Tales of Venice
Tales of Venice
The first part of a short story I wrote last summer. It didn't feel like the right time to finish it then, until now.
F.
The Arrival
As he walked out of the station he made his way to the quayside. The wind was warm even though it was late in the season and he took a deep breath as he stood there. He looked out for that little boat that he used so often. A man waved at him from the quayside and came towards him and took his two suitcases of him. 'Buongiorno signore!' The man exclaimed. 'Ciao Lorenzo, come stai?' He asked him. He shrugged his shoulders and made a face as only Italians can and he understood he was doing well as they walked he enquired how his father was and if the house was in good order, Lorenzo answered in the affirmative. He stepped onto the wooden floor of the boat and sat down in the back and Lorenzo set off slowly after securing his luggage. They left Santa Lucia behind them and set off for the Canal Grande with the familiar skyline of Venice slowly moving past them. He looked out over the water for a while, letting the wind blow away the cobwebs of sitting in a train for hours. As Lorenzo increased the speed, he got up and held on to the brass rail on the roof and observed the incoming buildings and people on either side of the canal. The sun was shining low over the city, creeping through and over the buildings. He felt a strange sensation coming over him. A sense of newness that he couldn't quite place, mingled with memories of long ago and the meeting of them both somewhere on the horizon. Lorenzo took a sharp left and shouted 'attento la testa Signore!' And he quickly sat down as they crept under a series of low bridges. He realised Lorenzo took 'the Grand route' as he liked to call it for his arrival in town and enjoyed it since it had been a long time since he'd been here. The boat slowed down and moored at a familiar stone quayside and Lorenzo swung the ropes. He got out and placed the luggage on the quayside and helped him out of the boat. 'Ben' ritornato Signore' he said with a broad smile. 'Grazie Lorenzo, molto gentile, salutami il papa' as he let go of his hand and looked for his key in his large bag. He opened a tall creaking cast iron gate that led to a square tree lined courtyard that was surprisingly luscious and green considering the season but some grass patches, his meadow as he liked to call it when he was little, looked a bit yellowish from the sun. He crossed the courtyard as he looked at the trees and plants and walked up to the entrance. He stood in front of a large wooden door of a small palazzo, it's origins were Gothic but had since been added on to. He unlocked several locks and swung the door open. Lorenzo placed his luggage in the corridor and shook his hand and took his leave. He stepped over the threshold and switched on the light in the corridor and closed the door behind him.
It looked just like he remembered it, the long rather low powder blue corridor with six mirrors, three on either side framed in white stucco with large stucco trophies in between every mirror. The stone floor was speckled beige and cool like most palazzi in northern Italy, the corridor ran the entire length of the house with a large window and doorway to the street at the end, half hidden by a heavy curtain. He wheeled his suitcases to the bottom of the large staircase and left them there. He looked up and slowly walked up the stairs and the familiar smell hit him straight away, old wood polish, flowers and what he thought of as silk. He paused for a moment and looked around the staircase and thought, and in his mind said hello to all the ghosts of the past that were in his minds eye all lined up along the banisters to greet him. It was like being a young boy again he thought. Visiting his family on his summer holiday, hearing his father call out to his mother 'Mama, siamo arrivati' as they first arrived after a long journey by car that led through most of northern Europe. He remembered it like it was yesterday as he climbed those stairs behind his father walking in front of him and his granny waiting at the top of the stairs welcoming them after long but happy journey. He smiled to himself as he walked up. The rectangular landing led to the piano Nobile where the drawing room, the salotto and the dining room where placed at the front of the house, overlooking the canal as did some of the bedrooms upstairs. After a quick peak into the drawing room which was all shuttered up, he went up and switched on the lights. He walked straight to that familiar bedroom, and switched on the lights in there too and threw his bag on the chair and opened the shutters and windows to let the evening air in. He looked out of window to the canal and looked at the last fading rays of sunlight as he felt the pale marble of the balcony that was still warm from the sun. When he went back inside he inspected the glorious bathroom. Covered in foxed mirrors and a marble inlaid oval bath, he rummaged in the cabinets and soon found what he was looking for, and poured some powdery scented bath salts in the tub and opened the brass taps that mainly ran cool given the temperatures of the last weeks. As the water ran, he carried up his luggage and hung his clothes in the large Victorian cedar scented wardrobes in his bedroom. He laid out his pyjamas on the chair and opened the drawers of the cabinet that were lined with a fine but faded pink cotton. He laid out some of his silk scarfs and some ties and endless pairs of socks in bright colours. The bed was made with a crisp white cotton trimmed with a blue embroidered edge and a small embroidered crest on the top righthand corner of the pillowcase with a matching thin blue quilt. In the bathroom he lit two candles, undressed and slipped into the cool water and looked around. The painted ceiling was still as vibrant as it had been and the walls were covered in rectangular foxed mirrors, held together in faded gilt frames reflecting the lights of the candles throughout the bathroom. After a while of soaking, and humming to himself he got out and slipped into his light blue habotai silk pyjamas and walked down the stairs to the drawing room with his silk quilted slippers clicking on the stone steps of the tall and broad staircase as he reached the first floor. The drawing room which opened with two large double doors was clad in old rose silk wall hangings that started to fray a little in some of the corners and spanned almost the entire width of the house overlooking the canal with two balconies.
By the time the second cup of coffee had been poured, his languor had melted into something altogether more animated. His sunglasses were still perched imperiously on his nose, but now his lips were curved in amused remarks and his eyes glittered behind the dark lenses.
'I’ve decided,' he said at last, putting his magazine down and breaking a cherry between his teeth with relish, 'we shall go to the Lido. To my favourite bagno, naturally, and we can stay until the light turns. Until seven, perhaps? do you agree?' he asked Alfred with a smile. 'Pistachio gelato on the beach it is...' Alfred whispered. 'How do we get there?' Alfred asked. 'Oh I'll ask Lorenzo to bring us and pick us up and the end of the day' he answered casually.
Alfred leaned forward on his elbows, his dark eyes fixed entirely on him, as though he would happily sit there and watch him suggest plans for the day. He caught his gaze, tilted his head slightly then, quite without warning, he reached across the table and caught Alfred’s hand,
The words slipped from him like velvet, and Alfred flushed crimson, his lips parting as though to answer, though none came. With tender grace, he let one hand drift beneath the tablecloth, fingers brushing lightly over his thigh again before giving it the gentlest squeeze, tenderly but unmistakably teasing. “Down, boy,” he said with cool wit, and before Alfred could catch his breath, he had pulled back, lifting the coffeepot with effortless hauteur and pouring Alfred more coffee. Alfred laughed despite himself, a warm, delighted sound that escaped like music, and leaned across the table to capture his lips. This kiss was no quick teasing affair but slow, and unhurried, as though he wished to remind him that he could be every bit as lovely and ungovernable. He let Alfred have it, surrendering with a faint sigh, their lips lingering until the clink of porcelain reminded them the world had not stopped altogether. They broke apart only to laugh again, softly, conspiratorially, the courtyard echoing with their private amusement. Fingers intertwined above the linen tablecloth, they lingered over the last cherries, crumbs of brioche, and dregs of coffee, reluctant to break the enchantment of morning. Venice itself seemed to lean in at that moment, the shimmer of water on the canal wall, the scent of jasmine headier than perfume, the sound of a motorboat somewhere nearby, as though the whole city conspired to wrap them in its spell of intimacy. And so they finished their breakfast giggling like boys, yet holding hands like men fated to never let go. 'Shall I make us another pot of coffee?' Alfred asked. 'Oh heavens, no!' he exclaimed. 'You'll be far too much to handle when you have too much coffee...' he went on, winking at Alfred. Alfred gave him a mock grumpy look. 'Speak for yourself' he replied and winked and hid his face behind his magazine in protest, only to peek over the edge to look at him.
Eventually they got up and Alfred got ready, as he produced two lovely straw bags and prepared their beach things, fine cotton hammam towels, their beach slippers and extra swimming trunk and an orange bottle of his favourite sun cream and a book of course. He got ready in his navy polo, a wide leg flowy navy trousers and espadrilles and Alfred in his striped top and navy bermuda shorts with boat shoes. They made their way to the quayside where Lorenzo and the boat waited for them. The boat’s varnished hull gleamed in the morning light, its brass fittings catching every sunbeam like jewels. He and Alfred stepped aboard, hand in hand, settling themselves on the cream canvas seats, their bags set carefully aside. Lorenzo nodded once, discreet and wordless, before loosening the mooring. With a low hum, the boat slid from the quayside into the canal. The jasmine-scented courtyard receded behind them as they glided first along the narrow waterway, then out into the broad sweep of the Grand Canal. Palazzi, painted in ochre, vermilion, and fading ivory, rose around them, balconies spilling with geraniums, and shuttered windows like festive ribbons. The air was warm and smelled faintly of brine and diesel, sunlit and intoxicating. Alfred sat close, his arm draped lightly along the back of the seat, his fingers brushing his shoulder. Alfred turned his face into the breeze, dark hair lifting in the slipstream, and then looked back at him with the sort of smile that could never quite be contained, a smile of sheer boyish delight. 'You love it already,' he teased Alfred softly, his tortoiseshell sunglasses hiding the sparkle in his eyes, though the corners of his lips betrayed him. Alfred chuckled, leaning closer so his words would carry over the engine and the wind. 'I can’t help it, I feel twelve years old again, on the verge of an adventure.' Alfred kissed his cheek swiftly, unable to resist, before settling back against him as the boat surged forward. They held hands then, their fingers interlaced against the cream canvas, the breeze ruffling their clothes and hair as they sped toward the open lagoon. The palaces fell away behind them, and before them stretched that luminous expanse of water, blue, endless, glimmering under the morning sun. Conversation came and went in tender fragments, whispered over the hum of the motor. Alfred asked about his memories of summers in Venice; He answered with half-amused anecdotes of siblings, suppers, and clandestine swims on the Lido after lunch under the watchful eyes of his grandmother and aunts. Alfred laughed, squeezing his hand, his expression one of contentment at being brought so close to his world, his history. At last, in the distance, the pale silhouette of the Lido came into view, fringed by parasols like tiny blossoms in neat rows. The sleek lines of the Grand Hotel rose proudly, a palazzo by the sea, its golden domes and Moorish windows shining against the blue. Alfred’s face lit with an excitement he did not hide, his dark eyes alive with it. He turned to him and whispered, almost conspiratorial: 'It feels like arriving in paradise.' He smiled, warm and knowing, brushing his thumb over Alfred’s hand. 'And it’s only just begun,' he murmured, kissing him quickly before the boat curved toward the hotel’s dock, the parasols and loungers awaiting them like a promise of languid hours in the sun.
The boat curved neatly into the hotel’s dock, its varnished hull catching the sun as Lorenzo eased it to a gentle stop. Waiting on the planks was a young beach attendant in crisp white livery, his smile eager but polite. He stepped forward with sure balance, offering a steadying hand as first Alfred, then he, rose to his feet. He accepted the gesture with the faintest nod, his trousers swaying in the breeze, while Alfred followed with his characteristic quiet reserve. The attendant guided them up the dock and across the pale wooden walkway that led toward the great sweep of sand, the Grand Hotel gleaming like some exotic palace behind them, its Moorish arches and cupolas radiant in the noon light. A path had already been prepared, the smoothest route across the sand to their waiting parasol. It was striped elegantly in navy and pale blue, pitched at the front row of the beach, but just enough to the side that privacy was ensured, the line of sight softened by tall seagrass and the angle of the canopy. Two great loungers awaited beneath it, wide and cushioned. The air was filled with the mingling scents of salt, suncream, and faint scent borne from the colonnaded terrace behind. The attendant, efficient but unobtrusive, laid out the bags, shook the towels with a deft flick, and smoothed them across the loungers. He and Alfred exchanged the smallest of glances, the kind that said, without words, how very perfect this is.
They sat for a while in the shade of their striped haven, still clothed, gazing out at the shimmer of the Adriatic. The tide whispered gently against the shore, an undulating hush that seemed to beat in time with their own contentment. Before long, another attendant appeared, trim and polite. 'Signori, would you like a refreshment?' he asked in accented English, lowering his voice discreetly. He looked at Alfred, who in Italian, with a boyish grin, said, 'Caffè frappé for both of us.' His casual tone made it sound as though he had been ordering it for years in his careful Italian. 'Two frappé,' he confirmed in Italian and smiled, and the attendant vanished with a bow. He smiled delighted at Alfred.
Moments later, chilled glasses arrived, beads of condensation sliding down their sides, the froth capped with just the faintest dusting of cocoa. He and Alfred rested on their elbows side by side, sipping through long straws, occasionally exchanging glances over the rims, the smallest smiles playing at their lips. The sun grew warmer as the morning went on. At last, almost in unison, they rose, setting aside their glasses. He peeled off his polo shirt slowly, revealing limbs already touched with bronze, unusual for someone of his pallor Alfred thought. He slid the wide navy trousers down, folding them neatly onto the chair before revealing navy and cream trimmed trunks cut with classic simplicity.
Alfred followed suit, his striped top tugged over his head with one swift motion, his shorts dropped and folded beside the lounger. His trunks were pale, fitted, a contrast to his dark hair and bronzed skin, which already bore the faintest golden tint from their days together in Venice. He reached for the wicker bag, withdrawing the lacquered bottle of Lancaster suncream, its amber glow catching in the light. Perching on the edge of his lounger, he smoothed the lotion along the length of his legs with slow, sweeping motions, calves, thighs, bronzed shoulders, the sheen of the cream catching every bone beneath. Alfred watched him as he spread the cream with diligence, sipping the last of his frappé, though even the cool sweetness could not compete with the view before him. The world around them seemed to contract into a tableau of late summer splendour: the shade of the parasol above, the endless glimmer of sea before, the faint laughter of children far away, and always that intimate rhythm, the lapping of waves, soft and steady, set the tempo of their happiness. They settled back into their loungers, hands brushing together as the sun climbed higher in the late morning sky.
They lay back fully now, the striped parasol casting long, delicate shadows across the sand, the sound of the Adriatic lapping endlessly before them. In his navy trunks and tortoiseshell sunglasses, he turned his head on the towel, eyes lingering on Alfred’s limbs stretched out beside him. The sun caught on the faint sheen of lotion across Alfred’s skin his chest, his thighs, the line of his shoulders bronzed into a warm golden brown. 'You’re the colour of a beer bottle,' he murmured suddenly, lips curving into a sly little smile behind his sunglasses. Alfred tilted his head toward him with a slow laugh, warm and throaty. “Is that a compliment, coming from you? You don't like beer. But a fine vintage one, I hope?' Alfred asked. 'A rare and rather elegant edition,' he replied, letting his fingertips graze Alfred’s wrist where their hands rested on the towels, lightly interlacing their fingers until they were laced together like ivy curling across marble. They stayed in that stillness, the sea breeze brushing their bare skin, the hush of waves and faint cries of gulls making a backdrop to the quiet intimacy between them. He turning slightly, lifted his sunglasses just enough to peer directly at Alfred, his outline radiant against the glare of the rising sun. He studied him in silence, with tenderness that always overtook him when he caught Alfred off-guard simply existing, radiant, stretched into the moment.
For his part, Alfred gazed out beyond the parasols, past the neat rows of loungers, toward the hotel’s pale Moorish façade that rose behind them like an exotic backdrop from another age. Then his eyes shifted to the horizon, the glittering seam where sea and sky came together. 'This place,' Alfred said at last, his voice low, thoughtful, “reminds me very much of Death in Venice.” His lips quirked with a chuckle as he turned his head back towards him. 'One of your favourites, if I recall correctly.' He inclined his chin the smallest degree, his hair falling across his forehead. 'Yes. A great favourite,' he replied, his tone dry but tinged with a secret amusement. Alfred gave him a wicked grin, his eyes half-lidded against the sunlight. 'Then you can be Aschenbach, and I’ll be your Tadzio.' He slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, lowering them just enough to reveal the gleam in his dark eyes. He held Alfred’s gaze for a moment, long enough for mischief to curl into his smile. With an elegant little wink, he replied, 'I'm not that old. Besides, be careful what you wish for.' Alfred laughed softly, squeezing his hand where it still nestled in his own, the gesture tender and steadying even in its lightness.
The sun climbed higher, warming the sand until it shimmered with heat, and they reclined in complete ease. Every so often, he would shift to adjust his towel, brushing against Alfred, who would seize his fingers again and keep them entwined. They had no need for words in those intervals, the silence between them, filled with the soft movements of sea and sky, with the slow intoxication of being exactly where they were: on holiday, impossibly in love, hidden away from the world under a striped parasol in the soft September brilliance of the Lido.
After a long, drowsy stretch of sunbathing, he stirred, sliding his sunglasses down his nose. His eyes glimmered with mischief. 'Enough of this laziness,' he said, brushing a lock of hair from his damp brow. 'I want to swim.' Alfred, who had been watching him with quiet amusement, propped himself up on his elbow. 'Then I’ll come with you,' he said at once, and the excitement in his tone made his lips curve into a little smile. Together they rose from their loungers, stepping barefoot across the warm sand until the foam kissed their ankles. The water was perfectly tepid, neither cool nor too warm, the Adriatic embracing them. They waded in slowly, their hands brushing against each other under the surface, until the tide lapped around their waists. Then, without warning, he ducked under in one fluid, swift motion, vanishing into the blue. Alfred let out a startled laugh and followed, plunging beneath the surface. They resurfaced at nearly the same moment, droplets clinging to their bronzed shoulders, hair slicked back and glistening in the sun. He was reaching for Alfred, his hands gripping his shoulders, the two of them floating together with the swell of the water. Alfred steadied him instinctively, and their lips found each other, a kiss salty from the sea, tender from the moment. They swam a little, playfully circling one another, diving and resurfacing with laughter that rippled across the water’s surface. Eventually, he wrapped his arms around Alfred’s shoulders, letting the water carry him weightless, his legs entwining around Alfred’s waist. He clung to him, secure, trusting, radiant in the sunlight. 'It’s wonderful, isn’t it?' he sighed, brushing droplets from his eyelashes. 'I used to swim here every summer as a child. Always at the Lido, always here. It feels so familiar even though I haven't been in so long.'
Alfred pressed his lips to his wet temple, holding him closer still, the sun warming his back as the sea rocked them gently. “And now it’s ours,” he murmured. 'I love it. I love you. You’ve helped me see even more of the beauty in the world in places, in moments, in myself.'
He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him. His smile broke wide and beaming, his dark eyes glistening under the sunlight. He kissed him, long and tender, pouring his laughter and his heart into that single embrace, his legs still wound tight around Alfred’s waist to steady himself. Alfred cupped his face in both hands, water streaming down their cheeks, holding each other as though he were cradling the very heart of the sea . Their hair was slick and gleaming, skin radiant, bodies warm against each other, and Alfred’s breath caught at the sheer beauty of it. 'I love you so much,' Alfred whispered again, 'so much I don’t even have words.' And there, suspended between sky and sea, the world reduced to sun, waves, and the two of them, they clung to one another, weightless, carefree, and utterly, endlessly in love.
They floated together for a while longer, but Alfred, overcome by the sight and feel of him wrapped around him, could not resist. With a sudden playful strength, he shifted him higher in his arms and said in a half-laugh, half-groan, 'You’ll never escape me now!'
Before he could protest, Alfred had hoisted him up entirely, cradling him as though he were some mythic mermaid drawn from the deep. He squealed with laughter, clutching at Alfred’s neck with his strong, bronzed arms, pressing his wet cheek to Alfred’s temple as he waded with deliberate steps through the shallows. The waves slapped against Alfred’s thighs, white foam spraying as he carried him towards the shore. 'Put me down, you’ll drop me!' He cried between giggles, though his hold around Alfred’s neck betrayed no real wish to be set free.
'Never!' Alfred replied, his voice low and warm, his eyes gleaming with adoration as he looked down at him. Together they emerged from the glittering Adriatic, droplets cascading down their skin, hair slicked back and gleaming in the sun. Alfred could feel the smoothness of his wet skin against his chest, the faint tremble of laughter running through him. The sight of each other, glistening, radiant in the hard Venetian light nearly undid them. On the warm sand, Alfred slowed and lowered him gently. His feet touched the sand at last, but he remained in Alfred’s arms, their eyes locking in that suspended moment between playfulness and love. Then Alfred bent, brushing his lips against his, a kiss both salty and sweet, both laughter and love. Hand in hand, dripping and radiant, they walked together across the sand to the wooden showers, their shoulders brushing. Under the trickling stream of fresh water they rinsed the sea from their bodies, with teasing caresses, giggling at the absurd domesticity of it. They towelled each other down at their parasol, the striped canvas flapping lightly in the breeze. The loungers awaited, covered in fresh towels, and they collapsed into them side by side. Alfred reached for his hand at once, their fingers threading easily together as though they had never known any other way of being. The sun, warm and low, glimmered across the lagoon, and the salt still clung faintly to their lips as they kissed once more.
The afternoon stretched before them with the slow, drowsy rhythm of summer. They lay back on their loungers, the striped parasol shading them in soft bands of navy and cream, the Adriatic shimmering just beyond. The sun was high, glinting on bronzed limbs and casting their features into a radiant glow. At length, when the heat grew insistent, they rose and strolled hand in hand to the hotel’s beach restaurant an elegant yet relaxed pavilion of whitewashed wood and blue awnings. They wore only their tops pulled over damp swimming trunks, an insouciant uniform of seaside elegance. He had slipped into his fine navy polo, the collar open to reveal the glimmer of his bronzed chest, while Alfred wore his striped shirt, the sleeves pushed to his forearms. Both looked bronzed and windswept, their hair still carrying a hint of the sea. They took a table by the railing, overlooking the sand and the pale shimmer of the Adriatic. The air was scented with grilled fish and salt, and the faint clatter of knives and forks drifted among the murmur of other diners. They ordered lightly a plate of chilled melon with prosciutto, fresh fish marinated in lemon, and a basket of crusty bread with olive oil. Two glasses of white wine caught the light between them, cool and golden. As they ate, they leaned into each other across the table, laughing quietly at some private joke. Alfred, ever tactile, brushed his fingers across his wrist as he reached for his glass, and him, catching the touch, smiled with a blush that made Alfred’s heart stutter. They kissed briefly, carelessly, like boys at the seaside.
After lunch, they returned to their loungers, the sun now softened to a golden haze. The sand burned faintly underfoot as they crossed to their parasol, settling once more into its shade. A beach attendant brought fresh glasses of sparkling water, and soon both had taken up their books. He was leafing through a thick volume he had found at home, Alfred with a battered novel he had carried from London. Yet reading was only half the point. Their free hands sought each other instinctively, fingers threading together with deliberate ease. Every so often, one would glance up over the edge of the page, their eyes meeting, a smile curving between them before they sank back into words, though always with that quiet touch reminding them they were not alone.
Eventually, lulled by the sun, the sea, and perhaps the wine at lunch, his book slipped gently from his hand. His head tilted against the towel, his dark lashes lowering, his breath deepening into sleep. Alfred set his own book aside and quietly shifted onto his side, resting his head in his palm as he gazed at him. The sight struck him to stillness: He was bronzed by the Lido sun yet still pearl-pale in places where the light had not kissed him, his hair tumbling into unruly waves, his lips parted in repose. The faintest smile lingered, as though he dreamed of some secret happiness. Alfred’s heart tightened in his chest, what luck, he thought to have ended up together like this together in London, and now here at the Lido with him. He reached out and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, his fingers lingering as though the gesture alone could anchor him in the moment. He lay there, simply watching, every detail etched into his memory, the curve of his cheek, the rise and fall of his chest, the familiar face that was now wholly his to love. The parasol flapped softly in the breeze; the sea whispered beyond. Alfred thought, with perfect clarity, that he had never known such contentment.
He stirred awake beneath the striped parasol, the sea breeze tugging softly at the corners of his towel. When his eyes blinked open, the first thing he saw was Alfred, stretched on his side, watching him with the kind of reverence that made his breath catch. 'You’ve been looking at me like that for a while, haven’t you?' he murmured, his lips curving into a slow smile. Alfred chuckled, his hand finding his with instinctive ease. “I was counting my blessings,” he admitted, his voice low and warm. “Every single one of them led me here, to you, to us.' He smiled as he stretched out on the lounger. He raised their joined hands and kissed Alfred’s knuckles. 'Well, I was dreaming of you, of course,' he whispered, his eyes gleaming with the glow of both mischief and love. 'How long was I asleep for?' he asked. 'Oh, only like ten minutes or so. But long enough for me to have a proper stare, to look over you, I mean' Alfred said with a wink. He laughed and sat up and leaned on his elbows and looked at the sea. The colour had changed he said and Alfred looked out to the sea too.
'Of course not,' he replied, eyes sparkling as he pressed a lingering kiss to Alfred’s wet lips. 'Otherwise you’ll never be able to come out of the water.' He winked, then gave one last playful squeeze that left Alfred groaning, 'contained, but not tamed' he remarked as he leapt away, water sparkling as if in applause at their teasing intimacy. They kissed again, salt on their lips, arms looped tightly around one another as though the sea itself conspired to bind them. Eventually, hand in hand, they waded back to shore, dripping and radiant in the low afternoon sun. They rinsed quickly beneath the shower, then stretched back on their loungers, bodies slick with droplets that dried into a golden sheen. He returned to his book, Alfred to his, though every page was interrupted by glances, soft kisses, and fingers weaving together and giggles. 'How utterly annoying we must seem to other people' he said, Alfred gave him a sly look 'I don't give a fig' he said with feigned hauteur.
As the sun lowered towards the horizon, painting the Adriatic with ribbons of pink and gold, they lay entwined beneath their parasol, glowing with the simple joy of the day, of water, sun, teasing laughter, and a love that made every gesture burn with tenderness. The air had shifted. That languid weight of the afternoon sun dissolved into something altogether gentler, more mysterious. The sky above the Adriatic burned in slow layers of pink, violet, and molten orange, and the scent of saltwater mixed with the faint scent of evening flowers drifting across the Lido. Alfred and he lay side by side on their loungers, towels now draped lightly across their waists, both gazing upward as though the changing sky was a private performance arranged just for them. 'It’s the best time of day,' he murmured, his voice dreamy, soft with contentment. Alfred turned his head to him, drinking in the sight of his profile silhouetted against the sky, his damp hair now tousled by the breeze, his bronzed skin glowing in the dwindling light. He leaned over and pressed a slow kiss to his lips, a kiss that carried not the urgency of passion, but the depth of love itself, tender. 'I agree,' Alfred said softly when they parted, brushing his thumb across his cheekbone. 'It feels as though it's a prelude of things to come.' They lingered a while longer in that spellbound hush, until he, stretching like a cat, turned to him with a mischievous glint in his eyes. 'What shall we do for dinner, my love?' he asked, tilting his head as though weighing possibilities. Alfred smiled, tucking a wet curl of hair behind his ear. 'Let's go out,' he said simply, his voice a promise. 'We’ll dress up, walk into the Venetian night, and let the city decide for us.' His lips curved into an eager smile, the faintest blush rising on his still sun-warmed skin. 'Perfect,' he whispered.
As they raced across the water, the boat rocking gently under them, they pointed together at the skyline as it came closer: the delicate lace of the Doge’s Palace, the white curve of Santa Maria della Salute, the gilded shimmer of San Marco’s domes. The whole city seemed aflame with beauty, suspended between day and night. Slowly, as the lagoon narrowed into canals, their speed eased, and the sounds of Venice enfolded them, the lapping of water against stone, the distant chiming of bells, the sound of boats drifting in the air. The last of the sun slipped away behind the serried palazzi, leaving the façades glowing faintly pink, then a pearly grey as lanterns flickered to life. They glided to the little quay of the palazzo, their palazzo, its Gothic arches and Baroque flourishes rising in slightly dilapidated splendour above the water. Lorenzo leapt out to tie the moorings, and Alfred helped him ashore, their hands clasped tightly. 'Grazie, Lorenzo,' he said warmly, his voice rich with familiarity and affection. 'Buona serata, signori,' Lorenzo replied with a nod, his smile discreet but unmistakably fond as he watched them disappear through the wrought-iron gate. Inside, the cool hush of the palazzo embraced them: the faint scent of wax polish, jasmine still lingering from the courtyard, the echo of their steps on stone floor. They ascended the staircase together, fingers still laced, the muted golden light of lamps flickering against the painted ceilings as they started to get ready for the evening.
The carved bathroom door creaked softly as he emerged, steam curling after him like scented fumes adrift on the air. He stepped barefoot into the bedroom, the marble beneath his feet cool against his heat. Water still clung to his skin in little rivulets that slid down his chest, his shoulders, until the towel caught them. His dark hair was slicked straight back, glistening under the lamplight, his skin glowing with warmth from the bath.
Alfred, draped on the chaise froze when he caught sight of him. His brown eyes widened, then narrowed in that way that made his heart almost somersault. Almost unconsciously, Alfred smiled slyly, and his gaze followed the movement. He smiled languidly, feline and deliberate, and with a teasing slowness wrapped the towel around himself. “The bathroom is free,” he said airily, as though he hadn’t noticed the effect he had caused. But Alfred closed the distance in two long strides, brushing deliberately against him. Their lips met, tasting faintly of soap and steam. He let him in for a moment, groaned softly into Alfred’s lips, then broke away with a wicked smile. 'Not now. You’ll have to wait.' Alfred groaned, almost boyish in his protest, and held him closer as though to bargain. But he only smirked, one eyebrow lifted. Alfred gave a low chuckle, kissed him once more, and reluctantly disappeared into the bathroom, shaking his head as though he had been defeated in battle. Left alone, he padded toward the mirror. By the time Alfred re-emerged, he had dried his hair, smooth but untamed. His skin gleamed with a faint sheen of Melograno oil, warm and sweet, his scent carrying softly through the room. Now it was his turn to sit back and watch. He draped himself languidly on the gilt-framed chaise longue, one arm slung along the curved back, his legs stretched out, his body relaxed but his eyes ablaze. Alfred stepped out of the bathroom, the towel on his hips. His body glowed bronze in the evening lamplight, perfect, catching his eye immediately. his breath hitched almost imperceptibly, as Alfred turned to retrieve a fresh shirt. Every movement of Alfred’s was deliberate now, the way he smoothed the shirt over his chest, the way his hips shifted as he reached for his trousers. He watched, spellbound, eyes following Alfred as he glanced sideways, smirking faintly as if to say, enjoy the show. On the chaise, he tilted his head back, exhaling slowly, his fingers brushing idly through his hair. The whole tableau shimmered with the kind of passion they only ever reserved for each other: intimate, adoring, and utterly inevitable.
The staircase of the palazzo gleamed softly in the blue hour, its banister polished by centuries of hands. He descended first, his wide, flowing cream trousers swaying with every step. His matching shirt, cut in featherlight silk, its open collar showing just enough of his bronzed skin to catch the fading light. Over it he wore a soft navy blazer. A faint aura lingered around him: powdery, soft, but intense. Alfred followed close, clad in tobacco-coloured trousers that set off his tan, the fabric brushing against his long bronzed legs with flair. His pale pink cotton shirt was open at the neck, sleeves rolled just so, and over it he had thrown a navy blazer, casual, but cut with all the precision of a master tailor, his hair still carrying the sheen from the shower. He smelled fresh, green, a whisper of flowers and air.
He gave a little smile, tilting his head, making Alfred flush. Together, they glided down the last few steps like a vision two impossibly elegant silhouettes against the marble hall. Lorenzo was waiting at the quay, standing by the boat. The water lapped gently at the stone steps, catching the last shreds of light from the sky. The blue hour wrapped Venice in its spell: façades of crumbling palazzi softened into lavender and shades of blue, the air carrying both warmth from the day and the first breath of evening. Alfred took his hand as Lorenzo steadied them into the boat. He settled onto the cream canvas seat, his blazer falling open with ease, Alfred beside him. The engine purred softly to life, and they pulled away from the palazzo, its Gothic windows glowing faintly from within. The canals shimmered like liquid sapphire, the reflections of lanterns and windows trembling as they sliced through. They leaned into each other as the boat gained speed. Alfred’s arm draped protectively around his shoulders, his head resting for a moment against Alfred's chest. The air was balmy, carrying traces of jasmine and sea salt, and they were impossibly tan and impossibly in love, two figures glowing against the Venetian twilight. He tilted his face up, catching Alfred’s eyes. No words were spoken, but the look was enough. Alfred kissed him on the hairline, lingering there, before murmuring: 'This is my favourite hour. And we're the most beautiful thing in it.' He squeezed Alfred's hand, kissed it, and let the city glide past them, its domes and spires silhouetted against the last cobalt light and the water shimmering like velvet.
The boat stilled into silence as they glided up to the discreet little pier, its blackened timbers brushing against the softly undulating water. A liveried doorman, immaculate, stepped forward as though he had been waiting only for them. He extended his hand, first to him, whose cream trousers caught the last reflection of blue hour, then to Alfred, whose presence seemed to glow with understated strength. The two of them, impossibly elegant, stepped off the boat like a vision conjured from some vanished age. The foyer they entered had the faded grandeur of a once-great Belle Époque hotel. Murano chandeliers glimmered faintly above damask walls that had paled with the decades, and there was that peculiar Venetian patina, a mixture of elegance and decay, that only heightened the atmosphere. The scent of old wood, old tobacco, faint perfume, and sea air clung to the walls as they passed through the space.
Alfred smirked and thought to himself, don't we look wonderful. The world seemed to notice as well: a few diners paused in their conversation, eyes following them as they glided across the tiled floor like a pair who belonged to each other and to some higher order of elegance. They were led to their table: two crimson velvet canapés facing one another, tucked discreetly between two marble pillars in the bar area. Here the light dimmed to a golden haze, flattering every angle, every glance. A low swing of slow jazz drifted from the corner, its brass softened by the room’s velvety acoustics. They sat, almost at once leaning across to touch fingers on the white-linen table. Alfred’s hand folded instinctively around his, and he began, as he often did, to absentmindedly fiddle with his beloved’s fingers, tracing them as though they were talismans. His head tilted, gave him a smile that was part amusement, part deep adoration, a look that sent Alfred’s heart into a quiet tremor. Two Negronis were set down before them in cut-crystal glasses that glowed like garnets in the low light. They raised them, clinking softly, eyes locked. 'To us, always.' They sipped, the bitter-sweetness of Campari mingling with the evening’s languor. For a while they simply listened to the muted jazz, to the murmured conversations of fellow diners, to the faint lap of water beyond the shuttered windows. Alfred, leaning forward, never quite let go of his hand. He, with that imperious yet playful air, smiled before reaching across to adjust his collar with an indulgent smile. There was no need for many words, their glances said enough, emotions simmering beneath the surface. The way Alfred’s eyes followed his in the lamplight, impossibly poised in his soft shirt was enough to betray his adoration to anyone watching. And so they sat, framed by the two great pillars, an exquisite tableau in crimson velvet and golden light: perfectly at ease, perfectly themselves, while the night of Venice seemed to fold itself around them in a slow embrace.
They lingered over their Negronis, the cut crystal catching little fragments of light. The slow swing of the band pulsed gently through the room, brushed piano and muted trumpet curling around them like a velvet ribbons. His eyes lingered on Alfred for a long while as the lamplight caught his profile, on the tenderness written in every line of his expression until he leaned forward, fingers brushing Alfred’s hand with feather-like insistence. His voice was soft, but carried with it the weight of his entire heart. Words, so simply were spoken, fell into Alfred’s soul like stones into deep water. For a moment, his lips parted without sound. Then his face broke into the most unguarded, radiant smile, one that made his eyes gleam warm brown under the dim light. He pressed his hand to his lips before replying. 'Dearest' he whispered, 'that’s exactly what I was thinking tonight. I feel it every time. Every room, every place. I even thought it as we walked down our stairs at home.' The truth of it hit them both at once, and laughter bubbled from them like the tinkling of the piano. They laughed, softly but helplessly, giggling between kisses as if they had stumbled into some secret joke that only they could ever share, their joy an intimate halo all its own. After a while, the maître approached, pausing with a discreet bow and announcing in low tones that their table was ready. They rose. The other diners watched them, some covertly, some openly, all with admiration — as the two men, impossibly elegant glided from their velvet alcove into the dining room beyond. 'Eyes are on us' Alfred remarked as they entered the dining room. 'In that case, let's make it worth their while' he replied astutely and gently hooked into to Alfred's arm as they walked on. Alfred gave him a shimmering dazzling smile, so much it made both their eyes twinkle as they walked on.
If the bar had been velvet and intimacy, the dining room was splendour and grandeur, if not somewhat faded. It unfolded under a vast glass dome, the light dimmed to a dusky radiance. Gilded cornices and mirrored panels caught the glint of candlelight, multiplying its glow a thousandfold. They were led to a table set with the most delicate porcelain and thin-stemmed glasses, the crisp white of the linen glowing against the deep mahogany of the room. They sank into their chairs with Alfred settling opposite him. He looked around pensively, 'my papa came here very often, indeed I believe an aunt got married here in the 1960's' he said as he ran his eyes over the cornices and the large milky glass dome.
Dinner unfolded like a theatre of delights: paper-thin fish carpaccio laced with lemon, a platter of scampi and seafood, and veal so tender it seemed to melt away with the first bite. They ordered a bottle of wine, which glimmered in their glasses like sunlight captured and poured into crystal. Their conversation danced between wit and romance, teasing observations about each other and other diners, playful debates about which jazz had been played earlier and what they would like hear, tender confessions slipped between courses like sweet contraband in rapid succession. Their laughter rang low and easy, weaving itself into the golden hum of the room. Every now and then their hands brushed across the tablecloth, fingers lingering far longer than required, and the room seemed to shrink until there was only the two of them, suspended under the dome, caught in some enchanted evening that belonged to no one else.
And so dinner passed, an enfilade of food, wine, laughter, conversation and tenderness, the kind of meal that would linger in memory long after the taste had gone.
Eventually, the air outside embraced them with a soft warmth, the kind that only late summer could conjure, neither heavy nor stifling, but comfortable, perfumed faintly with salt and stone that had been baked by centuries of sun and water. Above them, the stars glimmered, their reflections trembling like liquid jewels on the black mirror of the lagoon. The water lapped gently against the worn stone steps of the pier as if whispering secrets meant only for lovers or indeed those who listened.
Arm in arm, they strolled through narrow streets and bridges until the space suddenly widened into the vast majesty of Piazza San Marco. There, under the immense velvet sky, they paused. The church rose before them, domes and mosaics faintly illuminated, the gilt flickering as though heaven itself had spilled a little of its treasure over Venice. He tilted his head, gazing at it with that peculiar mixture of familiarity and wonder, while Alfred, his arm firmly around his waist, could not help but look more at him than at the basilica.
'Well, isn't it wonderful! We haven't seen it yet, since we arrived' he murmured, eyes glistening as he admired the peculiar building.
'Yes,' Alfred replied softly but his gaze never left his face.
They lingered there, quiet and entwined, as a few other late strollers like themselves passed, elegant couples, solitary Venetians, the faint echo of footsteps on marble blending with the gentle chords of a lone musician playing beneath the arcades. Time seemed to fold in on itself; it could have been 1933, it could have been now, who knew. 'Shall we have a nightcap at that bar?' as he gestured to an elegant establishment, 'now its free from tourists...' He smiled at Alfred and pulled him along with him over the piazza.
The Piazza lay hushed beneath the strike of midnight, its expanse of flagstones silvery beneath the night sky, as if the very square had dressed itself in satin. The orchestras had long since packed away, the echo of their waltzes still ghosting faintly in the air. At the bar, its gilded salons and arcaded terraces still aglow with a few discreet lamps, he and Alfred lingered at a little table outside, two glasses of port glowing like garnets between them. It was almost deserted, save for another couple seated two tables away, their whispers floating like leaves in the quiet air. Beyond them, the almost empty square, the basilica looming like a dream in marble and shadows. The faint salt-scent from the lagoon mingled with the aroma of the port, and from within the café a lone waiter’s footsteps clicked discreetly on the tiled floor. He reclined slightly in his chair, his cream shirt open at the neck, his dark hair falling in waves touched by the lamplight. Alfred, across from him, leaned in, elbows on the little round table, his gaze fixed on him. 'You see, dearest,' he said softly, the corners of his lips curling with that faint smile, 'this is when Venice or indeed any city is most beautiful. When it belongs only to us.' His voice was hushed but confident, like a secret he entrusted only to Alfred, like many other things.
Alfred’s eyes gleamed, catching both lamplight and devotion. 'No,' he murmured, his hand sliding over the table until his fingers brushed and then laced with his. 'It’s most beautiful when I see it reflected in our eyes. Everything else is only backdrop.' He laughed under his breath, delighted and a bit undone, and bit his lip in that way that made Alfred’s heart stutter. He leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss to the tips of Alfred’s fingers before resting their joined hands on the table as though planting a flag of intimacy. Around them, the square almost seemed to hold its breath. The silence was so profound they could hear the faint rustle of the deserted colonnades, the far-off lap of water against the stone. Like time had slowed. Their conversation meandered from dinner 'the veal was divine,' “you nearly devoured me with that second glass of Viognier, you know' to memories of childhood, to idle plans of tomorrow, to nothing at all, just laughter and tenderness flowing as smoothly as the water in the canals.
Alfred leaned further across the little table, his voice low, intimate. 'Promise me,' he whispered, 'that we will always have nights like this. That wherever we are, Paris, London, here, it will always come down to you and me at a little table, holding hands, looking at the world as if it belongs to us.' His gaze softened until it almost shone, and he whispered back, 'But it does, it does belong to us, dearest. Because we found each other.' Their lips met across the narrow table, softly at first, then lingeringly. 'Pinkie promise!' he said suddenly and held up his pinkie finger and Alfred giggling hooked his pinkie onto his. 'I'm never letting go. Promise' Alfred said smiling broadly. 'Neither will I' he replied their gaze locked on each other. The waiter glanced from a distance but did not intrude; their promise was made only to the stars.
At last they leaned back, sipping the last ruby drops of their port, and the silence wrapped them like velvet. The other couple rose and drifted away, leaving only Alfred and himself, almost alone in the great square. Later, they descended to the pier at San Marco, where Lorenzo waited with their boat. Lorenzo helped them aboard with his usual deference, but once seated in the back, the world shrank again to just the two of them. Alfred draped an arm around him, pulling him close, and they leaned together tenderly, their bodies moving gently with the rhythm of the boat.
The ride was deliberately slow. Lorenzo, discreet and wise, seemed to sense the spell of the evening and steered with ease, prolonging the journey. The domes and campanili of Venice unfolded like theatre scenery: shadow, stone, and starlight, the facades glowing pale against the night sky. Every turn of the canal revealed another glimpse of carved balconies, arching bridges, lanterns swinging low. But he and Alfred hardly noticed, for their eyes were mostly locked on one another. Alfred’s hand absently played with his fingers, lifting them to his lips every so often, while he, glowing from the night’s warmth and from love itself, pressed against him, inhaling that familiar soft floral note that always seemed to cling to Alfred’s skin.
'You know,' Alfred whispered, breaking the silence only with words wrapped in adoration, 'I think this might be one of most beautiful night I’ve ever lived.'
He turned his head, smiling faintly, his own eyes shimmering with quiet joy. 'That’s only because you’re with me,' he replied, half playful, half solemn, kissing Alfred softly as the boat slipped by the lantern-lit façades.
When at last the prow nosed towards their palazzo’s quay, the final rays of sunlight had long since surrendered to the stars. They rose slowly, thanking Lorenzo, and bid him goodnight. Lorenzo inclined his head, watching for a moment as they stepped onto the stone landing, before steering the boat gently away into the night.
Together, they crossed the threshold into the palazzo, stone stairs sweeping before them, shadows rising and falling with the flicker of dimmed lights. They ascended the staircase, the sound of water still echoing faintly from outside, and disappeared into the opulent quiet of their Venetian home, where tenderness, passion, and devotion awaited them as surely as the stars awaited the sky
Alfred’s hand remained at his waist, protective and possessive in equal measure, as if to remind himself that this, this love, this night, this life together, was real and his.
It looked just like he remembered it, the long rather low powder blue corridor with six mirrors, three on either side framed in white stucco with large stucco trophies in between every mirror. The stone floor was speckled beige and cool like most palazzi in northern Italy, the corridor ran the entire length of the house with a large window and doorway to the street at the end, half hidden by a heavy curtain. He wheeled his suitcases to the bottom of the large staircase and left them there. He looked up and slowly walked up the stairs and the familiar smell hit him straight away, old wood polish, flowers and what he thought of as silk. He paused for a moment and looked around the staircase and thought, and in his mind said hello to all the ghosts of the past that were in his minds eye all lined up along the banisters to greet him. It was like being a young boy again he thought. Visiting his family on his summer holiday, hearing his father call out to his mother 'Mama, siamo arrivati' as they first arrived after a long journey by car that led through most of northern Europe. He remembered it like it was yesterday as he climbed those stairs behind his father walking in front of him and his granny waiting at the top of the stairs welcoming them after long but happy journey. He smiled to himself as he walked up. The rectangular landing led to the piano Nobile where the drawing room, the salotto and the dining room where placed at the front of the house, overlooking the canal as did some of the bedrooms upstairs. After a quick peak into the drawing room which was all shuttered up, he went up and switched on the lights. He walked straight to that familiar bedroom, and switched on the lights in there too and threw his bag on the chair and opened the shutters and windows to let the evening air in. He looked out of window to the canal and looked at the last fading rays of sunlight as he felt the pale marble of the balcony that was still warm from the sun. When he went back inside he inspected the glorious bathroom. Covered in foxed mirrors and a marble inlaid oval bath, he rummaged in the cabinets and soon found what he was looking for, and poured some powdery scented bath salts in the tub and opened the brass taps that mainly ran cool given the temperatures of the last weeks. As the water ran, he carried up his luggage and hung his clothes in the large Victorian cedar scented wardrobes in his bedroom. He laid out his pyjamas on the chair and opened the drawers of the cabinet that were lined with a fine but faded pink cotton. He laid out some of his silk scarfs and some ties and endless pairs of socks in bright colours. The bed was made with a crisp white cotton trimmed with a blue embroidered edge and a small embroidered crest on the top righthand corner of the pillowcase with a matching thin blue quilt. In the bathroom he lit two candles, undressed and slipped into the cool water and looked around. The painted ceiling was still as vibrant as it had been and the walls were covered in rectangular foxed mirrors, held together in faded gilt frames reflecting the lights of the candles throughout the bathroom. After a while of soaking, and humming to himself he got out and slipped into his light blue habotai silk pyjamas and walked down the stairs to the drawing room with his silk quilted slippers clicking on the stone steps of the tall and broad staircase as he reached the first floor. The drawing room which opened with two large double doors was clad in old rose silk wall hangings that started to fray a little in some of the corners and spanned almost the entire width of the house overlooking the canal with two balconies.
The room was decorated with an array of mixed furniture and was usually brightly lit, much to his dislike back in the day, with a pale Murano glass chandelier of colourless glass save for the pink and blue flowers. He opened the balcony doors and let the warm evening air in and lit only a handful of candles and sat in his favourite wing backed armchair which he turned towards the balcony and listened to the water outside, the boats passing and the murmur of people in the distance, it was a quiet late summer evening. He looked around the room, the paintings on the walls and the shadows cast unto them by the candles. The large empire secretaire where as a child he would hide drawings in and the photos of his family everywhere. They were hung onto the walls and scattered around various surfaces of the drawing room from different era's, some in colour and some in black and white a lot of them from the days of the Marchese but most of them long gone by now. He thought of how similar this room was as he was a child and revisited his memories of this rather impressive room and smiled to himself and looked out of the window again. The moon was out and almost full he noticed and the silver light shimmered richly on the surface of the canal which was very quiet now. He couldn't remember how long he sat there for, as he thought about his day and his travels. He had dozed off for a moment and when he woke up he stood up quickly and blew out all the candles and slowly climbed back up the stairs closed the shutters, but not the window, took off his pyjamas and in his underwear he crawled into bed, tired after a long day of travelling. He looked up at the ceiling, that familiar ceiling and thought for a moment and sighed and slowly slipped away and fell asleep.
The next morning the sun crawled through the cracks of the shutters and he woke up. First one eye opened, then the other and looked at the dust dance around in the air and he turned on his back and looked around the room. He looked at the sea green shutters with their gild edged panels and the canopy that hung high over the bed in a deep gold coloured silk with a heavy fringe. He reached for his phone and checked the time, 9.25 am. "Well that's late enough" he said to himself and he got up and put his pyjamas back on and found his slippers and made his way to the kitchen. He walked through the blue corridor to the kitchen where the sun shone brightly through the windows and left a beautiful shadowy pattern coming from the embroidered curtains on the floor and the wooden kitchen table. He opened the old blue cabinets and noticed that Lorenzo's wife restocked the fridge and pantry. 'Oh she is an angel' he thought. He made a pot of coffee with the percolator and toasted some brioche with homemade apricot jam, just like his summer breakfasts on the Lido when he was a child. He carried the tray up the stairs and opened the doors to the small Salotto, a square drawing room that was decorated in peculiar eighteenth century Venetian Chinoiserie. He placed the silver tray on the coffee table, pushed back the cream and gold embroidered curtains and opened the double doors that led to the main balcony on the front of the palazzo. The bustle of morning traffic on the canal rose up and he heard people talk and the boats going past his window. He poured the coffee from his small silver coffee pot into his pale green and white cup, which had, much to his delight a pointed lid with a gilded ball on top. He always thought that this lid resembled the top of a circus tent and was always fascinated by this as a child when his mother used to drink from these cups when they were in Venice for their summer holiday. He looked at the room as a heavy waft of the potpourri filled the air from the 18th century jars that stood on a green lacquered chinoiserie chest of drawers with a dark marble top. The wooden floors still had their familiar scuffing and Persian rugs and the two shot Verdigris chaises in the gilded frames were as comfortable as he remembered them to be with their plush upholstery. He looked at the world as it passed by on that September morning as he had his breakfast and sipped his coffee until his phone buzzed.
A: 'On the train now. Will be at St. Lucia at 1.15 Meet me there? Xx'
He read the text and replied swiftly, he put his phone down and smiled as he looked out of the window. He got up and quickly brought his tray to the kitchen and ran up the stairs again to get ready. He threw off his pyjamas and ran into the bathroom, washed and shaved at his leisure and opened his wardrobe. He got his cream wide leg trousers from a hanger and unfolded a navy and cream striped silk knitted jumper from the chest of drawers. He sat down at his dressing table and quickly brushed his hair and reached for a large cut glass jar with a blue enamelled lid and dusted his chest, arms and back with a large light blue swansdown puff. Next he reached for a navy velvet covered box and removed the a large bottle from it and undid the navy glass fan shaped stopper and dabbed the heady scent generously on his neck, chest and in his hairline and returned it to the velvet box. He got up and looked for his powder blue socks and put on his clothes and slipped on his brown suede loafers and got his navy blazer and walked down the stairs. On his way down he texted Lorenzo that he was on his way out and ready in five minutes. He got his keys and tortoiseshell sunglasses, flicked off the lights and closed the door behind him. As he locked the door he heard Lorenzo start the boat and skipped along the courtyard to the wooden motorboat. He jumped onboard and remained standing as they set off and before he knew it they whizzed over the canal and towards the Grand Canal towards the spot where he arrived yesterday.
They arrived at 1.15 pm on the dot and they waited at the quayside in the shade, much to his delight. He received a text; 'walking towards you now!' after he told him where he was waiting for him and he got off board. Alfred came out of the station and walked towards the water and squinted when he took of his square sunglasses when he stood in the sun and looked around. He stood there and looked at him for a moment until Alfred saw him and waved. They walked towards each other and Alfred dropped his suitcase and leather carry all and they hugged each other. 'Hello you! Welcome to Venice, dearest' he said as they still held on to each other and kissed him. 'Thank you darling, it's so good to finally be here!' he said and smiled broadly. Alfred picked up his bag and suitcases and they walked to their boat and introduced him to Lorenzo who helped him with his luggage and Alfred jumped onboard and held out his hand to help him. They both sat in the back as they slowly departed and made their way back home. 'I can't believe I'm here!' Alfred exclaimed and looked around as they made their way over the Grand Canal and grabbed his hand a smiled broadly in excitement. They got up as the boat went along and he noticed that Lorenzo took a detour to go past a few sights, much to Alfred's delight and they both stood up to look at the buildings along the canal.
The next morning the sun crawled through the cracks of the shutters and he woke up. First one eye opened, then the other and looked at the dust dance around in the air and he turned on his back and looked around the room. He looked at the sea green shutters with their gild edged panels and the canopy that hung high over the bed in a deep gold coloured silk with a heavy fringe. He reached for his phone and checked the time, 9.25 am. "Well that's late enough" he said to himself and he got up and put his pyjamas back on and found his slippers and made his way to the kitchen. He walked through the blue corridor to the kitchen where the sun shone brightly through the windows and left a beautiful shadowy pattern coming from the embroidered curtains on the floor and the wooden kitchen table. He opened the old blue cabinets and noticed that Lorenzo's wife restocked the fridge and pantry. 'Oh she is an angel' he thought. He made a pot of coffee with the percolator and toasted some brioche with homemade apricot jam, just like his summer breakfasts on the Lido when he was a child. He carried the tray up the stairs and opened the doors to the small Salotto, a square drawing room that was decorated in peculiar eighteenth century Venetian Chinoiserie. He placed the silver tray on the coffee table, pushed back the cream and gold embroidered curtains and opened the double doors that led to the main balcony on the front of the palazzo. The bustle of morning traffic on the canal rose up and he heard people talk and the boats going past his window. He poured the coffee from his small silver coffee pot into his pale green and white cup, which had, much to his delight a pointed lid with a gilded ball on top. He always thought that this lid resembled the top of a circus tent and was always fascinated by this as a child when his mother used to drink from these cups when they were in Venice for their summer holiday. He looked at the room as a heavy waft of the potpourri filled the air from the 18th century jars that stood on a green lacquered chinoiserie chest of drawers with a dark marble top. The wooden floors still had their familiar scuffing and Persian rugs and the two shot Verdigris chaises in the gilded frames were as comfortable as he remembered them to be with their plush upholstery. He looked at the world as it passed by on that September morning as he had his breakfast and sipped his coffee until his phone buzzed.
A: 'On the train now. Will be at St. Lucia at 1.15 Meet me there? Xx'
He read the text and replied swiftly, he put his phone down and smiled as he looked out of the window. He got up and quickly brought his tray to the kitchen and ran up the stairs again to get ready. He threw off his pyjamas and ran into the bathroom, washed and shaved at his leisure and opened his wardrobe. He got his cream wide leg trousers from a hanger and unfolded a navy and cream striped silk knitted jumper from the chest of drawers. He sat down at his dressing table and quickly brushed his hair and reached for a large cut glass jar with a blue enamelled lid and dusted his chest, arms and back with a large light blue swansdown puff. Next he reached for a navy velvet covered box and removed the a large bottle from it and undid the navy glass fan shaped stopper and dabbed the heady scent generously on his neck, chest and in his hairline and returned it to the velvet box. He got up and looked for his powder blue socks and put on his clothes and slipped on his brown suede loafers and got his navy blazer and walked down the stairs. On his way down he texted Lorenzo that he was on his way out and ready in five minutes. He got his keys and tortoiseshell sunglasses, flicked off the lights and closed the door behind him. As he locked the door he heard Lorenzo start the boat and skipped along the courtyard to the wooden motorboat. He jumped onboard and remained standing as they set off and before he knew it they whizzed over the canal and towards the Grand Canal towards the spot where he arrived yesterday.
They arrived at 1.15 pm on the dot and they waited at the quayside in the shade, much to his delight. He received a text; 'walking towards you now!' after he told him where he was waiting for him and he got off board. Alfred came out of the station and walked towards the water and squinted when he took of his square sunglasses when he stood in the sun and looked around. He stood there and looked at him for a moment until Alfred saw him and waved. They walked towards each other and Alfred dropped his suitcase and leather carry all and they hugged each other. 'Hello you! Welcome to Venice, dearest' he said as they still held on to each other and kissed him. 'Thank you darling, it's so good to finally be here!' he said and smiled broadly. Alfred picked up his bag and suitcases and they walked to their boat and introduced him to Lorenzo who helped him with his luggage and Alfred jumped onboard and held out his hand to help him. They both sat in the back as they slowly departed and made their way back home. 'I can't believe I'm here!' Alfred exclaimed and looked around as they made their way over the Grand Canal and grabbed his hand a smiled broadly in excitement. They got up as the boat went along and he noticed that Lorenzo took a detour to go past a few sights, much to Alfred's delight and they both stood up to look at the buildings along the canal.
Eventually they made their way back home, 'We're here!' he exclaimed and Alfred got up as well and Lorenzo docked the motorboat and unloaded the luggage. He opened the gate and they both walked across the courtyard towards the door. He told Lorenzo he wouldn't be needing him until supper and he unlocked the door and they walked in. He switched on the lights in the corridor and Alfred looked around in delight. His eyes travelled to the heavy stone floor, the powder blue walls and ancient mirrors and the stucco on the walls and ceiling. He closed the door behind him and grabbed the carry all and gestured to follow him. 'You don't have to carry that' Alfred said and took it off him but he refused and walked up the stairs and Alfred followed swiftly with his suitcases. He tried to look around as they walked up the stairs and at the large gilded lantern that hung from the ceiling in the staircase. They went straight to his bedroom and dropped the luggage there. 'So this is where we sleep?' Alfred asked coyly with a twinkle in his eye. He nodded and showed him where he could leave his garments and toiletries. He unpacked quickly and looked out of the window every now and again to double check that he was actually where he thought he was. 'Dearest, do you mind if I have a quick freshen up and change before we go?' Alfred asked. 'Of course not!' He replied and got Alfred a set of towels and he disappeared into the bathroom. 'I'll be downstairs when you're done' he said and he walked down the stairs.
As he was laying on the sofa with a book he heard Alfred walk down the stairs and 'Where are you dear?' He said. 'Drawing room, pudding!' He replied as he walked into the room and smiled. 'Don't you look handsome?!' He said as he observed Alfred in his white shirt with wide blue stripes and a dark mossy green linen suit and brown suede loafers that matched his. Alfred came towards him and leant over to kiss him and then sat down next to him on the large silk tartan-like upholstered sofa that looked almost out of place in a faded rose Venetian drawing room. He sat up and looked intensely at Alfred 'you look lovely, and I never see you in striped shirts, always plain. And you smell nice too' and he ran his fingers through his brown, quite short floppy hair. Alfred smiled coyly and adjusted his glasses which he often wore when he was travelling or when he was tired 'it's my new hair cream, I bought it at Santa Maria Novella in Florence. 'Oh, well done you, I love that place!' He exclaimed. 'Last time I was there, my sister and I went quite beside ourselves and bought a lot of oils, scents and creams' he added with a chuckle. 'Are you rested enough? We can stay at home for a bit if you want?' He asked Alfred. 'No, no. I'm feeling fine. I had a nap on the train and that shower restored me' he replied. He smiled, 'Well, in that case we'd better start' he jumped up and got his blazer from a chair near the door and Alfred followed him down the stairs clicking their heels on the stone floor as they walked. They walked to the other end of the corridor and used the front door that was equally grand but led to the streets of Cannaregio. For a while they strolled through streets and alleys chatting and looking up at certain corners whilst they made their way to a canal in search for a water taxi.
They moored at an imposing palazzo with large arches that reached into the water and the driver steered the boat through them and they got off and walked to the large double door that led into an rather grand entrance hall. The ceiling was pained blue with gold stars and had a dark granite floor. 'I always find this magical' he whispered to Alfred who looked up craning his neck as they walked on. He chatted with the house's caretaker in Italian and they were led to the main staircase entirely made of marble in the classical fashion and walked up the large galleria that faced the Grand Canal and was lined with various coloured marbles and had about one hundred ancient busts lined up against the walls most of them in their own niches. Alfred gasped in amazement and he smiled, he was happy that Alfred liked it. They walked over the checkerboard marble floor and admired the room and the view over the canal. Alfred removed his tortoise glasses as he inspected the busts up-close. They wandered through the house that was mainly dark and opened and closed shutters in every room they went since they were the only ones there. 'The interiors are fascinating and so mysterious with the shutters closed!' Alfred exclaimed after seeing the house. 'It's very Venetian' he explained. 'A little universe almost entirely on its own for a long time.' He went on and Alfred nodded as he looked around the rooms and corridors.
As they walked back to the staircase and Alfred looked at the light flooding in from the skylight casting shadows everywhere from the various bust and objects placed in the staircase, it reminded them of a museum in London that they visited often. Alfred was quiet and he could tell he was processing all the splendour he had just seen in those drawing rooms. They walked up the stairs to the second floor where they entered a gallery that ran the entire length of the palazzo and was slightly larger than the one below it and used to be the ballroom and was hung entirely with portraits. Portraits of a great variety of people ranging from the renaissance to the late 1930's when it was not yet open to the public. All that under a large richly painted ceiling with gilded cornices and three large Murano glass chandeliers in vibrant colours. Alfred's eyes widened and he looked to the left at all the paintings, broken up by ceiling high mirrors reflecting the water and to the right where tall doors overlooked the Grand Canal and then back to him and he walked of over to him and kissed him. 'This is absolutely breath taking!' He whispered and he smiled at Alfred 'Do you mean the paintings or all this?' He asked with a twinkle in his eyes. 'Well you, mainly, but the room isn't bad either' Alfred chuckled. He grabbed his hand and they walked through the room together looking back at the faces that observed them. Most of them beautiful, some ugly and some of them rather stern. Alfred was in awe and studied all of them closely and then again from a distance and took in all it's details. It was an impressive sight for anyone to take in, let alone a collector he thought.
As he was laying on the sofa with a book he heard Alfred walk down the stairs and 'Where are you dear?' He said. 'Drawing room, pudding!' He replied as he walked into the room and smiled. 'Don't you look handsome?!' He said as he observed Alfred in his white shirt with wide blue stripes and a dark mossy green linen suit and brown suede loafers that matched his. Alfred came towards him and leant over to kiss him and then sat down next to him on the large silk tartan-like upholstered sofa that looked almost out of place in a faded rose Venetian drawing room. He sat up and looked intensely at Alfred 'you look lovely, and I never see you in striped shirts, always plain. And you smell nice too' and he ran his fingers through his brown, quite short floppy hair. Alfred smiled coyly and adjusted his glasses which he often wore when he was travelling or when he was tired 'it's my new hair cream, I bought it at Santa Maria Novella in Florence. 'Oh, well done you, I love that place!' He exclaimed. 'Last time I was there, my sister and I went quite beside ourselves and bought a lot of oils, scents and creams' he added with a chuckle. 'Are you rested enough? We can stay at home for a bit if you want?' He asked Alfred. 'No, no. I'm feeling fine. I had a nap on the train and that shower restored me' he replied. He smiled, 'Well, in that case we'd better start' he jumped up and got his blazer from a chair near the door and Alfred followed him down the stairs clicking their heels on the stone floor as they walked. They walked to the other end of the corridor and used the front door that was equally grand but led to the streets of Cannaregio. For a while they strolled through streets and alleys chatting and looking up at certain corners whilst they made their way to a canal in search for a water taxi.
They moored at an imposing palazzo with large arches that reached into the water and the driver steered the boat through them and they got off and walked to the large double door that led into an rather grand entrance hall. The ceiling was pained blue with gold stars and had a dark granite floor. 'I always find this magical' he whispered to Alfred who looked up craning his neck as they walked on. He chatted with the house's caretaker in Italian and they were led to the main staircase entirely made of marble in the classical fashion and walked up the large galleria that faced the Grand Canal and was lined with various coloured marbles and had about one hundred ancient busts lined up against the walls most of them in their own niches. Alfred gasped in amazement and he smiled, he was happy that Alfred liked it. They walked over the checkerboard marble floor and admired the room and the view over the canal. Alfred removed his tortoise glasses as he inspected the busts up-close. They wandered through the house that was mainly dark and opened and closed shutters in every room they went since they were the only ones there. 'The interiors are fascinating and so mysterious with the shutters closed!' Alfred exclaimed after seeing the house. 'It's very Venetian' he explained. 'A little universe almost entirely on its own for a long time.' He went on and Alfred nodded as he looked around the rooms and corridors.
As they walked back to the staircase and Alfred looked at the light flooding in from the skylight casting shadows everywhere from the various bust and objects placed in the staircase, it reminded them of a museum in London that they visited often. Alfred was quiet and he could tell he was processing all the splendour he had just seen in those drawing rooms. They walked up the stairs to the second floor where they entered a gallery that ran the entire length of the palazzo and was slightly larger than the one below it and used to be the ballroom and was hung entirely with portraits. Portraits of a great variety of people ranging from the renaissance to the late 1930's when it was not yet open to the public. All that under a large richly painted ceiling with gilded cornices and three large Murano glass chandeliers in vibrant colours. Alfred's eyes widened and he looked to the left at all the paintings, broken up by ceiling high mirrors reflecting the water and to the right where tall doors overlooked the Grand Canal and then back to him and he walked of over to him and kissed him. 'This is absolutely breath taking!' He whispered and he smiled at Alfred 'Do you mean the paintings or all this?' He asked with a twinkle in his eyes. 'Well you, mainly, but the room isn't bad either' Alfred chuckled. He grabbed his hand and they walked through the room together looking back at the faces that observed them. Most of them beautiful, some ugly and some of them rather stern. Alfred was in awe and studied all of them closely and then again from a distance and took in all it's details. It was an impressive sight for anyone to take in, let alone a collector he thought.
'There was a man,' he continued softly, 'A Baron. He lost his young wife, she died far too soon. In his grief, he bought this palazzo, filled it with art, with marbles and paintings, as though beauty itself might console him. He called it, quite movingly, his reliquary of love. They say he would walk the gallery at night, speaking to her as though she were still there beside him.' He looked at he sun flooding in from the large windows. Alfred’s gaze lingered on the gallery outside, then returned, tender, to him. 'And when he died,' he went on, his voice gentler now, 'he gave it all to Venice, the palace, his collection, the memories of his devotion, so others might stand here, as we do now, and feel that mixture of grandeur and longing.'
Alfred was silent for a moment, eyes wide with something between wonder and ache. Then he smiled faintly, touching his hand where it stayed. 'A reliquary of love,' he repeated, his voice hushed. 'What a way to be remembered. But I rather have you by my side' Alfred went on. His lips curved in the smallest of smiles; he leaned closer, so that the air between them shimmered with both tales and affection, while the palazzo rose above them like a lace-draped memory against the Venetian sky. After a while they left the room and made their way down the stairs, Alfred with an uncontrollable smile on his face and was talking at a rapid speed about the things they just saw and what it reminded him off and many others observations as he listened carefully to Alfred's endearing ramblings.
Moments later they stepped out of the front door and onto the pavement and into the bright sunshine and noises from the little canal brought them back to reality. After walking around a bit more Alfred mentioned that he was a bit hungry and soon he found a little but tremendously charming little bar that hadn't changed its interior since probably after the war. They walked so much and the visit to the palazzo took up much time that they made it in time for aperitivo. The doorman opened a tall door to a single L shaped room that was filled with little tables with white tablecloths and green leather chairs and a banquette that ran the entire length of the room. There were already quite a few people who like them, just had come in for their aperitifs and they were welcomed by the maître who made them choose a nice spot in the middle against the wall below a mirror. They received a menu and Alfred looked around taking in the atmosphere. The waiter approached them and he ordered in Italian without even looking at the menu and he swiftly disappeared. 'We've seen so many wonderful things already today' Alfred started, 'What was your favourite thing?' He asked Alfred. 'Well, you, obviously!' Alfred said with a smirk and they chuckled. 'But the portraited ball room was pretty impressive and the little palazzo on the corner of the canal with the hidden entrance' he said as he held on to his hand. 'Well, I'm glad we're off to a good start' he responded and Alfred leant in for a kiss and as he kissed him whispered 'the best start.' The waiter reappeared again with two large glasses of Campari Spritz, much to their delight. They toasted and took a sip of their icy drinks and Alfred leant against him in relief, they looked around at the people sitting there. 'All locals' he remarked and Alfred nodded and smiled and after a few moments two waiters appeared with large platters of aperitivo. Cicchetti of various types, one with asparagus and egg, the other one with shrimp and his favourite and most traditional, with Baccalá. 'These are all very Venetian things to have for aperitivo' he remarked and they started with their cicchetti and oysters too. They chatted about the sights Alfred wanted to visit in the coming days and observed the people sitting around them as the bar got significantly busier. 'What do you want to do tonight and for supper dearest?' He asked Alfred who looked at him dreamily. 'Sorry what?' He said half way through. 'You're not listening are you?!' He said amused. 'No, sorry I wasn't. I was just looking at you to be honest.' And he leant in again and kissed him. He repeated the question and Alfred thought about it for a moment 'Well, to be honest, as little as possible. But unless you have other plans?' He looked at Alfred and just had an idea, 'Good, let's get something on our way home and I'll text Lorenzo to pick us up and we'll have supper in the courtyard.' Alfred's eyes lit up. 'That's just perfect!' He exclaimed and sat up and whilst sipping their spritz they discussed the possibilities of what to eat. He mentioned a little market not too far from where they were and taking the boat back from there, it was easy, he explained. And as they finished their drinks and aperitivo at their leisure they decided to get up and get some food for their courtyard supper. Alfred walked to the bar and in his rudimentary but confident Italian he paid before he could, he thought it terribly endearing when he was confident like that, and together they walked out of the bar that was now completely full and when they went outside the terrace overlooking the canal was filled with people who came for their spritz after finishing work. 'You're practically fluent' he remarked as he looked at Alfred and pulled a face and they walked on.
Slowly they walked through alleyways and narrow pavements past little canals to a largish square where the little market was. Beautiful stalls with fruits and vegetables, fish on ice and one with seeds and spices and fresh flowers. They walked around and he darted to and fro between several stalls and ended up with a whole bag full of food and other things he picked up along the way. Alfred left him to it and looked at the beautifully displayed foods and people doing their last minute food shop as they started to pack up their stalls. He texted Lorenzo who after ten minutes or so appeared around the corner from the market and Alfred helped him into the boat and they jetted off. It took a while as most canals were busy with boats and ferries passing, you could call it rush hour. They sat in the back of the boat looking around them both with their sunglasses and Alfred held his hand until they reached their overgrown courtyard. They thanked Lorenzo and walked to the door and straight to the kitchen where they left everything on the large kitchen table and placed some fresh things in the fridge. Alfred made a large jug of water with mint and lemon they just bought in a large pink and white jug he found in one of the cupboards and poured them a large glass of water. 'Thank you dearest' he said with a smile and he sat down at the kitchen cable.
Slowly they walked through alleyways and narrow pavements past little canals to a largish square where the little market was. Beautiful stalls with fruits and vegetables, fish on ice and one with seeds and spices and fresh flowers. They walked around and he darted to and fro between several stalls and ended up with a whole bag full of food and other things he picked up along the way. Alfred left him to it and looked at the beautifully displayed foods and people doing their last minute food shop as they started to pack up their stalls. He texted Lorenzo who after ten minutes or so appeared around the corner from the market and Alfred helped him into the boat and they jetted off. It took a while as most canals were busy with boats and ferries passing, you could call it rush hour. They sat in the back of the boat looking around them both with their sunglasses and Alfred held his hand until they reached their overgrown courtyard. They thanked Lorenzo and walked to the door and straight to the kitchen where they left everything on the large kitchen table and placed some fresh things in the fridge. Alfred made a large jug of water with mint and lemon they just bought in a large pink and white jug he found in one of the cupboards and poured them a large glass of water. 'Thank you dearest' he said with a smile and he sat down at the kitchen cable.
'So, do you know how to make a martini?' He asked Alfred teasingly, who looked at him quite amused and then said 'Do you prefer gin or vodka?' He smiled at him. 'Gin, always' he replied and Alfred started opening cabinets in search for spirits. He told him where to look and quickly found what he was looking for. 'But make it dirty' he added as he looked at Alfred who deftly blended the gin, vermouth and brine in a cut glass jug and swirled ice into it. He pricked two olives in each glass and poured the liquid over them in two beautiful stemmed glasses he found in the kitchen cabinet. 'Prego Signore' he said with his delightful accent that he so adored as he presented a glass in front of him and looked at him smugly. He looked at his martini and then looked up at Alfred whilst tilting his head, who stood very close to him as he was seated, looking down at him. He reached for his glass and raised it without saying a word and took a sip. 'Briny. What made you think I prefer dirty gin to a dirty vodka?' He asked him. 'Well, I remembered you ordering that once. And I stored it for future use, which his now' he replied quickly and gently caressed the bridge of his roman-like nose. He smiled at Alfred and squeezed his thigh 'you chose correctly, and the martini isn't bad either' he added with a wink. 'Let's go' he said as he put his glass on a silver tray and stood up, standing face to face with Alfred and they looked at each other for a brief moment and he picked up the tray. 'Where are we going?' Alfred asked with widened eyes. 'Outside of course. We can't eat in the kitchen!' he exclaimed and Alfred chuckled at that announcement.
He helped him as he walked off to the front door and crossed the courtyard and he reached the chairs and table that stood against the wall under a large canopy of heavily scented jasmine. Alfred looked at it and smiled and pulled a branch towards him and smelled it. He plucked a little bit of the branch and held it in his hand and walked around the courtyard as he arranged the drinks and the nibbles he prepared on the garden table. He sat down and as Alfred walked towards him he twirled the jasmine over his head and around his face and drink as if he was holding a magic wand. He smiled, 'now you're scented and ready for supper' Alfred chuckled and sat down and reached forward to place the jasmine twig in his buttonhole, he smiled at Alfred. 'I'll finish supper in a moment, let's first have these' he said. They toasted, 'here's to us, always' he said, Alfred smiled. 'This is magical. You, are magical' Alfred said looking at him. He smiled back and looked out over the courtyard as Alfred reached for his hand. 'Thanks for all this. I needed it' Alfred said with a sigh. 'Well you've been going through it a bit and I thought this would be a good way to relax.' They were quiet for a moment as they sipped their drinks and had some of the nibbles and looked at the sun slowly setting with its last rays shining through the branches and onto the courtyard and listened to the sounds of boats passing.
Once they finished their drinks they went inside and Alfred carried the tray and put it on the kitchen table as he prepared supper. With a few quick gestures he scooped pasta on two cream and pink plates and asked Alfred to open a cold bottle of white wine that he found in the fridge and they used the tray again to carry it all out. There they sat in the flowering courtyard with its dense hedges that grew through the cast iron railings and under their canopy of jasmine they had their Sicilian pasta with crushed almonds and basil and shellfish. Alfred smiled broadly at him with his mouthful lifting his tortoiseshell glasses as he did, a thing he found most endearing. 'I gather you like it?' He asked whilst raising his eyebrows. 'I love it!' Alfred exclaimed. 'I've never had this before' and he tore off a piece of bread he had put on the table. 'We always used to have it when we were on our summer holiday's in Sicily when I was a child. This and pasta with red prawns.' The light was fading and the scent of jasmine became thicker and creamier as it blended with wafts of lavender that was planted along the edge of the courtyard. 'They finished their meal and continued talking and the sun had now completely set. He returned the dishes to the kitchen and then returned with two glasses of port and almond biscuits on a little gilded plate. They talked until it was dark and Alfred got up after he finished his biscuit and walked around the courtyard with his glass of port and looked at the trees and the canal through the front gate. 'Back in a moment' he said suddenly and disappeared whilst Alfred pottered around the courtyard. He ran up the stairs and a little while later he looked down into the courtyard from the balcony at the end of the corridor and saw Alfred still looking at the plants and looking up at the sky. He opened the the balcony door and stood there observing him, the marble still hot from the sun that warmed the stones of the palazzo all day. 'Alfredo!' he exclaimed all of a sudden and Alfred looked up slightly amused, widening his large brown eyes, wondering where his voice had come from but then smiled broadly. 'Amore mio!' he replied whilst waving at him and they both chuckled 'Come up, will you' he asked him and Alfred nodded smilingly whilst he looked at him. Alfred walked to the door and locked it behind him and placed the glass on the side table in the corridor and walked up the stairs two steps at a time and followed the sound of music coming from the drawing room.
He gasped as he entered the drawing room, which was lit with several candles and casting a dim golden glow over the room and flickered in the breeze that came from the opened balcony doors. In the corner stood a record player and an old record of Mina came from the speakers. Alfred looked at the scene in amazement and smiled and walked towards him and they looked at each other for a moment. Alfred came closer and their lips brushed and kissed him, held him close to him running his hands over his waist and his back. He smiled at Alfred and kissed the tip of his nose, Alfred looked at him, enchanted and reached for his hands and placed them on his shoulder and raised one arm. Slowly without saying a word, they started to dance to the heavenly voice of Mina. Around the room they went, past the coffee table, the piano, towards the window to end up dancing in doorway of the narrow balcony, with bare feet, feeling the warm marble floor. He looked at Alfred still not speaking, but their eyes locked on each other and they rocked to and fro with the record going and with the sound of the canal below. Alfred took the lead and moved them back inside, underneath the chandelier that shimmered, reflecting the candles around the room as if it was lit from within, then towards the sofa where he twirled him and he laughed out loud and with a swift move they both ended up on the sofa, Alfred on top of him. They laughed out loud and Alfred's face turned serious all of a sudden and he looked questioning at Alfred. 'Dearest' Alfred started 'Hmmm?' he replied. 'What is it?' he asked Alfred who was still on top of him. 'I simply wanted to tell you for a while now that I love you.' He said half worried, half amused but fully enamoured as he observed every movement of his face. He looked at Alfred for a moment and then cupped his cheeks and kissed him repeatedly. 'Well, that's something that makes me terribly happy. Since I wanted to tell you that I've been in love with you too' he replied. Alfred smiled and kissed him again 'Well, I think I've been in love with you from the moment I saw you' he chuckled. He laughed out loud, 'Okay, in that case I'll tell you the truth, I've been in love with you from the start as well.' They both laughed 'I'm very glad to hear it' Alfred said 'And what place is better then to tell each other this than in Venice' he continued softly as he placed his head on his chest and they laid there for a moment. The record had finished playing, the candles were burning out, the room had darkened and it was getting late. 'Shall we go upstairs?' Alfred asked, after he felt himself nodding off with sensation of his hands running through his hair and he nodded. They got up and he closed the balcony doors and switched off the record player and drew the shutters. Alfred extinguished the candles and hand in hand they walked upstairs. He went to the bathroom to get ready for bed as Alfred pottered around in the bedroom. It was still a bit too hot at night so the sheets lay in puddles around their ankles as they got into bed, limbs brushing against each other and Alfred kissed his temples and stroked his hair as he wrapped himself around Alfred. The evening breeze from the canal came through the open balcony door with the shutters only half closed and the light cast long shadows on the beds canopy whilst the net curtain fluttered in the breeze. 'What do you want to do tomorrow?' he asked Alfred quietly. 'Whatever you like' Alfred replied and he moved even closer to Alfred. 'Good, we can decide in the morning, now I just want to fall asleep in your arms' he replied. Alfred smiled and kissed his forehead.
The Lido
The sun peeked through the shutters again in the morning creating a pattern on the marble floor from the lace curtains moving in the breeze. Alfred was already awake when he opened his eyes 'Good morning, dearest' he said with a creaky voice, he smiled and replied by placing his forehead on his chest and whispered 'Good morning angel' he stayed there for a moment longer a pressed himself against Alfred as he stretched making Alfred groan with the pressure of it. 'You were quite adorable last night, once you fell asleep' Alfred remarked 'Well, I had you to keep an eye on me, as you obviously did. Also, why do you think I was only adorable after I fell asleep?' He asked. 'Is there ever a moment where you don't have a quick come back to something? Not even in the morning?' Alfred asked chuckling. 'I'm especially quick in the morning dearest' he replied and winked and placed his head in the hollow of Alfred collarbone and they wrapped their arms around each other. 'Shall I make us breakfast?' Alfred asked after being entangled in each others limbs for a while and he nodded 'Yes, please.'
The Lido
The sun peeked through the shutters again in the morning creating a pattern on the marble floor from the lace curtains moving in the breeze. Alfred was already awake when he opened his eyes 'Good morning, dearest' he said with a creaky voice, he smiled and replied by placing his forehead on his chest and whispered 'Good morning angel' he stayed there for a moment longer a pressed himself against Alfred as he stretched making Alfred groan with the pressure of it. 'You were quite adorable last night, once you fell asleep' Alfred remarked 'Well, I had you to keep an eye on me, as you obviously did. Also, why do you think I was only adorable after I fell asleep?' He asked. 'Is there ever a moment where you don't have a quick come back to something? Not even in the morning?' Alfred asked chuckling. 'I'm especially quick in the morning dearest' he replied and winked and placed his head in the hollow of Alfred collarbone and they wrapped their arms around each other. 'Shall I make us breakfast?' Alfred asked after being entangled in each others limbs for a while and he nodded 'Yes, please.'
The courtyard was steeped in that honeyed late summer light, still hot but softened by the faintest promise of autumn’s approach. The jasmine tree, its pale blossoms heavy and heady, cast a lattice of shade across the flagstones, where a linen-draped table had been set by Alfred with coffee in porcelain cups, a silver basket of buttery brioche, and a shallow Venetian dish brimming with dark, glistening cherries. He sat lazily in his chair, legs crossed, wrapped in a navy and cream striped silk kimono-like robe that caught the light in glimmers of dull sheen. His feet were encased in quilted gold silk slippers that gleamed each time they shifted beneath the table, and on his nose rested round tortoiseshell sunglasses, their dark lenses disguising the narrowed expression of a man not yet wholly reconciled with the morning. 'Well, I'm glad to see you found all the essentials for breakfast' as he looked over the nicely set table. Alfred, by contrast, seemed already settled into the day with his quiet tenderness, tanned arms emerging from the loose navy polo he wore half-unbuttoned, paired only with his pyjama shorts, his floppy hair still dishevelled from sleep. He leaned against the table with one elbow, eyes soft and smiling, watching him as though breakfast itself were merely an elaborate prelude to the true feast, his lover’s remarks over breakfast, or in this case the lack there of. 'Darling,' Alfred murmured, reaching for a cherry and placing it delicately upon his plate, 'you do look absurdly glamorous for nine o’clock in the morning.'
'Hmmm,' he replied languidly, sipping his coffee without so much as a twitch of a smile. 'I imagine the neighbours would find me positively intolerable if they weren’t already used to my extravagances ever since I was a child.' Alfred chuckled, unoffended by the morning hauteur, and leaned over to kiss the exposed line of his neck just above the silken collar. 'Not quite so sharp-tongued last night, if memory serves,' he whispered, lips brushing against his skin. He shifted ever so slightly, though a smile emerged at the corner of his mouth as he broke off a piece of brioche with unnecessary delicacy. 'Ah, monsieur keeps count. How industrious you are. Shall I award you a medal, or merely another cherry or something else perhaps?' as he raised one eyebrow, his tone was wickedly dry, but the softness beneath was betrayed when Alfred’s mouth curved into a chuckle against his neck and his hand came to rest almost unconsciously on Alfred’s thigh beneath the table. They lingered like that, Alfred stealing kisses at the edge of his jaw while he tried, not altogether successfully, to maintain his languid air of morning moodiness. At last, Alfred leaned back, laughing low in his throat, and took a sip of his coffee.
'So shall we escape to the Lido today?' Alfred asked, brushing a crumb from his polo. 'Swim a little, lay on the sand… you might even forgive me for dragging you from your sheets.' He tilted his head, adjusting his sunglasses with furrowed brows. 'If you imagine that my idea of paradise involves sand in one’s shoes and half of Europe parading its unfortunate swimsuits, then you are very much mistaken.' He winked. 'Ah,' Alfred countered smoothly, reaching again for his neck, 'but if I promised to carry you across the sand, procure you a lounger as comfortable as your own bed, and ask for coffee and ice cream whilst you observe the Adriatic?' He tried to keep his expression unmoved, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him at last. He let out a low, languid laugh, resting his chin on his hand as he regarded Alfred with mock severity. 'You do, occasionally, make a compelling argument monsieur.' Alfred kissed him again, lingering this time, one hand cupping the back of his neck in that tender, possessive way he could never resist. The sound of a motorboat passing drifted faintly across the courtyard, mingling with the scent of jasmine and the taste of coffee and cherries still on their tongues.
'Hmmm,' he replied languidly, sipping his coffee without so much as a twitch of a smile. 'I imagine the neighbours would find me positively intolerable if they weren’t already used to my extravagances ever since I was a child.' Alfred chuckled, unoffended by the morning hauteur, and leaned over to kiss the exposed line of his neck just above the silken collar. 'Not quite so sharp-tongued last night, if memory serves,' he whispered, lips brushing against his skin. He shifted ever so slightly, though a smile emerged at the corner of his mouth as he broke off a piece of brioche with unnecessary delicacy. 'Ah, monsieur keeps count. How industrious you are. Shall I award you a medal, or merely another cherry or something else perhaps?' as he raised one eyebrow, his tone was wickedly dry, but the softness beneath was betrayed when Alfred’s mouth curved into a chuckle against his neck and his hand came to rest almost unconsciously on Alfred’s thigh beneath the table. They lingered like that, Alfred stealing kisses at the edge of his jaw while he tried, not altogether successfully, to maintain his languid air of morning moodiness. At last, Alfred leaned back, laughing low in his throat, and took a sip of his coffee.
'So shall we escape to the Lido today?' Alfred asked, brushing a crumb from his polo. 'Swim a little, lay on the sand… you might even forgive me for dragging you from your sheets.' He tilted his head, adjusting his sunglasses with furrowed brows. 'If you imagine that my idea of paradise involves sand in one’s shoes and half of Europe parading its unfortunate swimsuits, then you are very much mistaken.' He winked. 'Ah,' Alfred countered smoothly, reaching again for his neck, 'but if I promised to carry you across the sand, procure you a lounger as comfortable as your own bed, and ask for coffee and ice cream whilst you observe the Adriatic?' He tried to keep his expression unmoved, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him at last. He let out a low, languid laugh, resting his chin on his hand as he regarded Alfred with mock severity. 'You do, occasionally, make a compelling argument monsieur.' Alfred kissed him again, lingering this time, one hand cupping the back of his neck in that tender, possessive way he could never resist. The sound of a motorboat passing drifted faintly across the courtyard, mingling with the scent of jasmine and the taste of coffee and cherries still on their tongues.
For all his morning languor, there was no mistaking it, they were entirely, irretrievably in love, even if he chose to express it beneath layers of wit and feigned moodiness. And Alfred, smiling into the kiss, knew it beyond doubt. Breakfast proceeded at a leisurely pace, he flicked through his magazine and spread pistachio cream on his brioche and Alfred gave him cherries and read interesting articles to him from a newspaper which made him chuckle.
By the time the second cup of coffee had been poured, his languor had melted into something altogether more animated. His sunglasses were still perched imperiously on his nose, but now his lips were curved in amused remarks and his eyes glittered behind the dark lenses.
'I’ve decided,' he said at last, putting his magazine down and breaking a cherry between his teeth with relish, 'we shall go to the Lido. To my favourite bagno, naturally, and we can stay until the light turns. Until seven, perhaps? do you agree?' he asked Alfred with a smile. 'Pistachio gelato on the beach it is...' Alfred whispered. 'How do we get there?' Alfred asked. 'Oh I'll ask Lorenzo to bring us and pick us up and the end of the day' he answered casually.
Alfred leaned forward on his elbows, his dark eyes fixed entirely on him, as though he would happily sit there and watch him suggest plans for the day. He caught his gaze, tilted his head slightly then, quite without warning, he reached across the table and caught Alfred’s hand,
'Haven't you noticed?' he murmured softly and gave Alfred a look. 'Quando sei qui con me, this room doesn't have any walls, but merely trees' as he looked around the courtyard and smiled tenderly at Alfred and kissed his hand with deliberate slowness, his lips brushing the knuckles.
The words slipped from him like velvet, and Alfred flushed crimson, his lips parting as though to answer, though none came. With tender grace, he let one hand drift beneath the tablecloth, fingers brushing lightly over his thigh again before giving it the gentlest squeeze, tenderly but unmistakably teasing. “Down, boy,” he said with cool wit, and before Alfred could catch his breath, he had pulled back, lifting the coffeepot with effortless hauteur and pouring Alfred more coffee. Alfred laughed despite himself, a warm, delighted sound that escaped like music, and leaned across the table to capture his lips. This kiss was no quick teasing affair but slow, and unhurried, as though he wished to remind him that he could be every bit as lovely and ungovernable. He let Alfred have it, surrendering with a faint sigh, their lips lingering until the clink of porcelain reminded them the world had not stopped altogether. They broke apart only to laugh again, softly, conspiratorially, the courtyard echoing with their private amusement. Fingers intertwined above the linen tablecloth, they lingered over the last cherries, crumbs of brioche, and dregs of coffee, reluctant to break the enchantment of morning. Venice itself seemed to lean in at that moment, the shimmer of water on the canal wall, the scent of jasmine headier than perfume, the sound of a motorboat somewhere nearby, as though the whole city conspired to wrap them in its spell of intimacy. And so they finished their breakfast giggling like boys, yet holding hands like men fated to never let go. 'Shall I make us another pot of coffee?' Alfred asked. 'Oh heavens, no!' he exclaimed. 'You'll be far too much to handle when you have too much coffee...' he went on, winking at Alfred. Alfred gave him a mock grumpy look. 'Speak for yourself' he replied and winked and hid his face behind his magazine in protest, only to peek over the edge to look at him.
Eventually they got up and Alfred got ready, as he produced two lovely straw bags and prepared their beach things, fine cotton hammam towels, their beach slippers and extra swimming trunk and an orange bottle of his favourite sun cream and a book of course. He got ready in his navy polo, a wide leg flowy navy trousers and espadrilles and Alfred in his striped top and navy bermuda shorts with boat shoes. They made their way to the quayside where Lorenzo and the boat waited for them. The boat’s varnished hull gleamed in the morning light, its brass fittings catching every sunbeam like jewels. He and Alfred stepped aboard, hand in hand, settling themselves on the cream canvas seats, their bags set carefully aside. Lorenzo nodded once, discreet and wordless, before loosening the mooring. With a low hum, the boat slid from the quayside into the canal. The jasmine-scented courtyard receded behind them as they glided first along the narrow waterway, then out into the broad sweep of the Grand Canal. Palazzi, painted in ochre, vermilion, and fading ivory, rose around them, balconies spilling with geraniums, and shuttered windows like festive ribbons. The air was warm and smelled faintly of brine and diesel, sunlit and intoxicating. Alfred sat close, his arm draped lightly along the back of the seat, his fingers brushing his shoulder. Alfred turned his face into the breeze, dark hair lifting in the slipstream, and then looked back at him with the sort of smile that could never quite be contained, a smile of sheer boyish delight. 'You love it already,' he teased Alfred softly, his tortoiseshell sunglasses hiding the sparkle in his eyes, though the corners of his lips betrayed him. Alfred chuckled, leaning closer so his words would carry over the engine and the wind. 'I can’t help it, I feel twelve years old again, on the verge of an adventure.' Alfred kissed his cheek swiftly, unable to resist, before settling back against him as the boat surged forward. They held hands then, their fingers interlaced against the cream canvas, the breeze ruffling their clothes and hair as they sped toward the open lagoon. The palaces fell away behind them, and before them stretched that luminous expanse of water, blue, endless, glimmering under the morning sun. Conversation came and went in tender fragments, whispered over the hum of the motor. Alfred asked about his memories of summers in Venice; He answered with half-amused anecdotes of siblings, suppers, and clandestine swims on the Lido after lunch under the watchful eyes of his grandmother and aunts. Alfred laughed, squeezing his hand, his expression one of contentment at being brought so close to his world, his history. At last, in the distance, the pale silhouette of the Lido came into view, fringed by parasols like tiny blossoms in neat rows. The sleek lines of the Grand Hotel rose proudly, a palazzo by the sea, its golden domes and Moorish windows shining against the blue. Alfred’s face lit with an excitement he did not hide, his dark eyes alive with it. He turned to him and whispered, almost conspiratorial: 'It feels like arriving in paradise.' He smiled, warm and knowing, brushing his thumb over Alfred’s hand. 'And it’s only just begun,' he murmured, kissing him quickly before the boat curved toward the hotel’s dock, the parasols and loungers awaiting them like a promise of languid hours in the sun.
The boat curved neatly into the hotel’s dock, its varnished hull catching the sun as Lorenzo eased it to a gentle stop. Waiting on the planks was a young beach attendant in crisp white livery, his smile eager but polite. He stepped forward with sure balance, offering a steadying hand as first Alfred, then he, rose to his feet. He accepted the gesture with the faintest nod, his trousers swaying in the breeze, while Alfred followed with his characteristic quiet reserve. The attendant guided them up the dock and across the pale wooden walkway that led toward the great sweep of sand, the Grand Hotel gleaming like some exotic palace behind them, its Moorish arches and cupolas radiant in the noon light. A path had already been prepared, the smoothest route across the sand to their waiting parasol. It was striped elegantly in navy and pale blue, pitched at the front row of the beach, but just enough to the side that privacy was ensured, the line of sight softened by tall seagrass and the angle of the canopy. Two great loungers awaited beneath it, wide and cushioned. The air was filled with the mingling scents of salt, suncream, and faint scent borne from the colonnaded terrace behind. The attendant, efficient but unobtrusive, laid out the bags, shook the towels with a deft flick, and smoothed them across the loungers. He and Alfred exchanged the smallest of glances, the kind that said, without words, how very perfect this is.
They sat for a while in the shade of their striped haven, still clothed, gazing out at the shimmer of the Adriatic. The tide whispered gently against the shore, an undulating hush that seemed to beat in time with their own contentment. Before long, another attendant appeared, trim and polite. 'Signori, would you like a refreshment?' he asked in accented English, lowering his voice discreetly. He looked at Alfred, who in Italian, with a boyish grin, said, 'Caffè frappé for both of us.' His casual tone made it sound as though he had been ordering it for years in his careful Italian. 'Two frappé,' he confirmed in Italian and smiled, and the attendant vanished with a bow. He smiled delighted at Alfred.
Moments later, chilled glasses arrived, beads of condensation sliding down their sides, the froth capped with just the faintest dusting of cocoa. He and Alfred rested on their elbows side by side, sipping through long straws, occasionally exchanging glances over the rims, the smallest smiles playing at their lips. The sun grew warmer as the morning went on. At last, almost in unison, they rose, setting aside their glasses. He peeled off his polo shirt slowly, revealing limbs already touched with bronze, unusual for someone of his pallor Alfred thought. He slid the wide navy trousers down, folding them neatly onto the chair before revealing navy and cream trimmed trunks cut with classic simplicity.
Alfred followed suit, his striped top tugged over his head with one swift motion, his shorts dropped and folded beside the lounger. His trunks were pale, fitted, a contrast to his dark hair and bronzed skin, which already bore the faintest golden tint from their days together in Venice. He reached for the wicker bag, withdrawing the lacquered bottle of Lancaster suncream, its amber glow catching in the light. Perching on the edge of his lounger, he smoothed the lotion along the length of his legs with slow, sweeping motions, calves, thighs, bronzed shoulders, the sheen of the cream catching every bone beneath. Alfred watched him as he spread the cream with diligence, sipping the last of his frappé, though even the cool sweetness could not compete with the view before him. The world around them seemed to contract into a tableau of late summer splendour: the shade of the parasol above, the endless glimmer of sea before, the faint laughter of children far away, and always that intimate rhythm, the lapping of waves, soft and steady, set the tempo of their happiness. They settled back into their loungers, hands brushing together as the sun climbed higher in the late morning sky.
They lay back fully now, the striped parasol casting long, delicate shadows across the sand, the sound of the Adriatic lapping endlessly before them. In his navy trunks and tortoiseshell sunglasses, he turned his head on the towel, eyes lingering on Alfred’s limbs stretched out beside him. The sun caught on the faint sheen of lotion across Alfred’s skin his chest, his thighs, the line of his shoulders bronzed into a warm golden brown. 'You’re the colour of a beer bottle,' he murmured suddenly, lips curving into a sly little smile behind his sunglasses. Alfred tilted his head toward him with a slow laugh, warm and throaty. “Is that a compliment, coming from you? You don't like beer. But a fine vintage one, I hope?' Alfred asked. 'A rare and rather elegant edition,' he replied, letting his fingertips graze Alfred’s wrist where their hands rested on the towels, lightly interlacing their fingers until they were laced together like ivy curling across marble. They stayed in that stillness, the sea breeze brushing their bare skin, the hush of waves and faint cries of gulls making a backdrop to the quiet intimacy between them. He turning slightly, lifted his sunglasses just enough to peer directly at Alfred, his outline radiant against the glare of the rising sun. He studied him in silence, with tenderness that always overtook him when he caught Alfred off-guard simply existing, radiant, stretched into the moment.
For his part, Alfred gazed out beyond the parasols, past the neat rows of loungers, toward the hotel’s pale Moorish façade that rose behind them like an exotic backdrop from another age. Then his eyes shifted to the horizon, the glittering seam where sea and sky came together. 'This place,' Alfred said at last, his voice low, thoughtful, “reminds me very much of Death in Venice.” His lips quirked with a chuckle as he turned his head back towards him. 'One of your favourites, if I recall correctly.' He inclined his chin the smallest degree, his hair falling across his forehead. 'Yes. A great favourite,' he replied, his tone dry but tinged with a secret amusement. Alfred gave him a wicked grin, his eyes half-lidded against the sunlight. 'Then you can be Aschenbach, and I’ll be your Tadzio.' He slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, lowering them just enough to reveal the gleam in his dark eyes. He held Alfred’s gaze for a moment, long enough for mischief to curl into his smile. With an elegant little wink, he replied, 'I'm not that old. Besides, be careful what you wish for.' Alfred laughed softly, squeezing his hand where it still nestled in his own, the gesture tender and steadying even in its lightness.
The sun climbed higher, warming the sand until it shimmered with heat, and they reclined in complete ease. Every so often, he would shift to adjust his towel, brushing against Alfred, who would seize his fingers again and keep them entwined. They had no need for words in those intervals, the silence between them, filled with the soft movements of sea and sky, with the slow intoxication of being exactly where they were: on holiday, impossibly in love, hidden away from the world under a striped parasol in the soft September brilliance of the Lido.
After a long, drowsy stretch of sunbathing, he stirred, sliding his sunglasses down his nose. His eyes glimmered with mischief. 'Enough of this laziness,' he said, brushing a lock of hair from his damp brow. 'I want to swim.' Alfred, who had been watching him with quiet amusement, propped himself up on his elbow. 'Then I’ll come with you,' he said at once, and the excitement in his tone made his lips curve into a little smile. Together they rose from their loungers, stepping barefoot across the warm sand until the foam kissed their ankles. The water was perfectly tepid, neither cool nor too warm, the Adriatic embracing them. They waded in slowly, their hands brushing against each other under the surface, until the tide lapped around their waists. Then, without warning, he ducked under in one fluid, swift motion, vanishing into the blue. Alfred let out a startled laugh and followed, plunging beneath the surface. They resurfaced at nearly the same moment, droplets clinging to their bronzed shoulders, hair slicked back and glistening in the sun. He was reaching for Alfred, his hands gripping his shoulders, the two of them floating together with the swell of the water. Alfred steadied him instinctively, and their lips found each other, a kiss salty from the sea, tender from the moment. They swam a little, playfully circling one another, diving and resurfacing with laughter that rippled across the water’s surface. Eventually, he wrapped his arms around Alfred’s shoulders, letting the water carry him weightless, his legs entwining around Alfred’s waist. He clung to him, secure, trusting, radiant in the sunlight. 'It’s wonderful, isn’t it?' he sighed, brushing droplets from his eyelashes. 'I used to swim here every summer as a child. Always at the Lido, always here. It feels so familiar even though I haven't been in so long.'
Alfred pressed his lips to his wet temple, holding him closer still, the sun warming his back as the sea rocked them gently. “And now it’s ours,” he murmured. 'I love it. I love you. You’ve helped me see even more of the beauty in the world in places, in moments, in myself.'
He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him. His smile broke wide and beaming, his dark eyes glistening under the sunlight. He kissed him, long and tender, pouring his laughter and his heart into that single embrace, his legs still wound tight around Alfred’s waist to steady himself. Alfred cupped his face in both hands, water streaming down their cheeks, holding each other as though he were cradling the very heart of the sea . Their hair was slick and gleaming, skin radiant, bodies warm against each other, and Alfred’s breath caught at the sheer beauty of it. 'I love you so much,' Alfred whispered again, 'so much I don’t even have words.' And there, suspended between sky and sea, the world reduced to sun, waves, and the two of them, they clung to one another, weightless, carefree, and utterly, endlessly in love.
They floated together for a while longer, but Alfred, overcome by the sight and feel of him wrapped around him, could not resist. With a sudden playful strength, he shifted him higher in his arms and said in a half-laugh, half-groan, 'You’ll never escape me now!'
Before he could protest, Alfred had hoisted him up entirely, cradling him as though he were some mythic mermaid drawn from the deep. He squealed with laughter, clutching at Alfred’s neck with his strong, bronzed arms, pressing his wet cheek to Alfred’s temple as he waded with deliberate steps through the shallows. The waves slapped against Alfred’s thighs, white foam spraying as he carried him towards the shore. 'Put me down, you’ll drop me!' He cried between giggles, though his hold around Alfred’s neck betrayed no real wish to be set free.
'Never!' Alfred replied, his voice low and warm, his eyes gleaming with adoration as he looked down at him. Together they emerged from the glittering Adriatic, droplets cascading down their skin, hair slicked back and gleaming in the sun. Alfred could feel the smoothness of his wet skin against his chest, the faint tremble of laughter running through him. The sight of each other, glistening, radiant in the hard Venetian light nearly undid them. On the warm sand, Alfred slowed and lowered him gently. His feet touched the sand at last, but he remained in Alfred’s arms, their eyes locking in that suspended moment between playfulness and love. Then Alfred bent, brushing his lips against his, a kiss both salty and sweet, both laughter and love. Hand in hand, dripping and radiant, they walked together across the sand to the wooden showers, their shoulders brushing. Under the trickling stream of fresh water they rinsed the sea from their bodies, with teasing caresses, giggling at the absurd domesticity of it. They towelled each other down at their parasol, the striped canvas flapping lightly in the breeze. The loungers awaited, covered in fresh towels, and they collapsed into them side by side. Alfred reached for his hand at once, their fingers threading easily together as though they had never known any other way of being. The sun, warm and low, glimmered across the lagoon, and the salt still clung faintly to their lips as they kissed once more.
The afternoon stretched before them with the slow, drowsy rhythm of summer. They lay back on their loungers, the striped parasol shading them in soft bands of navy and cream, the Adriatic shimmering just beyond. The sun was high, glinting on bronzed limbs and casting their features into a radiant glow. At length, when the heat grew insistent, they rose and strolled hand in hand to the hotel’s beach restaurant an elegant yet relaxed pavilion of whitewashed wood and blue awnings. They wore only their tops pulled over damp swimming trunks, an insouciant uniform of seaside elegance. He had slipped into his fine navy polo, the collar open to reveal the glimmer of his bronzed chest, while Alfred wore his striped shirt, the sleeves pushed to his forearms. Both looked bronzed and windswept, their hair still carrying a hint of the sea. They took a table by the railing, overlooking the sand and the pale shimmer of the Adriatic. The air was scented with grilled fish and salt, and the faint clatter of knives and forks drifted among the murmur of other diners. They ordered lightly a plate of chilled melon with prosciutto, fresh fish marinated in lemon, and a basket of crusty bread with olive oil. Two glasses of white wine caught the light between them, cool and golden. As they ate, they leaned into each other across the table, laughing quietly at some private joke. Alfred, ever tactile, brushed his fingers across his wrist as he reached for his glass, and him, catching the touch, smiled with a blush that made Alfred’s heart stutter. They kissed briefly, carelessly, like boys at the seaside.
After lunch, they returned to their loungers, the sun now softened to a golden haze. The sand burned faintly underfoot as they crossed to their parasol, settling once more into its shade. A beach attendant brought fresh glasses of sparkling water, and soon both had taken up their books. He was leafing through a thick volume he had found at home, Alfred with a battered novel he had carried from London. Yet reading was only half the point. Their free hands sought each other instinctively, fingers threading together with deliberate ease. Every so often, one would glance up over the edge of the page, their eyes meeting, a smile curving between them before they sank back into words, though always with that quiet touch reminding them they were not alone.
Eventually, lulled by the sun, the sea, and perhaps the wine at lunch, his book slipped gently from his hand. His head tilted against the towel, his dark lashes lowering, his breath deepening into sleep. Alfred set his own book aside and quietly shifted onto his side, resting his head in his palm as he gazed at him. The sight struck him to stillness: He was bronzed by the Lido sun yet still pearl-pale in places where the light had not kissed him, his hair tumbling into unruly waves, his lips parted in repose. The faintest smile lingered, as though he dreamed of some secret happiness. Alfred’s heart tightened in his chest, what luck, he thought to have ended up together like this together in London, and now here at the Lido with him. He reached out and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, his fingers lingering as though the gesture alone could anchor him in the moment. He lay there, simply watching, every detail etched into his memory, the curve of his cheek, the rise and fall of his chest, the familiar face that was now wholly his to love. The parasol flapped softly in the breeze; the sea whispered beyond. Alfred thought, with perfect clarity, that he had never known such contentment.
He stirred awake beneath the striped parasol, the sea breeze tugging softly at the corners of his towel. When his eyes blinked open, the first thing he saw was Alfred, stretched on his side, watching him with the kind of reverence that made his breath catch. 'You’ve been looking at me like that for a while, haven’t you?' he murmured, his lips curving into a slow smile. Alfred chuckled, his hand finding his with instinctive ease. “I was counting my blessings,” he admitted, his voice low and warm. “Every single one of them led me here, to you, to us.' He smiled as he stretched out on the lounger. He raised their joined hands and kissed Alfred’s knuckles. 'Well, I was dreaming of you, of course,' he whispered, his eyes gleaming with the glow of both mischief and love. 'How long was I asleep for?' he asked. 'Oh, only like ten minutes or so. But long enough for me to have a proper stare, to look over you, I mean' Alfred said with a wink. He laughed and sat up and leaned on his elbows and looked at the sea. The colour had changed he said and Alfred looked out to the sea too.
That was enough to pull them both to their feet. Leaving books and glasses behind, they ran hand in hand across the warm sand, squealing like boys as they splashed into the glittering Adriatic. With a sudden twist, he dove under like a sleek mermaid, his limbs slicing through the clear water. Alfred followed with a laugh, surfacing to find him clinging to his shoulders, planting a salty kiss on his lips before darting away again. They swam a few playful lengths, racing each other with exaggerated strokes, before collapsing together into the shallows where the sea met the sand. They floated lazily, fingers trailing over slick, sun-warmed skin, tracing shoulders and ribs, small intimate touches disguised as idle gestures. Keeping each other afloat in the shallows. At last they sank to the sea floor, the gentle surf breaking over them, gentle waves shuddering into their chests and shoulders. 'I always find this so therapeutic' he said looking out over the sea. Alfred grimaced suddenly, wriggling as though afflicted. 'There’s sand everywhere in my swimming trunks,' Alfred confessed, pulling a face of exaggerated suffering. He jokingly rolled his eyes at Alfred and then threw his head back and cackled, the sound bubbling like a wave crashing. 'Well,' he said wickedly, moving closer, 'let me help you remove it.' His grin broadened as Alfred’s large eyes widened in mock alarm. 'Not here...' Alfred began, but he had already slipped them back into the deeper water, where the tide reached their waists and the world felt hidden by glittering waves. With an expression of feigned innocence, he slid both hands beneath the waistband of Alfred’s striped trunks, his fingertips roving slowly, deliberately. Alfred gasped, half in protest, half in helpless delight, his jaw tightening. 'You’re cruel,' he hissed through a shaky laugh. 'Not too much,' Alfred pleaded with a wince of pleasure, his voice pitched low.
'Of course not,' he replied, eyes sparkling as he pressed a lingering kiss to Alfred’s wet lips. 'Otherwise you’ll never be able to come out of the water.' He winked, then gave one last playful squeeze that left Alfred groaning, 'contained, but not tamed' he remarked as he leapt away, water sparkling as if in applause at their teasing intimacy. They kissed again, salt on their lips, arms looped tightly around one another as though the sea itself conspired to bind them. Eventually, hand in hand, they waded back to shore, dripping and radiant in the low afternoon sun. They rinsed quickly beneath the shower, then stretched back on their loungers, bodies slick with droplets that dried into a golden sheen. He returned to his book, Alfred to his, though every page was interrupted by glances, soft kisses, and fingers weaving together and giggles. 'How utterly annoying we must seem to other people' he said, Alfred gave him a sly look 'I don't give a fig' he said with feigned hauteur.
As the sun lowered towards the horizon, painting the Adriatic with ribbons of pink and gold, they lay entwined beneath their parasol, glowing with the simple joy of the day, of water, sun, teasing laughter, and a love that made every gesture burn with tenderness. The air had shifted. That languid weight of the afternoon sun dissolved into something altogether gentler, more mysterious. The sky above the Adriatic burned in slow layers of pink, violet, and molten orange, and the scent of saltwater mixed with the faint scent of evening flowers drifting across the Lido. Alfred and he lay side by side on their loungers, towels now draped lightly across their waists, both gazing upward as though the changing sky was a private performance arranged just for them. 'It’s the best time of day,' he murmured, his voice dreamy, soft with contentment. Alfred turned his head to him, drinking in the sight of his profile silhouetted against the sky, his damp hair now tousled by the breeze, his bronzed skin glowing in the dwindling light. He leaned over and pressed a slow kiss to his lips, a kiss that carried not the urgency of passion, but the depth of love itself, tender. 'I agree,' Alfred said softly when they parted, brushing his thumb across his cheekbone. 'It feels as though it's a prelude of things to come.' They lingered a while longer in that spellbound hush, until he, stretching like a cat, turned to him with a mischievous glint in his eyes. 'What shall we do for dinner, my love?' he asked, tilting his head as though weighing possibilities. Alfred smiled, tucking a wet curl of hair behind his ear. 'Let's go out,' he said simply, his voice a promise. 'We’ll dress up, walk into the Venetian night, and let the city decide for us.' His lips curved into an eager smile, the faintest blush rising on his still sun-warmed skin. 'Perfect,' he whispered.
With that, they rose lazily from their loungers, brushing sand from their bronzed limbs, folding towels, slipping shirts back over their torsos. The air had cooled just enough for the brush of cotton against warm skin to feel pleasant, almost intimate. Hand in hand, they walked across the sand towards the jetty, their shoes leaving neat prints in the pale, still-sunlit shore. Lorenzo was already waiting at the little jetty, their boat rocking gently against its moorings, the brass fittings catching the last gold of the sun. He straightened as they approached, a faint smile tugging his lips at the sight of the two of them, hair still damp, eyes glowing, fingers entwined. They stepped into the boat, Alfred first offering his hand to steady him, who swept in with his characteristic flair. Once seated, they leaned into one another, the faint slap of water against the hull accompanying the slow putter of the engine. Behind them, the sky deepened into shades of violet and blue, the faintest star hoping to appear. Ahead, the glittering domes and facades of Venice stirred to life in the approaching evening light, promising music, supper, and still more. The lagoon opened itself wide and endless before them, a mirror of molten colours that seemed to shift with every ripple. The boat cut across it, gliding faster now, its wooden hull parting the waters with racing speed.
Una Serrata In Settembre
The sky was a spectacle of fire and softness: streaks of crimson bled into rose, dissolving into a pale violet where the first stars dared appear. Above, great cotton like clouds glowed as if lit from within, and ahead, the domes and campanili of Venice seemed to rise out of nowhere, their outlines gilded by the last, lavish rays of the sun. Alfred sat close beside him, one arm draped loosely behind him, the other hand entwined with his. They leaned into each other instinctively, the warm wind in their hair, the briny scent of the sea swirling around them. 'This,' Alfred whispered, his deep voice barely audible over the rushing of the boat, 'this feels like a dream I never want to wake from.' He turned his face towards Alfred, the wind tugging at his dark, wavy hair, his tortoiseshell glasses catching the last gleam of light. He gave Alfred a smile the one that always unmoored him completely before pressing his temple to Alfred’s cheek 'But it’s not a dream,' he murmured, his words melting into the evening breeze, 'it’s us.' Alfred’s gaze lingered on him with unbroken intensity, his brown eyes wide and almost liquid, as though the world was dissolving into colour and light around them and only they remained, at the heart of their universe.
As they raced across the water, the boat rocking gently under them, they pointed together at the skyline as it came closer: the delicate lace of the Doge’s Palace, the white curve of Santa Maria della Salute, the gilded shimmer of San Marco’s domes. The whole city seemed aflame with beauty, suspended between day and night. Slowly, as the lagoon narrowed into canals, their speed eased, and the sounds of Venice enfolded them, the lapping of water against stone, the distant chiming of bells, the sound of boats drifting in the air. The last of the sun slipped away behind the serried palazzi, leaving the façades glowing faintly pink, then a pearly grey as lanterns flickered to life. They glided to the little quay of the palazzo, their palazzo, its Gothic arches and Baroque flourishes rising in slightly dilapidated splendour above the water. Lorenzo leapt out to tie the moorings, and Alfred helped him ashore, their hands clasped tightly. 'Grazie, Lorenzo,' he said warmly, his voice rich with familiarity and affection. 'Buona serata, signori,' Lorenzo replied with a nod, his smile discreet but unmistakably fond as he watched them disappear through the wrought-iron gate. Inside, the cool hush of the palazzo embraced them: the faint scent of wax polish, jasmine still lingering from the courtyard, the echo of their steps on stone floor. They ascended the staircase together, fingers still laced, the muted golden light of lamps flickering against the painted ceilings as they started to get ready for the evening.
The carved bathroom door creaked softly as he emerged, steam curling after him like scented fumes adrift on the air. He stepped barefoot into the bedroom, the marble beneath his feet cool against his heat. Water still clung to his skin in little rivulets that slid down his chest, his shoulders, until the towel caught them. His dark hair was slicked straight back, glistening under the lamplight, his skin glowing with warmth from the bath.
Alfred, draped on the chaise froze when he caught sight of him. His brown eyes widened, then narrowed in that way that made his heart almost somersault. Almost unconsciously, Alfred smiled slyly, and his gaze followed the movement. He smiled languidly, feline and deliberate, and with a teasing slowness wrapped the towel around himself. “The bathroom is free,” he said airily, as though he hadn’t noticed the effect he had caused. But Alfred closed the distance in two long strides, brushing deliberately against him. Their lips met, tasting faintly of soap and steam. He let him in for a moment, groaned softly into Alfred’s lips, then broke away with a wicked smile. 'Not now. You’ll have to wait.' Alfred groaned, almost boyish in his protest, and held him closer as though to bargain. But he only smirked, one eyebrow lifted. Alfred gave a low chuckle, kissed him once more, and reluctantly disappeared into the bathroom, shaking his head as though he had been defeated in battle. Left alone, he padded toward the mirror. By the time Alfred re-emerged, he had dried his hair, smooth but untamed. His skin gleamed with a faint sheen of Melograno oil, warm and sweet, his scent carrying softly through the room. Now it was his turn to sit back and watch. He draped himself languidly on the gilt-framed chaise longue, one arm slung along the curved back, his legs stretched out, his body relaxed but his eyes ablaze. Alfred stepped out of the bathroom, the towel on his hips. His body glowed bronze in the evening lamplight, perfect, catching his eye immediately. his breath hitched almost imperceptibly, as Alfred turned to retrieve a fresh shirt. Every movement of Alfred’s was deliberate now, the way he smoothed the shirt over his chest, the way his hips shifted as he reached for his trousers. He watched, spellbound, eyes following Alfred as he glanced sideways, smirking faintly as if to say, enjoy the show. On the chaise, he tilted his head back, exhaling slowly, his fingers brushing idly through his hair. The whole tableau shimmered with the kind of passion they only ever reserved for each other: intimate, adoring, and utterly inevitable.
The staircase of the palazzo gleamed softly in the blue hour, its banister polished by centuries of hands. He descended first, his wide, flowing cream trousers swaying with every step. His matching shirt, cut in featherlight silk, its open collar showing just enough of his bronzed skin to catch the fading light. Over it he wore a soft navy blazer. A faint aura lingered around him: powdery, soft, but intense. Alfred followed close, clad in tobacco-coloured trousers that set off his tan, the fabric brushing against his long bronzed legs with flair. His pale pink cotton shirt was open at the neck, sleeves rolled just so, and over it he had thrown a navy blazer, casual, but cut with all the precision of a master tailor, his hair still carrying the sheen from the shower. He smelled fresh, green, a whisper of flowers and air.
He gave a little smile, tilting his head, making Alfred flush. Together, they glided down the last few steps like a vision two impossibly elegant silhouettes against the marble hall. Lorenzo was waiting at the quay, standing by the boat. The water lapped gently at the stone steps, catching the last shreds of light from the sky. The blue hour wrapped Venice in its spell: façades of crumbling palazzi softened into lavender and shades of blue, the air carrying both warmth from the day and the first breath of evening. Alfred took his hand as Lorenzo steadied them into the boat. He settled onto the cream canvas seat, his blazer falling open with ease, Alfred beside him. The engine purred softly to life, and they pulled away from the palazzo, its Gothic windows glowing faintly from within. The canals shimmered like liquid sapphire, the reflections of lanterns and windows trembling as they sliced through. They leaned into each other as the boat gained speed. Alfred’s arm draped protectively around his shoulders, his head resting for a moment against Alfred's chest. The air was balmy, carrying traces of jasmine and sea salt, and they were impossibly tan and impossibly in love, two figures glowing against the Venetian twilight. He tilted his face up, catching Alfred’s eyes. No words were spoken, but the look was enough. Alfred kissed him on the hairline, lingering there, before murmuring: 'This is my favourite hour. And we're the most beautiful thing in it.' He squeezed Alfred's hand, kissed it, and let the city glide past them, its domes and spires silhouetted against the last cobalt light and the water shimmering like velvet.
The boat stilled into silence as they glided up to the discreet little pier, its blackened timbers brushing against the softly undulating water. A liveried doorman, immaculate, stepped forward as though he had been waiting only for them. He extended his hand, first to him, whose cream trousers caught the last reflection of blue hour, then to Alfred, whose presence seemed to glow with understated strength. The two of them, impossibly elegant, stepped off the boat like a vision conjured from some vanished age. The foyer they entered had the faded grandeur of a once-great Belle Époque hotel. Murano chandeliers glimmered faintly above damask walls that had paled with the decades, and there was that peculiar Venetian patina, a mixture of elegance and decay, that only heightened the atmosphere. The scent of old wood, old tobacco, faint perfume, and sea air clung to the walls as they passed through the space.
Alfred smirked and thought to himself, don't we look wonderful. The world seemed to notice as well: a few diners paused in their conversation, eyes following them as they glided across the tiled floor like a pair who belonged to each other and to some higher order of elegance. They were led to their table: two crimson velvet canapés facing one another, tucked discreetly between two marble pillars in the bar area. Here the light dimmed to a golden haze, flattering every angle, every glance. A low swing of slow jazz drifted from the corner, its brass softened by the room’s velvety acoustics. They sat, almost at once leaning across to touch fingers on the white-linen table. Alfred’s hand folded instinctively around his, and he began, as he often did, to absentmindedly fiddle with his beloved’s fingers, tracing them as though they were talismans. His head tilted, gave him a smile that was part amusement, part deep adoration, a look that sent Alfred’s heart into a quiet tremor. Two Negronis were set down before them in cut-crystal glasses that glowed like garnets in the low light. They raised them, clinking softly, eyes locked. 'To us, always.' They sipped, the bitter-sweetness of Campari mingling with the evening’s languor. For a while they simply listened to the muted jazz, to the murmured conversations of fellow diners, to the faint lap of water beyond the shuttered windows. Alfred, leaning forward, never quite let go of his hand. He, with that imperious yet playful air, smiled before reaching across to adjust his collar with an indulgent smile. There was no need for many words, their glances said enough, emotions simmering beneath the surface. The way Alfred’s eyes followed his in the lamplight, impossibly poised in his soft shirt was enough to betray his adoration to anyone watching. And so they sat, framed by the two great pillars, an exquisite tableau in crimson velvet and golden light: perfectly at ease, perfectly themselves, while the night of Venice seemed to fold itself around them in a slow embrace.
They lingered over their Negronis, the cut crystal catching little fragments of light. The slow swing of the band pulsed gently through the room, brushed piano and muted trumpet curling around them like a velvet ribbons. His eyes lingered on Alfred for a long while as the lamplight caught his profile, on the tenderness written in every line of his expression until he leaned forward, fingers brushing Alfred’s hand with feather-like insistence. His voice was soft, but carried with it the weight of his entire heart. Words, so simply were spoken, fell into Alfred’s soul like stones into deep water. For a moment, his lips parted without sound. Then his face broke into the most unguarded, radiant smile, one that made his eyes gleam warm brown under the dim light. He pressed his hand to his lips before replying. 'Dearest' he whispered, 'that’s exactly what I was thinking tonight. I feel it every time. Every room, every place. I even thought it as we walked down our stairs at home.' The truth of it hit them both at once, and laughter bubbled from them like the tinkling of the piano. They laughed, softly but helplessly, giggling between kisses as if they had stumbled into some secret joke that only they could ever share, their joy an intimate halo all its own. After a while, the maître approached, pausing with a discreet bow and announcing in low tones that their table was ready. They rose. The other diners watched them, some covertly, some openly, all with admiration — as the two men, impossibly elegant glided from their velvet alcove into the dining room beyond. 'Eyes are on us' Alfred remarked as they entered the dining room. 'In that case, let's make it worth their while' he replied astutely and gently hooked into to Alfred's arm as they walked on. Alfred gave him a shimmering dazzling smile, so much it made both their eyes twinkle as they walked on.
If the bar had been velvet and intimacy, the dining room was splendour and grandeur, if not somewhat faded. It unfolded under a vast glass dome, the light dimmed to a dusky radiance. Gilded cornices and mirrored panels caught the glint of candlelight, multiplying its glow a thousandfold. They were led to a table set with the most delicate porcelain and thin-stemmed glasses, the crisp white of the linen glowing against the deep mahogany of the room. They sank into their chairs with Alfred settling opposite him. He looked around pensively, 'my papa came here very often, indeed I believe an aunt got married here in the 1960's' he said as he ran his eyes over the cornices and the large milky glass dome.
Dinner unfolded like a theatre of delights: paper-thin fish carpaccio laced with lemon, a platter of scampi and seafood, and veal so tender it seemed to melt away with the first bite. They ordered a bottle of wine, which glimmered in their glasses like sunlight captured and poured into crystal. Their conversation danced between wit and romance, teasing observations about each other and other diners, playful debates about which jazz had been played earlier and what they would like hear, tender confessions slipped between courses like sweet contraband in rapid succession. Their laughter rang low and easy, weaving itself into the golden hum of the room. Every now and then their hands brushed across the tablecloth, fingers lingering far longer than required, and the room seemed to shrink until there was only the two of them, suspended under the dome, caught in some enchanted evening that belonged to no one else.
And so dinner passed, an enfilade of food, wine, laughter, conversation and tenderness, the kind of meal that would linger in memory long after the taste had gone.
Eventually, the air outside embraced them with a soft warmth, the kind that only late summer could conjure, neither heavy nor stifling, but comfortable, perfumed faintly with salt and stone that had been baked by centuries of sun and water. Above them, the stars glimmered, their reflections trembling like liquid jewels on the black mirror of the lagoon. The water lapped gently against the worn stone steps of the pier as if whispering secrets meant only for lovers or indeed those who listened.
Arm in arm, they strolled through narrow streets and bridges until the space suddenly widened into the vast majesty of Piazza San Marco. There, under the immense velvet sky, they paused. The church rose before them, domes and mosaics faintly illuminated, the gilt flickering as though heaven itself had spilled a little of its treasure over Venice. He tilted his head, gazing at it with that peculiar mixture of familiarity and wonder, while Alfred, his arm firmly around his waist, could not help but look more at him than at the basilica.
'Well, isn't it wonderful! We haven't seen it yet, since we arrived' he murmured, eyes glistening as he admired the peculiar building.
'Yes,' Alfred replied softly but his gaze never left his face.
They lingered there, quiet and entwined, as a few other late strollers like themselves passed, elegant couples, solitary Venetians, the faint echo of footsteps on marble blending with the gentle chords of a lone musician playing beneath the arcades. Time seemed to fold in on itself; it could have been 1933, it could have been now, who knew. 'Shall we have a nightcap at that bar?' as he gestured to an elegant establishment, 'now its free from tourists...' He smiled at Alfred and pulled him along with him over the piazza.
The Piazza lay hushed beneath the strike of midnight, its expanse of flagstones silvery beneath the night sky, as if the very square had dressed itself in satin. The orchestras had long since packed away, the echo of their waltzes still ghosting faintly in the air. At the bar, its gilded salons and arcaded terraces still aglow with a few discreet lamps, he and Alfred lingered at a little table outside, two glasses of port glowing like garnets between them. It was almost deserted, save for another couple seated two tables away, their whispers floating like leaves in the quiet air. Beyond them, the almost empty square, the basilica looming like a dream in marble and shadows. The faint salt-scent from the lagoon mingled with the aroma of the port, and from within the café a lone waiter’s footsteps clicked discreetly on the tiled floor. He reclined slightly in his chair, his cream shirt open at the neck, his dark hair falling in waves touched by the lamplight. Alfred, across from him, leaned in, elbows on the little round table, his gaze fixed on him. 'You see, dearest,' he said softly, the corners of his lips curling with that faint smile, 'this is when Venice or indeed any city is most beautiful. When it belongs only to us.' His voice was hushed but confident, like a secret he entrusted only to Alfred, like many other things.
Alfred’s eyes gleamed, catching both lamplight and devotion. 'No,' he murmured, his hand sliding over the table until his fingers brushed and then laced with his. 'It’s most beautiful when I see it reflected in our eyes. Everything else is only backdrop.' He laughed under his breath, delighted and a bit undone, and bit his lip in that way that made Alfred’s heart stutter. He leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss to the tips of Alfred’s fingers before resting their joined hands on the table as though planting a flag of intimacy. Around them, the square almost seemed to hold its breath. The silence was so profound they could hear the faint rustle of the deserted colonnades, the far-off lap of water against the stone. Like time had slowed. Their conversation meandered from dinner 'the veal was divine,' “you nearly devoured me with that second glass of Viognier, you know' to memories of childhood, to idle plans of tomorrow, to nothing at all, just laughter and tenderness flowing as smoothly as the water in the canals.
Alfred leaned further across the little table, his voice low, intimate. 'Promise me,' he whispered, 'that we will always have nights like this. That wherever we are, Paris, London, here, it will always come down to you and me at a little table, holding hands, looking at the world as if it belongs to us.' His gaze softened until it almost shone, and he whispered back, 'But it does, it does belong to us, dearest. Because we found each other.' Their lips met across the narrow table, softly at first, then lingeringly. 'Pinkie promise!' he said suddenly and held up his pinkie finger and Alfred giggling hooked his pinkie onto his. 'I'm never letting go. Promise' Alfred said smiling broadly. 'Neither will I' he replied their gaze locked on each other. The waiter glanced from a distance but did not intrude; their promise was made only to the stars.
At last they leaned back, sipping the last ruby drops of their port, and the silence wrapped them like velvet. The other couple rose and drifted away, leaving only Alfred and himself, almost alone in the great square. Later, they descended to the pier at San Marco, where Lorenzo waited with their boat. Lorenzo helped them aboard with his usual deference, but once seated in the back, the world shrank again to just the two of them. Alfred draped an arm around him, pulling him close, and they leaned together tenderly, their bodies moving gently with the rhythm of the boat.
The ride was deliberately slow. Lorenzo, discreet and wise, seemed to sense the spell of the evening and steered with ease, prolonging the journey. The domes and campanili of Venice unfolded like theatre scenery: shadow, stone, and starlight, the facades glowing pale against the night sky. Every turn of the canal revealed another glimpse of carved balconies, arching bridges, lanterns swinging low. But he and Alfred hardly noticed, for their eyes were mostly locked on one another. Alfred’s hand absently played with his fingers, lifting them to his lips every so often, while he, glowing from the night’s warmth and from love itself, pressed against him, inhaling that familiar soft floral note that always seemed to cling to Alfred’s skin.
'You know,' Alfred whispered, breaking the silence only with words wrapped in adoration, 'I think this might be one of most beautiful night I’ve ever lived.'
He turned his head, smiling faintly, his own eyes shimmering with quiet joy. 'That’s only because you’re with me,' he replied, half playful, half solemn, kissing Alfred softly as the boat slipped by the lantern-lit façades.
When at last the prow nosed towards their palazzo’s quay, the final rays of sunlight had long since surrendered to the stars. They rose slowly, thanking Lorenzo, and bid him goodnight. Lorenzo inclined his head, watching for a moment as they stepped onto the stone landing, before steering the boat gently away into the night.
Together, they crossed the threshold into the palazzo, stone stairs sweeping before them, shadows rising and falling with the flicker of dimmed lights. They ascended the staircase, the sound of water still echoing faintly from outside, and disappeared into the opulent quiet of their Venetian home, where tenderness, passion, and devotion awaited them as surely as the stars awaited the sky
Alfred’s hand remained at his waist, protective and possessive in equal measure, as if to remind himself that this, this love, this night, this life together, was real and his.
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