Chapter Text
*~*
Arriving back to Tuscany always filled Luca’s tummy with multicolored butterflies—and for no end of reasons. Reasons he’d need Giulia’s hands to help him count.
Among the many reasons, for starters, was merely the sight of his hometown in full-swing. He doesn’t exactly mean the tourists, although that very much added to the grandeur. Last summer, Signor Marcovaldo had wanted to take a trip to the duomo (and surrounding basilicas), so naturally Giulia made it happen for her papà. She took special care in booking transportation and creating a practical itinerary.
It turned out to be a memorable weekend for the three of them, and Luca enjoyed being the anonymous, frivolous family friend who lazily followed them around. Even though he had no real responsibility, he helped with what he could; keeping time, asking for directions, making sure the hotel room remained nice and tidy. For the rest, he was perfectly happy to order beers at Giulia’s expense and flirt with various men for fun.
He remembered vividly the swelling feeling of pride in his chest when he’d seen the pedestrian traffic in Florence that year.
(And the unexplored, trembling spell he felt as he peered up at David of Michelangelo. But that was neither here nor there.)
Tuscany’s off-season was just as beautiful, but like this it simply felt alive. Still, the thing that really drew him back home was the verdant and abundant countryside. Rolling wheat fields, cypress trees dotted across the valley. It was lush and gorgeous, wide open and teeming with possibilities.
Genoa, however, the labyrinthine city of politics and broken dreams, was the exact opposite of what Luca felt he truly was. It carried with it remnants of maritime warfare history, and as a port city, it seemed… soaked. Something about its colorful border felt unsettling, artificial, and, frankly, unbearable. It was the pinnacle of everything Luca hated about his life.
So how was it, then, that once a year the only thing to bring some color back to his cheeks was the sprawling countryside surrounding the train ride back into Tuscany? It was only natural that it had quickly become one of Luca’s favorite parts of returning. It was cathartic to watch the cityscape dissolve into the background behind him, melting away like the things he’d learned there.
What if his heart longs for a part of Italy that lives in the moment, for a change? A part of Italy that thought, that sat, that reflected, that listened and heard, that looked, that tasted, that loved and where magic existed. Why couldn't Luca live there?
After all, how might one expect a daydreamer like Luca to survive in a cold and unromantic place like Genoa? The simple scent of the warm, freshly baked air of B., the small town where Giulia's father lived, healed Luca's soul. The sparsely populated fields preceding it were inhabited only by farmers and their families, their livestock. Exactly everything they needed, without going overboard. Houses built only with limestone and terracotta. Each brick contained more fantasy than anything Luca could imagine in his head.
The whole thing was just unlike anything you would find on the coast. It was self-sufficient, it was close-knit, it was home.
…If it wasn’t already obvious, Luca was quite the sentimental type. And besides—he loved any excuse he got to whip out his old pinhole camera. And now that summertime has returned, Italy is in bloom. Bright red poppies lining roadsides, orange and lemon trees finally bearing their fruit. Lavender-purple sage hung from every garden, wisteria, snapdragons, hydrangeas, honeysuckle. There was no better word to describe it than magic.
For as far back as Luca cares to remember, this has been his life. Every June when uni let out for holiday, he and Giulia packed up their shared dormitory and caught the soonest train back to B. It was close to three hours from the coast, and one hour into Tuscany. With this, they’d have some much needed time away from the city, and Giulia could look after her papà; something Luca was happy to accompany her for. Besides—thus far, life as a student in uni had traumatized him, and for free room and board, he couldn’t beat this little respite from academia.
…And, perhaps there was one more thing that Luca isn’t mentioning which keeps him crawling back to B. year after year.
It was a good thing he remembered to bring sunscreen. And sunscreen. And more sunscreen. If he was going to be spending his days here in B. waiting out in the sun, his skin would need protection. Never could catch a decent tan anyway. It's a worthy concern – at least worryingly enough – to cause Luca to take his head away from the train window and start rummaging through his carry-on. Yes, they’re still in the train when he begins coating himself in SPF.
Giulia slowly lowers her magazine, glaring at him sidelong. It’s brilliant, the incriminating look of it. “What about it, idiot?”
Luca grins in retaliation. “You know why.”
(Yes, the both of them know good and well.)
And truth be told, Luca couldn't care less. He knew the first stage of the summer and would not lose heart all because Giulia disapproved. No, he was too involved. He had once dreamed of having nothing left to live for, and ever since then he had sworn to himself that nothing should matter more than his pursuit of happiness.
“The gardener?” Giulia intoned.
“The gardener” she had said, so plainly about the man who was anything but. Giulietta was so irritating sometimes with her attitudes and complexes. Anyone with eyes could call her bluff, the scarlet that rose to her cheeks. She acted as if she weren’t totally bewitched by him just like everyone else in B., the man whose grin made flowers bloom. The man who helped because it brought him true happiness.
Didn’t you know how to dance? Here, he’d teach you. (Never mind the disgusting crush you may or may not have on him! He would look into your eyes and still hold you tight.) You were riding into town? He’d ride with you to keep you company (he needed to pick up a few things anyway). You sprained your ankle? (He did too, once, when he was young and very, very stupid.) He’s the first at your bedside with a small pot of freshly cut tulips. (Get well soon.) A mosquito stung you at your ferragosto party yesterday? And you’ve got sunburn? (No worries.) He would give you a fresh jar of the aloe vera he’d prepared just last night.
Never let it be said, however, that this man was good at letting himself be helped in return. He was impervious and had mastered the art of turning down a favor. He may be the kindest, but he was never the easiest to understand. While he was B.’s sweetheart, he was also B.’s longest unsolved mystery. Little to nothing about him was known; except that he had grown up without a stable family, neither mother nor father, let alone any siblings.
Items to his name include: an irascible cat named Machiavelli, a pulverized bicycle that he sometimes rode into town, a dinky apartment that he splits the rent with a roommate to be able to afford, his flower shoppe, and a bright attitude. Despite his questionable adolescence, he was exquisite to be with; polite and charming, offensively handsome and insightful. He was Tuscany’s unsung hero.
He had no shortage of admirers, Luca shamelessly included. Popular among men and women. He was at the top of every guest list, and ferragosto celebrations loved to have him. He seemed to check every box for most of the townspeople. They called him la muvi star; carrying with him all the refinement and tragedy of the men they watched in their soap operas. His happiness was clear, but his misery was acute. It had become a sort of unspoken rule: B. was to look after and take care of such a man.
Customers visited him at the fioreria for a trade of services. He’d sell them a bunch of daffodils, and in return they’d slip him a leftover container of last night’s dinner. Over the years, he’d earned the vague reputation of ‘village handyman’. Yes, he’d come out of the womb with a green thumb, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t assemble a divan or replace a lightbulb. He was no good at either of those things, of course, but one always needed a reason to give that man their hard earned money.
He was their novelty item, lovelier than a holiday. The everyman, decidedly solitary and in difficulty. Almost everyone in B. was deeply invested in the successes and pursuits of their village florist.
And Luca, for one, was absolutely infatuated.
Anyway, how could he not be enamored with someone so divine when everything else in his life was so plain? Every day he ached for another glimpse. He’d rush out during breakfast, much to the exasperation of Giulia and her papà (who both knew exactly where he was headed—there was nothing he could do about it, it was temperamental). Some mornings he barely managed to slip his sandals on before mounting his bicycle. Eagerly, he’d pedal down to the village mercato—the crowded outdoor market just before the square where the flower shoppe is located—right during opening hour.
In the midst of the morning rush of store openings, of old shopkeepers nursing their caffeine addictions, trucks pulling up with crate deliveries, Luca saw him there from across the way. The village florist, idly carrying out some ordinary task for his shoppe. Restocking the back, crouched down to write out the day’s specials on the blackboard out front, propping open the shutters—it hardly mattered. Every move beguiled Luca, every curve and every inch. He was beginning to feel like a dirty stalker, holding his breath and obsessing over the man day after day.
Still, Luca felt himself a valued customer. Yes, he felt loose and at ease around the fioreria. He could be himself and even strike up a conversation with the florist if the opportunity ever arose. Mornings were almost always busy, but Luca created room for himself. (“Which do you prefer: orchids or magnolias?” He asked dreamily, draped languidly against the counter. A line of about three other customers waited impatiently behind him. “That’s like asking me to pick a favorite child,” replied the florist, equally enthused.)
To the Marcovaldos’ irritation, Luca routinely came back with more flowers than he could carry. Orchids or magnolias or both, because he loved the fioreria and he loved the florist, and nothing mattered more to him than affecting his delight.
Or at least, as much as his nerves would allow. He was still an idiot with a crush. Despite their difference in age, he was intoxicated by the power he felt that he had over the older man. On the hottest day of the year, the florist turned and smiled if Luca called his name.
(And that was the problem.)
So that’s why when Giulia says The gardener? on the train on the first day of summer, Luca is scandalized. How careless could she possibly be? He felt that it was his divine right to correct her. “The florist, you mean.”
“Same difference,” she hesitates, folding up her magazine. It seems there’s something she wants to say but is worried about. Every word from her mouth conspired against Luca. And of course, since she is Giulia—whatever she says should be irritatingly sensible. “…Luca?”
He didn’t want to hear it.
“What about your…” Remembering their whereabouts, the woman trailed off ungracefully. Instead, she lay her open hand on her throat, stroking it lightly and watching him expectantly. “Must I remind you what happened last year?”
“No.” Luca cut in harshly, the guilt instantly gripping his bones. He turned his face away, nerves on edge. He couldn’t believe she would dare bring up the subject right now. It wasn’t important anyway.
“Luca—you know what will happen if you get carried away again,” for a moment, he thought he heard irritation in her voice. Then she sighed, leaning forward across the aisle to firmly take his hands in her own. Luca refused to look at her. “You don’t want another flare-up.”
“I won’t,” he muttered, not even believing it himself. Still, he had some sort of hope. After all, he was older now, and he’d learned a few self-preservation techniques since then. He wasn’t a teenager with raging, rampant hormones anymore. He was sure he could control himself; his impulses, his thoughts, his feelings. His words.
“How can you know for sure?” She squeezes his hands tightly, practically pleading with him. This time, she scoots to the very edge of her seat and leans in closer, making it impossible for Luca to avoid meeting her eyes. “You know how… obsessed you get.”
He hates how much that word offends him. “I’m not obsessed.” Luca says, pushing her away. “And I’m older now. Would it hurt you just to try trusting me for once?”
The face Giulia makes immediately causes Luca to regret his words. She gnaws on her lip, hesitating. “…That’s another thing.”
Dio mio.
“Luca, aren’t you too young for him?”
(Ah, yes. There it was. That little inconvenience.)
Age was only a number. And besides, it was nothing abhorrent. Luca was in his early twenties, and the florist was… what, early thirties? They were both of age to consent on their own, and Luca didn’t worry about it in the slightest.
It was the chase that was eating him alive.
“Reckon he’s got someone already. What will you do then? You’d be heartbroken, that’s what. You’ll have another flare-up, and it’ll be my job to clean it all up. What if he’s taken, Luca? Perhaps a girlfriend? Someone nice?” (If only she knew it wasn’t even a question of women, just time.) “After all, he is very handsome. I don’t see how someone like him wouldn’t have a girl.”
Luca simply ignored her, continuing in his sunscreen pursuits. He was completely indifferent and rather bored of his friend’s well-intentioned harassment. It was all nonsense. And in any case, it wasn’t as if Luca cared much for either one of the issues at hand. He doesn’t know what on earth gave Giulia the impression that he did. As far as Luca was concerned, this hypothetical ‘girlfriend’ of his fiorello’s was a mistress. What one doesn’t know won’t kill them, and even if his fiorello did have someone, it didn’t seem to be of any concern on the older man’s end.
Flirting wasn’t a crime, was it?
It was just for the summer, anyway. It wouldn’t matter when he returned to Genoa. It was simply a little game he and the florist liked to play to pass the time. And this year, Luca intends to win. To win, of course, requires strategy. If Luca had anything, it was strategy; ask anyone.
Yes, he had a plan. And it was practically perfect in every way. He’d even go so far as to call it fail-proof, really.
*~*
Bent against the wall, Luca keeps his hands held neatly behind his back.
(And he waits.)
With his little white cutoff shorts and his green, billowy polo (two buttons undone), he would pose an irresistible threat.
(No honorable man was immune to the fine art of sexual temptation.)
Now, the fioreria is closed for siesta at the moment—all of Tuscany is—but in approximately… (A fidgety glance at his wristwatch) three minutes…
Hmm…
The shade blimps out, the man from inside the small corner shoppe pushing it open with his muscled, tan arms, and—
He doesn’t notice Luca. Not at first. Because Alberto Scorfano the Village Florist is busy reopening up shoppe; humming an aria, locking the shutters into place. He walks away for a moment before retracing his steps to give his cat a seemingly obligatory scritch behind his favorite ear. With his free hand he drops some fresh magenta peonies into a clear jar.
Luca observes a little longer, unnoticed but amused and very much endeared. Then he loudly clears his throat.
The florist freezes, his attention brutally stolen, like a train off its rails. He finishes wiping off his hands with a rag, draping the tattered piece of fabric over his shoulder. Once more, he moves toward the front of the fioreria where his cat snoozes away on the countertop. He rolls his eyes at Machiavelli, shaking his head and smiling. Absent-mindedly, the man looks out across the way toward the mercato, hands on his hips.
Luca brings a hand up to cover his mouth, the last futile attempt at stifling his laughter. “Quite a lovely day, isn’t it?”
The florist peers around curiously, leaning out over the front counter. When he sees Luca, his eyes light up with joy in recognizing him. A handsome and boyish grin instantly spreads across his face, left cheek dimple and all. With little success, he tries to tamp down his glee. “It is now, no?”
All that nerve he’d built up during the train ride dissolved within seconds. (A game was nothing without its obstacles. It seems he’d forgotten about this feeling and was now being violently reminded.)
Luca opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His heart stuttered in his chest. Che romantico.
“I’ve rendered you speechless.”
Luca clamps his mouth shut.
“Well, would you look at that?” The older man shrugs, something wicked playing on his lips. “Luca Paguro.” He says it appraisingly, reverently. “Right before my eyes.”
He smiles warmly to himself, the year long itch scratched at last. He doesn’t speak, just appraises the man across from him. Then he drops his head back once more, eyes on the painted indigo sky. Back pressed against the terracotta wall. “Ciao, Alberto.”
“Ciao, Luca. Long time no see,” The other man’s voice wastes no time in taking on a flirtatious tone. “Fleeing Genoa again, are we?”
Luca lets his eyes flutter closed, his smile growing wider. Ahhhh. “What can I say? I can’t seem to get comfortable anywhere I go.”
A splendid laugh escapes the other man. It makes Luca’s self respect vanish into thin air. “Well, I hope you’ll take it easy this summer. Would you like to buy something? Poppies, perhaps? To kick off the season?”
Luca turns his head away, lest Alberto see the maniacal smile that has grown on his face. Suddenly a coughing fit befell him, preceded by an ominous tickle in his lung. Panic seized his entire body, but he quickly regained control. Taking slow breaths and clearing his head, he managed to avoid a full blown episode. Then he raised his elbow to his mouth to cough a bit, if only just to rid himself of the thick, silky blockage in his airways.
As if nothing even happened at all, Luca put his game face back on and cast a thoughtful gaze toward the florist. “No, I couldn’t possibly. Poppies are much too bright. You don’t have anything glum do you?”
“Glum?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh?” Alberto’s grin falters. “Feeling down in the dumps?”
“You could say that.”
“Well, I don’t have any sad flowers if that’s what you mean.” He’s teasing.
“Why not? You’re a florist, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you have something for any occasion?”
“Who says I don’t?”
“I do.”
Alberto blinks. “Flowers are an inherently joyful species… they signify perseverance and prosperity…” he explains, sounding quite robotic for a moment. And then he pauses, realizing rather quickly that this doesn’t call for a speech; Luca isn’t being serious, he too should match the mood. “If you’d like, I would be happy to offer something that might combat your sadness, rather than encourage it.”
Luca strokes his chin, humming. “And what if I were to decline your offer?”
Alberto shrugs again, grinning self consciously as he turns away. “Then I’m afraid I’d be terribly embarrassed.”
“Alright,” Luca nods once, looking as if he liked the sound of that. “What exactly did you have in mind, fiorello mio?”
Alberto’s face turns red, the color rising to his cheekbones. He is—Luca realizes too late—momentarily taken by surprise by the chosen term of endearment. He always is. It takes some getting used to and Luca couldn’t blame him. In Alberto’s defense, it was a little risqué.
Nonetheless, Luca had good reason to be so direct. The florist was perceptive, yes, but he was clueless when it came to sensitive information. This man had no idea what to do with the fact that half the village held some varying degree of affection for him. And Luca wasn’t like half the village, dammit. He was going to do something about this ache in his chest, but he was in a time crunch. He needed Alberto to know exactly his intent with all this, and he wasn’t going to leave room for any doubt or confusion.
Even so, no matter how hard he tried, Alberto always found some way to rationalize all of Luca’s shameless (and desperate) flirtatious advances. Yes, he could adapt to a sensual term of endearment pretty quickly, and he would happily go on ignoring it for the rest of the summer. Let Luca have his fun anyway.
“I have a few in mind, actually. If…” he seems a little embarrassed by his eagerness. “That’s alright?”
A rush of affection floods Luca’s entire body, and he smiles weakly at the florist. “Don’t leave a single thing out.”
“Wouldn’t I dare?” At once, Alberto is up for the challenge. He’s already disappeared into the tent when he requests Un momento.
Luca waits there by himself for a long time, basking out in the Tuscan sun. Tracing the lines in the old terracotta wall he’s leaned up against. He makes the mistake of imagining that he’s tracing Alberto’s chest instead, and ends up making himself lovesick just thinking about it.
He fiddles with the hem of his shorts. Readjusts his collar; making sure the right amount of skin is showing. After a while, Machiavelli even runs by, and Luca kneels to scritch him behind his ear as he remembered Alberto doing. Apparently he had remembered wrong, because the cat cries out and nips at Luca’s finger. The man winces, rubbing his sore skin as he watches the mean old thing prance away.
Finally Alberto reemerges with an armful of different prepackaged bouquets, laying them all out on the counter like a deck of cards. Before he can say anything, Luca snitches. “Your evil kitty cat just bit me.”
“Oh?” It looks as though Alberto is trying his hardest not to smile again. “I suppose he mistook you for something edible.”
Luca blinks.
The florist continues, murmuring, “Can’t say I haven’t made the same mistake once or twice myself.”
Luca’s mouth falls open.
“Oh no,” Alberto frowns playfully. “Did I offend you?”
“No,” Luca mutters, petulant and indignant.
“Good. But—in all seriousness, I do apologize.” He glares at his cat as he jumps down from the counter once more, making room for the bouquets. “On his behalf. Were you touching him by any chance?”
“…No.”
Alberto hums. “That certainly is odd. Please don’t pay him any mind—he sometimes gets grumpy in the afternoons.” He says conspiratorially, although he still looks embarrassed. “It’s hard to imagine why on such a lovely day.”
Luca pretends not to be charmed and swallows down another oncoming cough. “So it is.”
“Why don’t you come up here and take a look at what I’ve chosen?”
Pointedly, Luca leans back against the wall again. Folds his arms over his chest. “No thanks. I quite like it where I am.”
Alberto gives him a dubious look but smiles nonetheless. “…Alright then. I’ll just sell these to you from all the way over here. How does that sound to you?”
“Quite good.”
“Bene, no problem.” He lifts up the first bouquet, hesitantly flowing into his spiel. “I’ve got some lovely white orchids here. They are seasonal, so they grow during summer but tend to flower more during the spring—that’s why they look like little bulbs at this time. I thought seeing them bloom later on might be worth the reward. Like humans, they are multi-faceted; on the one hand they represent faith, humility and safety. But on the other hand, they can also symbolize innocence as well as purity—”
“Certainly not those ones, then.”
The florist slouches a bit, shaking his head and tut-tutting at Luca’s crude implication. “All right, I get it. Shall I show you the next one then?”
“Yes, let’s.”
Alberto trades the orchids for a different bouquet. He looks down at it with such soft, vulnerable openness that it makes Luca feel sick with affection. Yes, it was hard to mistake; that distinctive tenderness of a grower. “These are indigo hydrangeas—sono bellissimi—and by god, they are a pain in the ass to cultivate. But their radiant and intricate beauty makes this apparent, no?”
Luca hates the fact that he is actually a little intrigued. He shakes himself out of it before Alberto is able to fully notice. It was probably his favorite thing in the world, giving the florist a hard time. So he goes ahead and says the two simplest words one can utter about flowers. “Ooh, pretty. Tell me more, fiorello mio.”
Once again, Alberto looks slightly put off. But this time he recovers in an infinitesimal amount of time. It is rather impressive, Luca had to admit. With him it was one extreme to the next; because now his new expression makes it visibly apparent just how much the name pleases him. “Of course. Commonly, hydrangeas are believed to represent gratitude, grace and beauty. However, some readings have found that this flower symbolizes a deep emotion.”
Luca tilts his head. “What sort of emotion?”
“Whatever you feel, I reckon. If you’re still on the market for something glum, this might be your best bet.” The resulting all-knowing grin is almost enough to make Luca reconsider. But what Alberto doesn’t know is that Luca has bet too much on this day only to give in so quickly.
“Hmm,” Luca pretends to think about it, long and hard. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t suppose you have anything else?”
“Well, this is a flower shoppe.” He presses his lips together to keep from grinning again. “So, yes.”
“Show me something bright, then.”
“Sure, I’ve got this one here.” He holds up yet another bouquet. “You’re familiar with jasmine, no? È classico. One can never go wrong with jasmine. It’s delicate and makes any room smell wonderful.”
“Doesn’t it have some sort of deep meaning like the rest of your flowers?”
Alberto makes a face. “It depends on who you’re asking.” He pauses yet again. “And which country you’re in.”
“I’m asking you, in Italia. Come on, Alberto. Don’t stall.”
Alberto scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “All right then. Jasmines are known to symbolize beauty, and—more notoriously—sensuality. The scent is quite potent, but the flower only blooms at night, meaning it can also symbolize modesty.”
“So which is it? Sensuality or modesty?”
“That’s entirely up to you, caro.”
Luca blinks, dumbfounded. Golden delight bubbled up inside him like soda pop. This was ridiculous and the florist should have known it. He was dying to call the older man out. There was no such thing as ‘the meaning of a flower’. There couldn’t have been. It was purely speculation, subjective, a matter of human opinion. A flower could mean anything, and that was the beauty of it. What was the point of perverting all this?
Better yet, why did Luca bother taking the time to feel slightly targeted by each choice when that was exactly how it was meant to be? Was this intentional on Alberto's part, or was flower symbolism made vague enough that it could be applied to just about anyone? Was the language of flowers simply another case of horoscopic nonsense?
When the florist is met with silence, he tries again. “…If you’d like, you can request something else. Is there a particular flower you had in mind? Or perhaps you’d like to customize your own arrangement for ten lire. A mèlange of sorts, if that better suits your fancy?”
Luca shakes his head. “Haven’t you got any white roses in stock?”
Alberto hesitates, looking pained. “Yes, technically speaking. But I don't typically sell those to the general public. I grow them specially for wedding ceremonies.”
“Couldn’t I just have a few? I’d be willing to pay extra.”
“That’s tempting.” says Alberto dryly. When the younger man doesn’t respond, the florist’s eyes go a little wide. His tormented expression is quite telling. “Are you having a wedding ceremony?”
Luca chews the inside of his cheek, glancing down at his wristwatch again. There would certainly be a wedding ceremony, but not for Luca. It would be Giulia’s special day long before Luca ever got his own. Besides, he wasn’t interested in holy matrimony unless it involved a certain florist. But that particular bit of information was unimportant. Alberto wouldn’t know the difference anyway. “If my plan goes accordingly, then yes.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Would you like an invite? I could add you to the guest list. The very tip-top.” He hums. “Actually, I might even need help planning it. You know, logistics and budgeting and all that.”
Alberto stares at him.
Luca continues on with unadulterated mirth. “Or perhaps you’d like to be a groomsman. Then, as a token of my gratitude, I’d attend your wedding ceremony as your groomsman. I can already imagine your lovely wife. Whoever she is, she’ll be very lucky.”
“My wife.” Alberto repeats dumbly. Luca grins encouragingly. Or perhaps shit-eatingly.
“That’s right, and your children. What beautiful children you will produce, fiorello mio.”
“That’s quite enough, Luca.”
“What’s the matter? Have I offended you?”
“No,” he frowns. “Only… I can’t exactly picture myself starting a family.”
“Well—why not? You’ve got all the qualities of a loving father. At least I imagine so. My own father isn’t anything to go off of, but you are miles more empathetic than him.”
Alberto looks caught between thanking Luca for the (hypothetical) compliment and the concern for his implied paternal issues. For a moment, he struggles for the right words. “For one thing, it’s exceptionally pricey.” Then he grins, ginger and self-effacing. “And — I don’t know if you know this, but I’m not exactly flush with cash.”
Of course he knows that. Everyone in B. knows that. It was probably one of the more subtle things that made him undeniably endearing. Maybe even alluring. “You can still live a perfectly happy life with no money at all, no?”
Alberto grimaces. “I’m… not sure how true that is.”
That was stupid. Better yet, it was unabashedly offensive—but the florist had always been a good sport about these things. It was a dangerous recipe for Luca’s uncontrollable urge to get a rise out of the older man. They might go on like this for hours, he presumed, but he was ready to drop it entirely. He had tortured him enough. “Oh well. In any case, you will certainly be my groomsman.”
(Almost enough.)
Alberto makes a sour face, but he was already chuckling. “M’not sure how I feel about that, caro. Sounds a bit cruel to me.”
Luca tilts his head, eyes wide and innocent. “How so, fiorello mio?”
“I shouldn’t say.” Alberto softly clears his throat, clapping once. Back to business. “May I show you some other variations I’ve got in white? I also have daisies, lilies, camellias, tulips—”
“No thank you,” Luca goes back to leaning against the wall. He closes his eyes, letting the sun warm his face. “I’ve seen quite enough for one day.”
Alberto steals one furtive glance at all the colorful bouquets still scattered in front of him on the counter; the ones he hadn't yet demonstrated. “You’re one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. I’ll give you that.”
“What ever do you mean?”
“The whole thing was a game.”
“Not entirely.”
“Per favore,” Alberto scoffs, moving somewhere in the tent that muffles his voice. Luca hears water being poured into a dish, a bag being opened. “Word on the street is that you, caro, can’t even keep a plant alive.”
Luca’s eyes pop open. “‘Word on the street’?”
“Gossip spreads like wildflowers.”
(Wait, was that the saying—? Ah well, it didn’t matter.) “Where did you even hear such a silly rumor?”
“It’s a small world around here.” Alberto shrugs, easy-breezy.
“That isn’t really what you wanted to say.”
The florist looks stricken. Then he relaxes. “You’re right. The truth is, a little birdy told me.” He stands up from feeding his cat, dusting his hands off on the front of his apron. It was clear that he was on about something, and clearly he thought it was funny when clearly it wasn’t. Still, it seemed pretty on-brand for him to be endlessly amused by the one-sided dearth of information. Luca, on the other hand, was getting frustrated. “He landed right here,” he pats himself on the shoulder, stabbing Luca with a coy look. “And whispered it in my ear.”
“Be serious, Alberto.”
“Che peccato,” he throws his hands up. “But I’m having so much fun!”
“Is that right?”
Alberto nods shyly.
A delighted shiver rippled through Luca’s body. “What if I said that I was too?”
“Then your secret is safe with me.” Alberto gestures that his lips are sealed, tosses the key somewhere over his shoulder. The two men share a laugh, then everything calms down. He watches, interested, seeming to ruminate on something for a long and wordless moment. “…If I told you that it might have something to do with a certain… Marcovaldo woman, would you consider her death to be imminent?”
Giulia. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of Giulia? She was always meddling in Luca’s little dalliances. Doesn’t she know to keep her hands out of what isn’t hers? Oh, and to think! Luca can just picture it now; Giulia breaking away during siesta to sneak around town, sneaking up to the little flower shoppe and requesting a custom made arrangement to buy some of Alberto’s time. The two of them engage in some light gossip as he prepares the decorative paper and ribbons to tie her flowers up with. They giggle and whisper, and she throws in a bad word or two about Luca simply for—for what? Effect?
Oh, he was going to rip her a new ass—
Luca violently clears his throat, deciding how he feels rather quickly. “Not imminent. Impending.”
“Right,” Alberto’s eyes are slightly widened as he nods, once, like he’d heard something he shouldn’t have. “Brilliant. And I suppose that makes me a suspect of interest?”
Luca reddens, his eyes also going a little wide. He was uncharacteristically self-conscious as he averted his gaze from the aggravatingly handsome man before him. “That’s right, fiorello mio.”
It seems to take a moment for it to click for Alberto. And when it does, he tuts. Not impressed. Almost icy about it. He was so irritating sometimes. “Save it, won’t you?”
In the seconds that pass, Luca is momentarily speechless. Every inch of his body wants him, inside and out, and he wants so badly to retaliate. But now he’s finding it hard to function as he did before. What was happening to him? He couldn’t understand this feeling.
“…Are you really not going to buy anything?”
Luca peers at him, slowly losing his nerve. It was a fairly loaded thing for Alberto to have asked, assuming the older man had a vague knowledge of Luca’s background and all. It was true, he didn’t exactly have a tight budget—and not because he was a hard worker or anything like that. No, it was all his parents’ doing. They’d had the wherewithal to get Luca into Università di Genova, which turns out to be a perpetual and massive waste of everyone’s time. Not money, because that part hardly mattered with as much of it as they had.
The truth was, Luca simply had no interest in higher education. It bored him just like the rest of his life. He supposed the only good thing to come out of attending the fine arts institution was meeting Giulia. And by effect, of course, Alberto Scorfano the village florist.
His amore.
Then, no. Luca wouldn’t buy anything. At least not yet. And when he did, it would be everything. So he leans back against the wall, gaze lingering hotly on his fiorello. Keeps playing the game. “Only time, Alberto. Only time.”
He doesn’t want this moment to end, never ever. Not an ounce. If Alberto was getting annoyed, so be it. At least Luca was starting to get somewhere with this, maybe. If it takes a suspension of time, that’s what he wants. He wants to bake in the sun, in his little white cutoff shorts. He wants to keep feeling Alberto, this magnetic stripe of lust licking up his core. It’s making him feel languid.
The line of his jaw, the way his body looks in that too-small apron, the haphazard dirt smudges along the sides of it. The way his biceps bulge against the fabric of his shirt. The charm in which he exudes simply by being. Luca pondered the logistics of Alberto Scorfano quite often. Perhaps the florist was aware of his good-looks and the natural effect it had on his customers.
Alberto was no stranger to the bizarre and arbitrary art of economics. He knew how to manipulate a sale or two, if need be. Everyday he managed to sell a decent amount of flowers—seeing as how flowers aren’t exactly a necessity.
Sometimes the impulse to buy something from the beautiful man’s shoppe came naturally upon a glance at him and his eccentric cat. After all, they were an iconic duo. Other times it required prompting, and Alberto still needn’t lift a finger. A tailor made compliment or the flash of that prize-winning grin, and he’s all out of forget-me-nots.
It was genius, Luca had to admit.
(Although his cat wasn’t the only Machiavelli.)
“Funny,” Leaning out over the green windowsill, Alberto peers keenly at Luca. “Dilemmas for trade?”
Luca hums conversationally. He feigns reverence. “Well how about that?”
Alberto shakes his head, laughing. He scoops his lousy cat off the windowsill and places him onto the ground somewhere behind the counter. “Well, I suppose I can’t have everything I want.”
Luca watches the florist sidelong. “And neither can I.”
“Buy a flower?”
Luca shrugs, in no hurry to do so. “I’ve got no money, Alberto. Just time and more time.” he drawls.
“No money? None at all?”
“Not an ounce.”
“Well then. It’s on the house, hmm?” he brandishes a red rose from seemingly thin air. Luca doesn’t move, just lies there against the wall, silently assessing the incriminating flower. Slowly, he raises his eyebrows in question. He’s too lazy, too lazy to even speak. Was he melting before the first gelato of the summer, or was Alberto being a bore?
“Alberto… veramente?”
“What’s wrong?” He blinks. Luca may be desperate, but he isn’t cheap. And he isn’t saying that roses aren’t romantic, it was just so… banal. It was going to take a little more than just the title flower of romance. Give him meaning, give him depth. They were older now, right? He could read between the lines. Hell, it excited him to do so.
“Can’t you do any better than that?” He turns his face up toward the sky again, letting his arms dangle uselessly at his sides. “I don’t call you fiorello mio for no reason. You tend the flowers, after all.”
“…That I do.” He seems surprised at Luca’s insistence. Like he’d never had to try harder than a single long-stemmed rose. “Not a fan of roses?”
“It’s not that, I just—” Luca grimaces. “It’s…”
“Go on, then.”
“It’s a little cliché, don’t you think?”
Alberto appraises the flower between his fingers with a newfound type of bewilderment. Then his eyes flick back up at Luca, something actively dawning on him.
Luca raises his eyebrows, overzealous and expectant.
It was delightful, like watching the sunrise. Because here Luca has come, barging back to Tuscany and challenging everything Alberto thought he knew.
“…Is it?”
Luca checks his fingernails, not committing to his response. “You’re the professional here. Not me.”
Alberto hums, still eyeing the gracefully arched red rose. “I suppose it is sort of… classic.”
“Outdated?” Luca supplies.
“Old-fashioned, more like.”
“Obsolete.” The way Luca says it leaves no room for argument. Begrudgingly, Alberto hums in agreement before retreating back into the shoppe once more.
What nonsense. Some florist he is. Luca smirks to himself, leaning forward to see if he couldn’t catch a glimpse of his battered fiorello. Perhaps check if he’d wiped his hands on the back pockets of his tan khaki shorts. The man was notoriously careless.
Or maybe his back was sweating and his shirt had a large sweat stain in it—it was a very hot day after all. Perhaps he should check. It might make good private time material later on.
(No, that’s ridiculous. The heat makes him delirious, that's all.)
Before long, Luca grew frustrated with his own depraved temperament. He had fooled himself into believing that it mattered whether or not Alberto had soil on his khakis. Without thinking, he ditched his dutiful post against the wall, refusing to stand watch any longer. He’s standing at the front counter now—the way a paying customer is meant to—and is rewarded with an unobstructed view inside the tent.
Terracotta vases of various shapes and sizes, artfully crafted, host flowers of almost every type. In the pounds of dark, rich soil, colorful plants sprawl out in every direction. Alberto is completely enveloped and haloed with vibrant colors. He seems to be right at home, maneuvering between the narrow rows of storage, all filled with plants. Machiavelli jumps off one of the metal racks, grazing its owner's shins.
Alberto mindlessly steps over the cat, the two working around one another in perfect tandem in such a small space. Luca would be lying if he said it didn’t make him want to kiss that man silly. Marry him, move in together. He’d knit sweaters for the florist and his stupid cat for when the harsh wintertime came around again.
The whole thing was practically a daydream.
Even more so, the sheer amount of lush nature that surrounded them was equally astounding. Premade bouquets of poppies and roses rest around in buckets outside of the shop, on sale for no more than five lira. Elegant snowbells and bellflowers, softly colored plumeria, energetic colza. White honeysuckle bloom from potted shrubs, and around them are white lilies—a symbol of Italy.
It was unbelievable just how much magic Alberto has managed to pack into this square inch pop-up shoppe. For each province, a piece of their beautiful country is delicately preserved in its own earthen pot. It was brilliant, the prospect of it.
“Something a little more subtle, then?” Alberto calls over his shoulder, carefully moving a huge pot to the edge of the rack. Luca almost jumps, having fallen into another daydream. He tended to fantasize as if it were a criminal activity. He really needed to get his clutches back into reality. Not that his current occupation did much to keep him grounded. The sweet scent of jasmine that permeated all around him was enough to send him into a full-blown spiral. That, and the dirty rag hanging from Alberto's back pocket, swinging with every little movement of his hips.
It was alluring and hypnotic. And Luca wouldn't be embarrassed if he got caught staring. Beautiful rumps are made to be looked at. That's how it went: he didn't set the rules.
“If you can handle it.” Luca jokes instead, forced to shake his head to physically clear his guilty conscience. “You're not exactly an expert in the art of refinement.”
"To hell with niceties, that's what I always say." Alberto doesn't seem more worried than a moment ago. He's taking down a vase of what looks like carnations.
"That’s no fun." He tries not to smile as Alberto approaches again, finally finding himself face to face with the man of his infatuation. As if he couldn't be more handsome. It was amazing how his green eyes took on a slightly turquoise hue in the sunlight. The freckles scattered along the crest of his nose seemed to darken under the scorching Tuscan sun.
(When this city's countryside bloomed for the season, why shouldn't its people do the same? Alberto was wonderful, undeniably. Each year, more intense than the last, the desire for him burns more ardently.)
And if Alberto doesn't squint at the sun, then Luca has no reason not to believe that he is shy. Shy, son of a gun! Because, with a look like his it might actually be impossible to feel shy!
“What is it?” Luca can’t help himself from asking. The very idea of it is making him sound indignant. Alberto shakes his head, his expression still an interesting mix of cocky embarrassment as he effortlessly carries a large pot. “Well, go on then. Explain yourself.”
“Fun? Is that what you wanted all along?”He places the heavy ceramic on the counter, scraping the surfaces harshly, and both men flinch at the sound of it. Then he picks a dark-colored carnation straight from the vase. For a moment he holds it between his fingers, as if the thought of his idea of him makes him nervous. Suddenly he’s grinning at Luca. It's a shiny, flickering thing. “You should have just told me.”
“That’s not subtle either.” He inhales deeply, not so subtly, as Alberto reaches out and tucks the carnation behind Luca's ear. The man smells good. So good. Like eucalyptus and rosemary. Wet grass, fresh like a daisy with drops of the morning dew still decorating its petals. It seems that his scent had a thousand layers, and each of them made Luca dizzy.
He wanted to peel Alberto apart, petal by delicate petal, as if he were a rose. He wanted to examine him up close through a magnifying glass, intimately discover each individual thing that there was to know about him.
Having placed the flower, Alberto’s hand doesn’t leave Luca’s face. It lingers, drifts down, softly caressing his jaw.
“Not at all,” he’s whispering now. His thumb slides downward toward Luca’s chin, then up to his bottom lip. Luca's breath goes shallow and he closes his eyes. It’s better this way, he thinks. This way, Alberto must keep guessing. Though, it’s debatable how much of a secret is actually left.
(The both of them, it turns out, have yet to master “the art of being subtle”.)
Alberto’s thumb drags downward once more, lightly tugging at Luca’s lip. Sweeping across the sensitive skin, sending shivers of pleasure down the younger man’s spine.
“This is getting rather silly, Luca.”
He softly breathes in, not opening his eyes. “I‘ll say.”
“Is this how you want it to be?”
“If I told you how I want it to be, you wouldn’t like me anymore. In fact, you’d probably hate me.”
Alberto chuckles silently. “Impossible.”
Luca’s eyes flutter open. “W—what?”
“I said it’s impossible. Who could hate you?”
His eyes drifted away, partly in thought, and partly because his own anxiety was starting to get the better of him. He doesn't understand this feeling. Heat pooled deep within him, every part of him screamed for Alberto. Again, again, again. His lips parted, body tilting into Alberto's space, leaning over the counter that divided them. The light thumb running back and forth along his lip certainly didn't help matters. It made him want to do dangerous things.
“Mm, Alberto,” he hums quietly. He hopes Alberto will kiss him, if he just stays like this. If he is pleasant enough, if his plan goes accordingly. If he’d shown enough skin, if his shorts were short enough. If he begged hard enough. “Please,”
“Who could hate such a pretty little thing?”
Luca’s mouth was watering now. He yanks his mind out from the sinkhole it’d fallen into, slowly blinking his eyes open. “…A lot of people hate me. Or at the very least find me boring. And that’s fine with me, veramente. I guess I just…” carefully, he looks back up. He finds Alberto still watching him, tender affection in his eyes. A barely visible grin playing on his lips. Consider Luca to be debilitated on sight. “I… seems I don’t mind it much.”
“What’s that got to do with today?”
“Nothing, I suppose.” Luca mutters. Gradually, he can feel his tightly-knit resolve beginning to unravel. And all because of what, a carnation? The summer sun? Or was he simply losing his mind?
“If it’s worth anything, I await your return.”
“You know, Giulia warned me about that.”
“Is that so?”
“Sì,” he closes his eyes again. “She told me to be careful because you’re much older than me. She said you probably already had a girlfriend, someone nice. She didn’t want me to be heartbroken over you. It’s too late for that, of course, but it’s embarrassing to admit.”
“Have I done something to break your heart, Luca?”
“Just seeing you rather does the trick. You don’t seem to notice how hard I’ve been trying, all these years. I’m starting to think you don’t want me, fiorello mio.” Anxiety, turbulent and all consuming crashes over him like a wave. A tickle in his lungs. “Maybe—maybe you do have someone nice after all.”
“It’s not that,” comes Alberto’s voice, just barely above a whisper. Their faces are so close that it’s preposterous now, that it hasn’t happened yet. His thumb slows, although it makes this even more unbearable. “I wasn’t sure if… if you really…”
“What more must I possibly say?”
Alberto blinks again. He seems to have noticed, his face turning a lewd shade of bright red. “I feel like a fool now.” Hesitantly, he removes his thumb from Luca's mouth. He withdraws his hand. “I guess I'm not very careful when it comes to this kind of thing.”
“A—Alberto,” Luca clutches Alberto’s wrist. He seems to have underestimated his own strength. They peer nervously at each other for one heady moment—before Luca guides the other man’s hand back onto his face. He plays it up to show his interest, rubbing his lips against the palm of Alberto’s calloused hand. He can smell fresh soil and parsley, anise and citrus. It was almost too much for Luca’s heart to bear.
Rather quickly, he finds that he is unable to control himself.
…and he licks Alberto’s hand.
For an action so bold, Luca starts off with a fair amount of hesitance. Just the tip of his tongue at first, softly flicking along the lines of Alberto’s crackly palm. When Alberto gasps sharply—when he finds that his skin tastes sweet—he presses the flat of his tongue in the center of his hand, not breaking eye contact.
“L—Luca, please,” He mutters stiffly.
“You smell so good, amore,” He inhaled deeply, still clutching his wrist. Luca doesn’t know what he might do if Alberto pulls away. He was undeniably, downright lovesick, and this gorgeous Tuscan florist would be the death of him. It was true; his self-control was already in the balance as it was. He would no doubt regret it later, but something inexplicable took over him. It seemed that Luca had developed an affinity for inhaling the earthy scent emanating from his friend. He wanted to be part of it. He wanted to be one of Alberto Scorfano's flowers, one of his precious romantico fiori.
He wanted to be the earth, the earth beneath his fingernails. He wanted to be shoveled out, buried. The hole in his heart, he wanted Alberto to fill it... to be unbearably filled up by him. Furthermore, he wanted to be watered, immersed in his compassion. To be tenderly cared for by his long-standing love. He longed to be close, to depend, to thrive. Grow into something beautiful, bright and vibrant.
He wanted Alberto’s love. All this time he thought it was some childish infatuation. But it’s lasted so long, and now he finds himself wanting to be with him. To stay with him. For better or worse. He loved him so. He felt like he might die.
Struck by the realization, Luca tenderly places a kiss on the palm of his hand. Alberto recoils at that sensation, taking a deep breath. He does nothing but encourage Luca, he tells him to keep going. Then he does it again, this time with his fingertips. Finally, he gently bends his wrist and plants another affectionate kiss on Alberto's hand.
“Sweetheart, you should have just told me.” He whispered.
Luca’s heart beats hard, trembling with affection. “Haven’t I?”
Alberto beams. Shakes his head. “No, never.”