock clean. A quick glance in the ensuite bathroom's mirror proved he hadn't sprouted an extra head or devil horns – his own, scared, pale face looked back at him. 

He splashed it with some cold water, and stepped back into the room. 

Cesare was sitting up in bed, his stomach matted and smeared with his own cum. He had piled Dan's clothes at the foot of the bed, and looked thoroughly dejected. 

He looked up when Dan entered. 

'Grazie, Daniel. You were very good to me… I understand, you want to go now. I am sorry.'

Dan felt his insides crumble, struck with the lightning of guilt. 

'No. No, Cesare… I thought — no. That was great… you were great. I — ' He swallowed. 'Well, I can't just go.'

Cesare looked perplexed.

'I didn't offend you, when I said about not to be, you know, finocchio?'

'No… I understand.'

'Si?'

Dan walked over to the bed, naked and vulnerable. 'Yes.'

It could be a difficult thing for an Italian man to accept the idea of being fucked in the arse. So many cultural precepts made it a joke, an attack on what it meant to be male. Dan leaned down and gave Cesare a brief, chaste kiss. 

Sitting there, amid a snowdrift of covers and pillows, the light filtered through the white gauze curtains, he looked frightened and confused. 

'Daniel?'

'Yes?'

'I go back to Modena in a week.'

Dan climbed back onto the bed, insinuating his arms around Cesare's thick waist. 

'I go back to England in a fortnight.' He planted a firm kiss on the Italian's responsive lips. 'We have a little time.'

Cesare stifled a yawn, and smiled. Outside the little room with the antique mirror, night was drifting in over the canal, and a gondolier began to sing.