Archive of Our Own

“I want the scissors to be sharp
and the table to be perfectly level
when you cut me out of my life
and paste me in that book you always carry.”

—Vade Mecum, Billy Collins

The train begins to slow into Stazione Santa Maria Novella. A line of passengers is smashed against the window. It’s the first stop in 23 hours since Paris; the impatience of the passengers is palatable. Liam’s still seated in his cabin, knee bouncing with his city map curled into his hand. He’s been sleeping on trains and bathing from the taps of station sinks for nearly two days, and he’s pretty sure his efforts could be smelt from his home in Wolverhampton. But:

He’s here. In Italy.

Florence is a fine place for an introduction to Italy. At least that’s what Liam’s heard.

He joins the shuffle out of the car, silently nodding thank yous to the couple who make room for him in front of their place in the queue out the doors.

When he steps out of the car, the air is warmer than he imagined it to be, much different to an English summer day. His skin is sticky, buzzed, and it feels sweet like fresh mint in cold water. Several shoulders brush past, and he keeps his thumbs tucked beneath the straps of his orange backpack, guarded safely against his back. Ruth warned him about pickpockets a couple nights before he left, worrying him with nightmares of losing his wallet, or worse, his passport, on his first day in Italy.

In all of the five minutes he’s been on solid, unwavering ground, he’s heard more English than Italian, but he’s already seen three gelati shops and almost tripped on the cobblestone vias. He passes by five— maybe seven— statues of Michelangelo's David, all reproductions made in various scales and stones, their expressions worn from centuries of rain.

Fumbling with the map in his hand, Liam tucks the visitors’ guide into the back pocket of his jeans before turning onto Borgo Santa Croce. After double checking the address on his phone, he taps down the bell for the hostel next to the door.

“Backpackers Florence,” a thick, German accent crawls through the intercom.

“Hello," Liam says, "I have a reservation. Uh— Payne—”

“I will come to you.”

Liam fiddles with the straps of his backpack for a moment before the large, wooden door cracks open. An impossibly tall man with stringy blond hair nods to Liam, gesturing to follow him up the stairs. He follows suit, legs feeling the tight burn sliding up the steep concrete steps.

He slides his bag onto the floor as soon as they walk through the door: the place feels more like a home than a hostel. Three scuffed–up, white pleather couches and a dusty bookshelf circle a lightly frayed green rug. There’s a red wine stain, with signs of a poor attempt to lift it, buried into the corner near the leg of an oak coffee table. Liam squints over to see a French architecture book resting on top of it.

“What is your name?” the German plucks up a lime green logbook from a secretary desk. Loose papers are scattered everywhere, a couple half–finished mugs of tea weighing down the stacks.

“Liam. Payne.”

He scans through the list, “ah, lucky Liam. We accidentally fully booked the shared rooms. You have your own.”

“What?”

“Same charges.”

Liam sighs out of relief (his budget could never afford a single room), but also feels a tinge of sadness. The whole point of booking a shared room at a hostel is to meet people like himself: traveling youth from around the world, looking for some fun with little responsibility. Or at least that’s what he thinks it should be like.

The man goes through the hostel rules, noting the on-call hours, “There are no guests allowed in the room, the kitchen is the first door on the left,” he stretches his arm around the wall to point down a passage, “check out is at 10 o’clock in the morning, and we hold your bags if you have a train later in the day,” and all Liam can do is hear a gaggle of French voices banging a few pots around in the kitchen and smell what could be slices of toast burning.

“Room three—” the German dangles a key in front of Liam, “down there, first door on the left.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, picks up his bag and trudges to his room.

He pushes the door open with his shoulder after fiddling with the key, and almost runs into the bed. The window shutters are open to a small courtyard that’s dusted with a few pigeons and a view of rusty, wrought iron tables and chairs. Liam scoots around the double bed, bumping into the wobbly armoire, and peeks out the window to look inside of an adjoining room. Three pairs of lacy knickers are pinned on a clothesline, and he makes a mental note to be sure the windows are closed before getting dressed in the morning.

The bathroom is a narrow passageway, but the shower is immaculate for a hostel standard. It has a large, white tub enclosure that is suitable for a bath. He opens the barren medicine cabinet and throws his towel over the empty rack.

He goes back into the room and dives onto the bed. It’s plush, flush into the corner, taking up most of the floorspace in the tiny room, but it is spacious and exclusively his for this leg of the trip. It feels more like a hotel room than anything else. Maybe having the single room is a blessing in disguise.

+

Liam ends up in Florence because it is an architectural goldmine: the Medici’s built this city, anointing it with the most celebrated and iconic works of craftsmanship of the last several hundred centuries. But it’s history burns deeper—beyond the Uffizi and Brunelleschi’s dome. For all the words Liam has read about Florence, he’s convinced it’s Eden, the beginning of life.

After studying Italian for years through school up through college and with his mates’ old nonna, he thought he could put his skills to the test on a gap year before studying architecture at university. Nobody (with the exception of his mother— and she was the reason alone he followed through on his pursuits) thought he was clever (intelligence was hardly accredited from others to young Liam) enough to be offered a place anywhere, and Liam took it upon himself to prove them wrong. He slaved over his portfolio and picked up a courier job for a civil engineering firm in Wolverhampton. He never had the chance to work with architects or engineers during his time there, but knew the company’s name would be impressive enough to drop on his CV.

To everyone’s surprise, Liam’s determination granted him a spot in the Department of Architecture at Cambridge. His mum cried for three days while his sisters and mates were rendered speechless. Liam’s marks were never the highest, but his persistence and passion for crafting beauty is what set him apart from the thousands of university hopefuls. After his application was rejected for an apprenticeship with a firm in Birmingham for the summertime, Liam postponed his autumn start for a year and scraped up his earnings from the chip shop he worked at throughout college to set off to Italy.

And this is how Liam ends up at in front of the stone pillars outside of the Uffizi, waiting in the tragically long queue, occasionally being badgered by tour guides from greedy companies who swipe up the pre–sale tickets and mark up the prices to lure impatient tourists into their scheme.

Liam cranes his neck around the space, soaking in the lasting influence of the Medici. He takes a swig of his Acqua Panna and turns from the pressing tour guide in a banana yellow polo. She’s marched past him four times in the last hour, chanting her pitch in Russian and English. He remains still and quiet, resting on his own thoughts.

“Are you by yourself?” a voice sings to his right, warm and sharp.

Liam looks over to see a Chicago Bulls snapback resting on tufts of blond hair. The young man stands tall, shoulders squared beneath a fitted red polo shirt. His skin is pale, but his cheeks are flushed from the rising midday temperature. He chews on his upper lip, looking like he shouldn’t have spoken at all, and shoves his hands into his denim pockets.

“Sorry, mate,” he starts up again, “You speak English? I should—”

“Yeah, I do.”

A great sigh of relief washes over the lads’ face. He pulls off his hat and pats Liam’s shoulder with a deep, weighty laugh, “Thank Christ! You’re English!”

“And you’re... Irish?” Liam draws out, unsure of his response.

“Ehh ‘scuse me,” a drawl from behind Liam croons, “do y’all know each other? Or are y’all just shovin’ people into the line? ‘Cuz we’ve been waitin’ here for over an hour now, and I think y’all’re being inconsiderate.”

Liam blushes a silent apology to the unhappy American. He suddenly swipes it off his face when he realizes he’s done nothing to provoke hostility.

“Sorry,” the Irishman nods to the stout woman with a forgiving grin before turning back to Liam, “I know we just met, but are you here by yourself?”

“Erm, yes.”

“Great. You’re coming with me,” he pulls on Liam’s sleeve, head jerking towards the front of the queue.

“Where?”

“To the Uffizi! You’re queuing for it, let’s go. Unless you’d rather wait another hour.”

The woman behind him clears her throat and crosses her arms.

Liam shields himself from her unsavoury glare and mumbles, “Why me?”

“I’ve an extra ticket, it’s already two minutes past the time, and it’s foolish to be wasteful,” he wraps his fingers around Liam’s bicep and yanks him out of the long queue. He stumbles, but then laughs as he notices the woman now looks far more annoyed by Liam’s luck than the possibility of this stranger getting in front of her in the queue.

“I’m Niall, by the way,” the young man looks over his shoulder after handing Liam a ticket. He thanks the ticket handler and pushes through the turnstile.

“Liam,” he replies, trailing slowly behind Niall’s quick strides. He wants to take a moment to appreciate the entry–hall, feet gliding over the black and white checkered marble floor, but Niall’s already halfway up the stairs, beckoning him forward with a wild smile.

“We don’t have to stick together.”

“If you don’t want to—” Liam stutters, suddenly feeling flushed. “I mean, I can’t thank you enough for pulling me out of that dreadful queue.”

“Ehh, it’s nothing,” he shrugs, leaning against the handrail, “I couldn’t let it go to waste. Say, what do you know about this stuff in here?”

Liam cocks his head to the side, “What stuff...? The art?”

“All of it!”

“Bits and pieces,” Liam shrugs. He studied most of the art in this building alone in his A Level Art History class in college. He can’t believe he’s going to encounter them before his very eyes over the course of an hour.

“Want to be my tour guide then?” Niall’s practically bouncing on his toes. Liam wants to step on his heels to keep him grounded.

“I don’t really know much—”

“Well, if you’d like to make conversation with me about the art, I’d love for you to accompany me,” he offers out his hand and adjusts the bill of his snapback a little lower.

Liam hesitates for a moment then takes his hand, “What makes you think I know anything about art?”

“You were droolin’ all over your chin looking at the pillars out there instead of whinging about how massive and slow the queue was. You’re some brooding art uni student on holiday, aren’t you?”

Liam chuckles and follows Niall into the first hall.

“Close, but not quite. How about you?”

“Not quite, but close,” he smirks.

Sometimes they walk in silence, sometimes they split up around each gallery and convene at the next entryway. Sometimes Niall makes obscene gestures at the nudes, or mimics poses of the neoclassical statues. He also says things like, “That Venus girl is well fit, in’t she?” or “Why doesn’t this St. Sebastian bloke look the least bit bothered he has arrows pokin’ through him at all sides?”

Sometimes Niall gets too close to the art, causing Liam to tense up and lean over to yank his pointed finger from the priceless pieces (“That’s a Gentileschi!,” he scolds him). Sometimes Niall hops from piece to piece in the room of medieval icons because they were “all a bit samey,” even though Liam wants to stay a little longer, but Niall shouts for him to, “move his artistically articulate arse.”

Liam learns that Niall is staying in Florence for a couple months as a post–collegiate retreat with several plans to visit a few other places throughout Tuscany. He initially mapped out his summer here with a friend who bowed out at the last minute (“He wanted to go to Nice with the missus,” Niall explains.). He refuses Liam’s offers to repay him for the ticket, and says his company makes up for it. Liam’s thankful to realize he now has a spare 15 euros in his budget.

After snaking their way through every crevice of the Uffizi galleries, along with a few architectural lectures from Liam (which Niall appears to take a respectful interest in, tapping his chin and nodding through Liam’s enthusiastically charged cadence), they cross the Arno to scout for some lunch.

Liam blindly follows Niall for what feels like miles winding through the cramped cobblestone streets on hills.

“Erm, do you know where we’re going?” Liam asks.

“Florence’s my home in the summertime,” Niall cheeses. “My family and I’ve been coming here every summer for ages. This is the first year I came on my own though. Feels nice to not have m’da breathing down my neck.”

The twisted knot that had settled in Liam’s stomach eases up a bit when he realizes Niall probably has Florence mapped on the back of his hand.

"So you've been to the Uffizi before?"

"Too many times, in fact," Niall winks and continues leading them down a narrow via.

"Are you serious? That's an entire text of art history in that building. How could you ever get tired of it?"

"Not everything in a book means it’s good, Liam." He nods to an old man on a bike before speaking again, "M'da always took me at least four times each summer. He'd go on about every corner of the place, like he built the walls himself. And it got boring. But now that I'm back alone this time, it's something comforting. Familiar."

"And you go somewhere that bores you."

“Used to bore me!" he turns with a finger upward, still leading them further from the heart of Firenze, "we had a great time today, I'd say."

A woman is shaking out wet, white blouses over the side of her balcony above them. Liam feels a few drops of washing–water rain over his arm, trying to keep up with the hot pace Niall’s set for them.

"Have you been here before?” Niall asks, strolling a few steps ahead of Liam.

“Where is here?”

“Italy,” he makes a sharp right onto a narrow via.

Liam feels a pang of jealousy strike through his spine. Vacations with the Payne’s consisted of outdoor camping trips to Wales or visiting his aunt in Blackpool. Nothing stylish or intriguing; all on the same, overcast island.

“No. First time traveling and all of that.”

“By yourself?” he sounds shocked, “Well then. You’re a brave soul.”

He shrugs his shoulders and stops abruptly in front of an unmarked, pale yellow building and pulls open a small, wooden door. Niall ducks inside, smiles back at Liam, then makes his way down spiral stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, a spread of five long wooden tables with benches are lined up. The ceilings are low, the lights are dimmed by a shoddy chandelier in the center, and flickering tea lights scattered across the table tops.

“This place here,” Niall hums, half in turn to Liam on the way to the bar, “ ‘ll serve you the best meal you’ll ever have in this city.”

The smells of freshly chopped basil and minced garlic take over the windowless chamber, and though intimidating by nature of the dark stained wood and poor choice of lighting, it is actually homely and welcoming for Liam.

“Thanks for setting my standards,” Liam says.

“Oi, you better believe me!” Niall darts back, punching him lightly in the shoulder. Liam rubs away at the little sting, taken by surprise of the force of it from someone so scrappy.

A short, balding man waddles around the corner from what Liam can only assume to be a kitchen. He scoots away from behind the fully stocked bar to come greet them, “Niall!”

“Luca!” Niall shouts, arms braced wide for a hug.

Of course Niall would know the people here.

The little man rubs his stubby fingers over the curve of his rounded belly, “How is your day?”

“Great, great— just went to the Uffizi again, with my new friend, Liam."

“Buongiorno!” the man offers a hand and almost shakes Liam’s arm off, “Please, sit, sit!”

Liam scoots into a chair at the bar and scratches his head, partially overwhelmed by his luck that he managed to meet someone who not only knew English on his second day in Italy, but was kind enough to take on as a built–in travel guide to the city of Florence.

Liam tunes into the conversation again to hear Luca ask Niall about his family—

“They're great! They’ll come see you again later, just not today."

Luca frowns a bit, but perks up when Niall cuts his moment of silence from before.

"Can we share some bruschetta?”

“Sì, sì, bruschetta. You want nonna’s pasta fagioli?”

Niall nods and looks over to Liam with a sinister smile, like he’s sharing a joke with himself, “... do you eat meat?”

“Yeah— I—”

“Perfect,” Niall winks and nods to Luca who hurries off for their lunch. “Tell me, what brings you to Florence?”

“Uh... I figured it’d be a good starting point. For Italy.”

“Yeah, it’s great in the summertime, even if it’s sweltering. Something about it here.”

“Yeah?”

“I’d rather be in Ibiza, personally, maybe Florida, but it’s a nice retreat. It’s great since m’da has his own place here, so it’s familiar.”

Luca comes back, armed with two bowls, and Niall can hardly wait to take his first bite before it’s set down before him.

“As I was saying,” Niall starts up again before shoveling a mouthful of hearty beans into his mouth, “why’re you here?”

“I’m taking a gap year. Going to stay here— well, somewhere in Italy.”

“Jesus, just Italy?”

“Yeah, but I need to find work eventually,” Liam shrugs, taking a sip of his water, “Getting here is all I’ve been thinking about for a while now.”

“You made it,” Niall grins.

He’s right: he made it. Liam made all of this happen, and it’s his second day in Italy, technically third day abroad, and he’s sitting at the bar of an underground restaurant making a friend over homemade Florentine cuisine.

“Why Italy?”

Niall’s popped the inevitable question, and Liam’s practiced this answer so many times—pitching it to his grandparents, and aunts and uncles, and anyone who bothered to feign a polite interest in Liam’s gap year plans. But now, even after many rehearsals, he’s gone a bit dry at the throat, and he has to explain this to a complete stranger. It’s all a bit embarrassing.

“It suits my interests,” Liam panics, resorting to a vague response.

“That being...?” Niall refuses to let it hang bare.

“Art,” Liam fires away without missing a beat. “Like, everything that interested me in school and was in my books in college were rooted in Italy. Most of my art and history classes danced around it, and how it evolved over centuries, and how its culture just builds and borrows and recycles what it has and what it’s given to always make something... I don’t know, well... beautiful.” Liam laughs into his bowl for a moment, retracing his words in his mind and mentally slapping himself over how completely cheesey he gets when he’s off script and overtly honest. “But I’m mostly here for the architecture, really.”

The conversation is interrupted by the clamor of pots and pans in the kitchen when Niall clears his throat and takes a big gulp of water before slamming his empty glass down onto the bar. His shoulders look tense when he reaches for the bottle to refill his glass, so Liam takes the time in this silence to savour a new bite, tongue resting with a perfectly ripened tomato. It’ll settle him from biting his tongue to carry on about why he loves architecture so much—Liam understands not everyone is like him. He is the type of person who finds people most fascinating when he gets them talking about their passions. It’s the purest form of conversation, and when a conversationalist is at their most confident. Brevity is lost in a winded display of their enthusiasm, all the while they forget they’re at their most vulnerable, cutting themselves open wide for all the ears that are listening. They become so wrapped up, entangled in their own bubble of conversation, that they fail to keep in mind that the scariest thing about going on about something you love is that every once in awhile, they find out at the end of a breath, those shared ears can take those words and scrub them clean, from one end and out the other.

Liam chews on his lip, resisting that urge to dive head first into something that means so much to him—he can read bodies as well as words, and maybe he doesn’t really know Niall well enough to go into that just yet. Besides, Liam’s brief lectures whilst winding through the galleries of the Uffizi may have already tipped Niall off about the core of his interests. Perhaps Niall already knew, and he was only asking Why Italy? to make polite conversation, or expecting an affirmation. “And I’d really like to put my Italian to use,” Liam insists.

Niall puts down his spoon and pats the corner of his mouth with a knuckle, “Parli Italiano?”

“Uh—” Liam feels he’s put on the spot, debating whether or not he’s a bit rusty (and rather stupid for not using it as much as he initially thought he would have), “sì. Parlo Italiano—uhm, and you?”

“Parlo un po’ di Italiano... just, survival shit, and from being here so often, y’know?” Niall shrugs and drops his spoon into the bowl as soon as he sees Luca round the corner with a plate of bruschetta. Liam could smell the basil before he saw the mountain of tomatoes set down on the top of the bar. His mouth is watering over the plump, oily tomatoes, and the smell of charred edges of the bread they reside on.

“Oh, Jesus—” Niall plunges towards a piece and eyes Luca like he is Christ himself, “Grazie.”

Luca nods with delight, eyes pinched, more pleased than expectant. He turns to Liam, “You like?”

“Sì, bene!” Liam’s blooming with a bit of confidence in his Italian this moment, taking his little opportunity to showcase his skills, albeit on an entry level, but nevertheless is still impressive to someone who is least expecting it. “Mi piace— è delizioso!”

Luca takes a step back, stroking the black bristles of his dramatic handlebar moustache. Liam sees he is right on his judgement when he hears Luca tut in amusement, eyebrows dancing toward the ceiling, “Niall! Do you hear that? He speak my tongue!”

“I had no idea, I promise!”

“I forgive you—” Luca leans over to pinch at Niall’s cheek, followed by a quick slap. He points his stubby finger straight into Niall’s eyes with a cheeky smile, “just for today. Buon appetito!”

Luca holds back at the bar to see them begin their meal. Niall indulges in his first bite with another exaggerated sound of satisfaction. Liam finds it endearing to see these two figures dribble back and forth, like a lesson on pleasure and pleasing. It’s all a bit animated, but it’s entirely sincere. The food really is fantastic, but in Italy, nothing can just be fantastic; it must be mind-blowing.

Niall swallows down his first bite, “Mmm, molto bene!” He gives a pat on his stomach and turns back to Liam, “So, you’ve come to Italy to see a bunch of old buildings and art?”

“Pretty much.” Liam slumps a little lower over his piece of bruschetta, feeling a weight of sadness on his shoulders. When you put it that way, especially coming out of Niall’s mouth, it sounds pathetic, sterile. The one thing he’ll agree to it being is cliche; most everyone comes to Italy for the art, “well, I was hoping to meet some interesting people along the way. I’ll admit I’m doing well for myself so far.”

“Yeah, you’re not half bad. When’d you get here?”

“Yesterday.”

Niall lets out a whistle, stunted by a small laugh, “You’re a lucky bastard. You’ve got an itinerary sorted?”

“Well, the plan is to see as many things in Florence as I can before I leave for Venice. And from Venice, it’s looking more like Rome. Or Naples. I’d really like to make it to Sardinia—” Liam bites the inside of his cheek to look over at Niall. He has the same look on his face that he shared with Liam at the Uffizi just an hour ago, the one where his brows are knit with attention and a thumb swiping under his lip. A blush creeps onto Liam’s face, even if Niall is being respectful, but even he knows he’s being a bit much in all his bated excitement.

“You’re a Plan–Man,” Niall says, matter–of–factly. “Man with a plan, Liam.”

“Nothing wrong with having a plan!” Liam draws his defenses, leaning away from the plate between them. “I like to make the most of my time.”

“You’re a right laugh,” Niall dramatically drops the side of his temple onto heel of his hand. “I’m really glad I found you.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Do you think you can make the most of your time in Florence with me before you leave? I’d love to see you again.”

Liam’s been on this end of the conversation before many times; usually it’s with a flat beer in his hand after midnight, and the inevitable drunkenly awkward initiation of You’re cool! Well cool, mate! We need to hang out again! is said, and Liam has to kindly laugh it off because he knows as cheerful as that can of cider has made their newfound kinship, it’s really the Magners talking, and it’ll be as if they’d never met the next time Liam sees them.

But right now, there’s only a large bottle of water on the bar. Liam finds sincerity in Niall’s words, even more so with the nervousness brimming over in his big, blue eyes staring back at Liam. Niall may have a network of summertime Florentine acquaintances, but he’s just as alone as Liam.

Liam bats away a small blush at this realization, “Yeah, I’d like that, thanks.”

It’s a small accomplishment, but he feels a thing beyond goodness. It’s wavering on relief and sheer excitement— he can’t pin his finger on it. Liam thinks it’s best to keep things simple, and on that, he’s decidedly thankful he’s already made a friend.

+

Liam is sitting in his room on a late Monday morning at the hostel writing an email to his mother, listening to a pair of American girls outside his window go on about their first night out in Florence. He taps away at the keyboard, telling his mum all about how his journey to the front of the crowd around Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise ended with half of his melted stracciatella gelato down the front of his shirt thanks to a pushy tourist. The shirt is soaking in cold water in the sink, just what his mother told him to do should anything like that happen; it’s too early in his travels to commit to a load of laundry.

He thinks about how he hadn’t knowingly passed by any nightclubs in the city, but what it boils down to is that he couldn’t be bothered taking the time to look for such unnecessary entertainment as a solo traveler. He frowns, sinking lower into his pillow and watching a pigeon swoop down into the courtyard. Perhaps he should be engaged with the city more, going beyond sitting in a crowded, overheated chapel for hours, staring at gilded crucifixes and monumental frescoes. There has to be another way to taste this city.

What Liam settles on is that he’s in need of a more complex flavor, because although he has already been here for three days, he already considers his lack of socializing with other travelers is only going to make this year abroad more difficult. He didn’t realize it’d be this hard.

So he picks up his phone to get in touch with the only person who comes to mind.

heeyyy what are uou doingg???

He holds his phone for a moment before locking the screen and tossing it by his knee. Liam can hear the Americans outside his window now, having migrated to the rusty iron table and chairs in the courtyard with the young Spanish bloke who’s staying in the 6–bed room. There’s cigarette smoke drifting in through the window, along with broken English and shrill giggles. Liam can’t keep up with the conversation— too pitchy, too loud, too much laughter for it to be considered a conversation at all. He turns on his side, burrowing his cheek into the pillow until the buzz of his phone skitters across the duvet.

He slaps his hand over it to see a new message from Niall.

hey! absolutely nothing, just chillin !

Liam chews on the side of his thumb for a moment, then taking his hand up to wave the smoke away from his face. He’s thinking about how he can get Niall to invite him out again. Niall did say to Liam that he wanted to see him before he leaves for Venice.

coooool he strikes back, and he immediately regrets it.

It doesn’t take as long for Niall to respond this time,

done fuck all today! hahaha whatcha been upto ?

There’s a sharp sliver of excitement that jolts through Liam’s stomach—

nothingg just bored listtening to americans, they have funny accentssss

— and maybe that was a bit rude, he regrets, but Niall keeps up—

haaha! get unbored mate ! me legs are itchin for a walk! meet me by the uffizi in twenty

ok iguesss

wohoooo! if your late i’m makin you buy me gelato

Liam rolls out of bed, swipes the key off the dresser, waves goodbye to the giggling American girls before closing his shutters, and slips on his shoes.

i’ll beeat you theeeree

+

He arrives two minutes late meeting Niall outside the Uffizi. Coming here has so far been a defining meeting spot for the two of them. Liam can’t believe it’s only been two days since he last saw Niall: it feels like the span of a week has crawled between them. Liam reflects on his day at the Accademia by himself as a rather lonely one compared to his fast–paced viewing of the Uffizi with Niall. He didn’t expect to find someone this enjoyable to be around with so early on in his travels. Liam knows the longer he remains stuck in his own head, catering to his own agenda, that the more difficult it’s going to be for him to commit to a full year abroad. He can’t go back to England, let alone Wolverhampton. He’s grateful Niall plucked him out of all the people in the queue, and perhaps this meeting wasn’t happenstance. There was a spark inside Niall that pulled Liam in, like a moth to a flame.

He spots Niall as soon as he’s rounded the corner of the Loggia dei Lanzi towards the entrance of the Uffizi. It’s Monday, and the galleries are closed, but the corridor is in motion, not stagnant and clogged with antsy visitors and pushy tour guides, buzzing away in yellow tee polos like the first day he and Niall met.

Niall’s the only one who isn’t in transit. He’s got his back curved against one of Vasari’s pillars, and his right foot kicking a pebble in the walkway.

“Hey,” Liam says.

“About fucking time,” Niall pushes his shoulder.

“Sorry, sorry—I was talking to my mum.”

“Well, now you’re talking with me,” he kicks off the pillar, “and you owe me gelato. Let’s go.”

Liam turns on his heel, following Niall to the Piazza della Signoria, straining to preserve himself from a wandering eye passing by Renaissance marbles and bronzes in the Loggia dei Lanzi. He’s passed by the steps of this open gallery a countless number of times since arriving in Florence. The Piazza della Signoria is the heart of the city, more a busy open square than an opportunity for people to take a moment and observe the Romanesque mastery. It’s perhaps one of the most artistically and architecturally rich corners of Italy, and Liam cannot spot a single person taking the time of day to appreciate the cultivation of bold arches and ornate Corinthian capitals. The open square is mostly used as a vehicle for passersby to step around others more easily than a crooked via. The cobblestones are easier to toe around in this vast space.

Liam brushes past a few who have their cameras out, posing before one of the many seasoned selection of monuments in the square. He knows those photos will be more for a keepsake and reminder of being in a city rather than taking any interest to be apart of it.

The purest form of observation in the square is clustered into a cloud of tourists around a reproduction of Michelangelo’s David outside of the Palazzo Vecchio, and the eyes of parents on a few children splashing away in the Fountain of Neptune. Desperation is wiped over the faces of teenaged girls who rub their clammy palms against the windows of the Chanel boutique after being turned away by the doorman, clutching onto their Zara bags and tin bottles of Coca–Cola Light.

But nobody is really looking at absolutely anything around them, except maybe down at their feet, or minding their midday slices of diavola pizza, and it drives Liam crazy that so many people can normalize their surroundings. And he wonders how so many people can do just that— how so many can just pass through, just walk on by, just go on about their day.

“Hullooo... you there?” Niall asks, stepping through a gelati shop. Liam’s drawn out of his own thoughts and onto checkered tiles. The queue is short, but the selection showcasing behind polished glass stretches on for mouthwatering miles.

“Yeah,” Liam croaks, eyeing the nearly empty tray of stracciatella.

“I want pistachio,” Niall says, folding his arms together and nodding to the case.

“Okay then— tell the nice lady what you want.”

She fixes him a mountain of pistacchio in a neon plastic cup, sliding it onto his welcoming palm. Liam plucks down a few coins to cover Niall’s gelato and settles on a bottle of Orangina for himself.

They leave the shop and pass by the fountain of Neptune once more. Liam cracks open his bottle of Orangina when they emerge from the growing crowd in the piazza and back onto a quiet street. Niall’s already half-finished with his gelato and wonders if he’s capable of feeling brainfreeze.

“What do you want to do?” Liam asks.

“I want you to follow me.”

“Where are you taking me?”

Niall doesn’t say anything more than a smile and a bump to his shoulder. Liam hops off the narrow pavement and dodges an oncoming biker. The cyclist throws out a curse and Liam reciprocates with his deepest apologies, and then Niall and Liam emerge from the shadows of the buildings to cross a bridge over the Arno.

“Are we going to see Luca again?” Liam asks.

“Nah, just follow me.”

Niall takes him by the hand, lacing them together down the via. They pass a string of storefronts: stiff leather goods, walls lined with wallets and bags and belts. A French tourist is bartering down a pair of shoes in the next shop, flustered at having to use English for a fighting chance of clarity. So typically French, Liam thinks.

It isn’t long before Niall’s barreling up a few short steps to a pair of large wooden doors fixed to a muted building. The facade is bland, rough, and clearly unfinished, but the stylisation of the doors suggest they’re walking into a church. Of course Niall’s brought him to a church; Liam notes there seems to be one dedicated to his line of vision with every pivot. The Catholic church wasn't messing around in the Renaissance.

Niall rushes him through the doors. They have a few hours until the next service, and it's quiet: not out of reverence, but in the stillness of the visitors floating around the tiled floors and creaky pews. Heads are ducking into the chapels with unlit white candles, faces bowed whilst burrowing through the craned necks of awestruck tourists. They’re staring up at the gates of heaven open at the vault of the nave. The colors are vibrant in their full restoration, as bright as the day Stagi cleaned his last brush. The hairs on the back of Liam’s neck stand up when his eyes soar upward, rubbing them every so often, turning over the pages of his college textbooks in his brain. The ceilings looked darker on the glossy pages, covered in a century of soot. It’s remarkable how much a little bit of water, paper, and patience can lift it all up.

Niall holds his arms up in the middle of the church, under the center of the nave, “here we are.”

“Wow,” Liam says, voice drifting feather–light, “I’m in the Santa Maria del Carmine.”

Liam smiles before looking up at the ceiling again.

“There’s hardly anyone in today,” Niall whispers. “It’s dead weird. Come on.”

He follows Niall, arms behind his back and eyes set ahead. They round the corner past a patron dropping a coin into a box next a host of flickering white candles. It’s darker passing through the arch, losing the overhead lighting of the chandeliers in the nave. The only source of light is pouring down through the high windows of the chapel. As they inch closer, Liam starts to feel a low current in his veins.

“Look familiar?” Niall hikes a thumb over his shoulder, stepping back toward the chapel.

The gold around the Madonna and child icon simmers under the shallow window light, but as they step closer, Liam recognizes the frescoes on the walls. They’re at the Brancacci Chapel, a sidestep from off the street and into the genesis of Renaissance painting. Liam snaps his head to the left, looking at the upper register to see Adam and Eve carrying their shame and shadows out of Eden.

Liam feels a chin hook over his shoulder and a hand settle on the other. He hears Niall clear his throat, “Well?”

“Uh... it’s pretty,” Liam shrugs, pointing to the folds in the angel’s billowing gown.

“Is it life-changing?”

“How do you mean?”

“Like, do you feel like your life has changed since seeing this Masaccio?”

“Hmm,” and Liam thinks about it, and finds he doesn’t have that prickly feeling on his skin like he’s had before. And it really should be a bigger deal than this—but he’s getting a crook in his neck from tilting his head upward and a little to the right, and he can’t step into the chapel to get a full on proper look at it. The restoration has left the colors vibrant, but the glare from the window in the early afternoon has washed out most of the expression he’s studied from his books. What’s the point of seeing one of the pioneering paintings of emotional realism when you can hardly see much of it at all? “If it were on a wall in England, I’d have a fighting chance against this glare.”

“Nah,” Niall pushes away from his back and steps next to him, “the clouds would make the daylight worse. It’s more milky and bothersome than this.”

“Maybe I’ll just have to come back another time of day.”

Liam tries to stand on his toes, hop around, crouch down, testing other angles with the hope of seeing all of the fresco. He gives up when he still can’t see Adam’s face on his knees, so he stands to take a quick graze across the rest of the chapel, frustrated at this point that he can’t even enjoy the life of St. Peter half as much as he expected he would have three months ago. The experience has been a disappointment.

“What do you say we get out of here?” Niall says. He’s earnest, that much Liam can tell, and edging on somewhere around excitement. Liam’s hesitant to answer too quickly, despite his irritation, doesn’t know what he really means, so he shrugs again.

“Like... here?” Liam asks. “But I’m—”

“No, no,” Niall pokes at his rib.

Liam curls forward to swat away his hand with a quiet ouch, and Niall continues:

“I mean out of Florence, you goose. I have friends in another town out of here. Castellina. Heard of it?”

Liam holds his face to pinch out a thought. “Don’t believe I have.”

“Perfect,” Niall claps a hand on Liam’s shoulder. He’s got a wide grin. “You’ll love it. You’ll get to see Italy, you know? It’s not in Castellina, really; it’s out in the country, in Chianti, actually, so just near there. Best wine in the entire world at your disposal. You’ll even meet real life Italian people,” selling it to Liam as if he hasn’t done this already. “Come on— you can’t think staying in the cities will give you what you need, do ya?”

He’s stuck on that now, stuttering into that word for a few more beats: need. Need? Did he come to Italy with a need? Was NEED shellacked across his chest with shiny neon bulbs flashing around him? Or maybe it’s that Niall can read people easily, draw out what they want before they even know it’s what they, well, need. Liam swears Niall could sell beef to a frying pan.

But Niall has a point. He’s come to Italy and has used his Italian once—on the train, and that feels ages ago— when the reason for him being here is to live in Italy, and in no way like a tourist— but he figured he’d get to that much later: after Florence, after Venice, after Rome and Naples. He hadn’t begun to consider where he would work— and if (no, when) he manages to find work, he just knows he’ll be trapped in a big city.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Great. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“What? I didn’t agree to this— how long are we staying there? Where are we going again? And I can’t— it’s not like I can drop my hostel. I, I—”

“I, I, I, I, I!” Niall laughs, voice traveling higher, heads turning around them. Liam slaps his hand over Niall’s mouth.

“Shh!” Liam feels a blush creep up his neck and several dozen eyes circling around them. He tries his best to counteract disruption with a hushed scolding, “We’re in a fucking church!”

Liam immediately pinches between his eyes and mentally backhands himself, willing to reel back to a few seconds before he said that. The eyes sear deeper—

“Oi, watch your mouth!” Niall whispers reverently.

“Jesus—”

“He’s right there—”

“Stop!” Liam pulls him through the arch and out of the church by his elbow. Niall’s grin is stretching wide still, cheeks flushed with laughter. He tries to pull his arm away from the vise grip Liam has around him when Liam settles him against a white wall outside of the church.

“Did you forget we were in a house of God?” Niall quips.

Liam takes a moment to collect himself, iron out his frustrations. He doesn’t like being put on the spot.

“Yes.”

“Well now, g’wan, tell me what you were trying to say in there.”

“I—”

“Say ‘I’ again. I fuckin’ dare ya.”

Liam narrows his eyes. “What I was—”

Niall cocks his head to the side.

“Piss off,” Liam slaps his shoulder. He takes a moment to be more careful with his words, “Me and my belongings are leaving for Venice in three days.”

“Okay. What’s the problem?” Niall rubs at his chin, “Quit starin’ at me like I’m growin’ a third ear. We can go there and come back in time for you to fuck off to Venice.”

“My hostel. I have it booked up for the week. And I haven’t even really seen Florence, and who knows when—”

“Listen. You can do whatever you’d like, but you told me that you were going to be taking a year of your life living here— in Italy, right?” He looks into Liam’s eyes for confirmation, squeezing gently into his shoulder. “Right?”

Liam nods. He shivers at the realization that he’s going to be here for a year. His pilgrimage has only just begun. He hadn’t really thought about how much a year could change a person—perhaps even a week. He can already tell by the end of this conversation with Niall, change may come more quickly.

“Then you can come back if you missed anything. Besides, you’re never really going to see everything. Live a little, Liam. This is your time to do fuck all and get away with it. I was planning on going to the country anyway this summer. Now I’m inviting you to come with me because I think you’d actually like it. If Tommo was with me, the smug bastard, he’d be bitching and moaning about how filthy it is here right now. Probably the whole fucking trip, and he’d drive me mad.”

Certainly he’s noticed the ankles of his socks are a tad grimier at the end of the day, and the frescoes in the chapels have been dingier than in his textbooks, but Florence isn’t dirty. The vias are clean, and maybe the smell of international tourism is a little ripe with the pollution, but it’s far from being disgusting. There’s always a little beauty in dirt.

“I don’t know,” Liam takes a sudden interest in the hem of his shirt.

“Oh, come on—” Niall squeezes at his shoulder, assuring him it’s the best idea he’ll ever hear again, “it’s fuckin’ gorgeous there, in Chianti, so’s the best wine you’ve ever drunk! We’ll be stayin’ at a vineyard just outside the town. Whaddaya say?”

Liam refuses to look at him. There’s still so much for him to do here, but— But.

“Liam,” Niall’s tongue has gone sharp, “I don’t take ‘no’ for an answer very often when I can see a ‘yes’ on someone’s face.”

“That’s creepy.”

“Hmph. I suppose you’re right.”

“As are you, in a way.”

“Wait—”

Liam rolls his eyes dramatically, takes a step from Niall and crosses his arms. He’s hiding a smile, “Are you sure?”

“No— no, like, stop, let me get up to speed— are you saying you’re coming with me now?”

He feels his stomach flip over and split open, lashes stuttering open to focus when he looks up, “I— I believe I am.”

“Woohoo!” Niall slaps his hands onto the sides of Liam’s face to lay a noisy kiss on his forehead. “I knew it— oh, Jesus— you’re going to love it, I promise. Just don’t think you’re missing out on Florence. I know it might not mean much from me since I’ve been coming here since I was a little, but you’re here for a year. You can always come back! And when you do, you’ll realize you’ve seen it all.”

Liam shrugs along with his words, “Okay,” he agrees, but he half–believes it, like he can’t shed this feeling that his time in Florence has been snagged and frayed.

+

The Americans are still sleeping when Liam waves goodbye to Daniel, the German who welcomed him his first day at the hostel. The hostel management didn’t give him a hard time when he came to them about his intent to cancel his reservation for the rest of the week. In fact, Daniel sounded rather pleased that a double bed would be open at the hostel (something Niall assured him would happen), and handed Liam over the rest of his pre-paid credit.

He tucks out the door and over to Niall’s, winding through the city while hitting back a bottle of lime Lucozade, paying no mind to the tempting coffee bars along the way. He stops in front of one, shaking his backpack to adjust the weight around his hips, considering a quick espresso, or a cappuccino, but he finishes the Lucozade instead, tossing it into the nearest bin en route to Niall’s.

When he rounds the corner, he spots Niall tossing his duffel into the back of a vintage, red pickup truck, and a lanky young man, pushing in at perhaps a decade older than Liam, leaning against the passenger door with a cigarette sticking out from between his lips.

Gian is his name, and Liam finds out he’s the son of Giorgio, the owner of the vineyard they’ll be staying at in Chianti. He’s handsome with a few inches on Liam, firm handshake but edging on too much Armani under his ears. Liam can’t decide if he’s more bothered by that or the lingering cloud of a Lucky Strike between them. He laughs it off with a polite grazie before dumping his backpack into the bed of the truck next to the lone duffel, then climbing onto the bench after Niall.

Conversation is loose and fluid down the motorway and through the rolling hills out of Florence. Gian’s English is perfect, could be easily mistaken for an American for the most part. Apparently he studied business in Vancouver for university, but,

“It was too sad there. The people were nice, but the ground was wet. I had to come home and see the sun again.”

The sun is strong and unforgiving through the windshield, flooding over the skin on the top of Liam’s uncovered knees, but the wind is weaving through his hair, and the sky’s an impossible blue— he’s surrounded by the heart of Italy.

The truck begins to slow as it makes a right off the motorway and onto streets deviating from clustered civilization. They pass by vineyards and wineries, olive groves, sunflower fields and an ocean of wild barley. Gian eases onto the brakes to make a left through an open gate, the drive framed by an endless stream of Cypress trees standing erect. The truck churns up the dirt incline, dust billowing in through the windows and the gears clunking over Niall’s voice every few rotations of the wheels.

Liam shields his face from the dirt-cloud to get a proper view of the stone villa at the end of the drive. Three people are standing outside the front door shaded by a tall tree. There’s an older man in blue jeans and jet black hair waving at the truck who Liam assumes is Giorgio. Two women stand on both sides of him: to his left is a sandy blonde in a bright orange sundress with legs for days, and to his right is a woman who comes up to just above his waist with a shock of white hair, her years of aging carving out her smile on her face.

Niall leans over Liam’s lap to push open the door to the truck as soon as Gian pulls up into the garage.

“Up up! Move! I need to see my nonna!” Niall runs away from the car and over to the plump old lady. Liam’s a little confused for a second: grandma?

Liam slides off the bench and shuffles up behind Niall shyly. They’re crowded around Niall, showering him with praise and joy. Niall bends down to give the old woman a big hug, and she plants loud kisses on the apples of his cheeks followed by a little slap with her toothy smile. Niall laughs, rubbing at the kisses as he stands back up.

“This is my friend, Liam,” he offers. Liam can hear Gian pulling their bags out of the truck, but he stops himself from offering help so he can meet the rest of the ‘family.’

“Hello!” the man steps forward with his arms out for a hug that swallows up Liam. He hesitates for a split second before reciprocating the hug with a modest pat on his back.

“Buongiorno,” he says.

“I’m Giorgio. This is my wife, Rosalia,” Giorgio steps aside for Liam to nod at the woman in the orange dress. “And this my mama, Sofia.”

“Call her nonna Sofia, mate,” Niall slings an arm over Liam’s shoulder.

“Hello,” he nods again, “th—thank you so much for allowing me to stay here, I—”

“Please, we haven’t even let you inside yet!” Giorgia laughs, beckoning them inside.

The villa is massive, cozy with rustic furnishings. Niall and Liam are shown up the stairs to their rooms. Gian’s already dropped off Liam’s belongings beside his bed; it’s covered by a modest blue and white duvet on an elaborate bed frame with golden Medusas for bedknobs. The shutters are open, perfectly holding a view of the vineyard and the wild countryside beyond it.

There’s a knock on his door that snaps him out of his gaze. He turns against the windowsill to see Niall leaning on the door frame, “hey.”

He’s already changed out of his oversized striped vest and into a fitted t-shirt and jeans, hairline damp probably from a quick splash of water on his face.

“Hi,” Liam says.

“They made lunch for us to have in the garden, if you want to join us.”

“Yeah, erm, should I change?”

Niall gives him a once over, and Liam can feel the wind bite at the sweat on his back. Maybe he should clean up.

“Nah,” he shrugs, “it’s upta you. You’re fine, mate. I just smelled ripe. Couldn’t be arsed getting out of my sleep clothes this morning.”

“Well, I don’t want to be rude in front of your nan.” Liam lunges toward his backpack to pull out a new shirt to quickly change into. He winks, hanging his dampened shirt over the bedpost and pulling the fresh one over his head. “You’re Irish and Italian then?”

“Giorgio and m’da go way back. But everyone has family in Italy.”

Niall knocks on the doorframe twice and clears his throat to turn down the stairs. Liam checks the laces of his shoes and runs after him.

They cross through the doors into the garden and join the rest of the family with Giorgio at the head of the table for a light lunch of antipasti and the local wine. Nonna Sofia is shooing Gian off to fetch something in the kitchen when Liam pulls up his chair. The leaves rattle in the trees around the garden, and the sun glares into his eyes from the ripples of water in the swimming pool a few hundred meters from the table. The view beyond the pool is perhaps the most beautiful landscape Liam’s ever seen: a valley carved by a rolling river, sheathed in the warmest sun and a blanket of greenery. He’s afraid to blink, that he’ll miss it all, or wake up too soon in his Florentine hostel bed to the voices of hungover American girls with a crook in his neck from this undeservedly good dream.

“Niall is so handsome,” Nonna Sofia says out of the blue, leaning over to pinch at one of Niall’s now–blushing cheeks. “Look at how big he is now! I remember when he was this high!”

Her hand comes just a few inches shy of the table top, and Liam grins over to see Niall dabbing at the oil on the corner of his mouth. He really is handsome, most of it carried in his confidence, but he’s also engaging, and has an honest smile with pale pink lips.

“Now I’m handsome?” Niall asks. “What happened to cute?”

“Yes,” Nonna turns back to Liam, “I gave him that cleft from pulling on his chin all summer telling him how sweet he is!”

“He used to help Nonna make the gnocchi when he didn’t want to read with his papa in the garden,” Gian says. “We always knew when Niall made the gnocchi.”

“Oi, shut up!” Niall swats away the laughs.

Liam draws back into himself in this moment, feeling so far removed and alien to the conversation loaded with reminiscing. He’s here, at a beautiful home, enjoying food from very generous strangers who are letting him stay with them... and he has to blink a few times to jump back into his skin. It’s overwhelming, like an out of body experience, like he’s halfway invited to be there.

“So, Liam,” Rosalia dips into the conversation. She’s been quiet for most of the afternoon. “Tell us more about you.”

It puts the spotlight on him, all eyes away from their plates and shocking Liam into a realization that he may know Niall most at this table, but he is ultimately amongst strangers, in a strange land, and thrown into an even stranger situation. But Rosalia’s right. It’s only fair. They have no obligation to be so nice to him, and he starts to feel less like he’s headfirst over the edge of a canyon and more like he’s toescurled over a pier on a murky loch.

“Well...” he starts. And this is where it’s most difficult for Liam: the timing of the launch, when to take off, the form of it all. He hasn’t the time to prepare, but he needs to dive right in, as if there was ever going to be any other alternative at this point.

“He speaks Italian!” Niall cuts in, saving the silence from Liam’s mouth. And for that, he’s grateful and takes off headfirst,

“Sì! Parlo un po ‘di Italiano—grazie mille per il pranzo e per avermi invitato nella vostra casa. È meraviglioso.”

+

Their first night at the villa comes to a close with an after dinner swim under the Tuscan moon, followed by three rounds of poker at the kitchen table and Niall getting up to grab an unopened bottle of wine with two glasses to set between them.

“What’s your drink of choice, Liam?” Niall asks.

“Erm,” he’s been eighteen for nearly a year, but he’s hardly found the time to actually go out with his mates to just have a drink, test to see what he liked to taste more than how he felt by the end of it. Besides, going out is expensive; one less drink meant more he could spend in Italy. “I like beer.”

“Aye, same here. Love me a good, hearty stout.”

Liam smooths over the front of his shirt, “Yeah?”

“I’m Irish, after all. Had Guinness comin’ out of me mam’s tit, y’know?” he breaks into a hearty laugh, like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

“Ah, yes, so incredibly Irish.”

“Well, do you drink wine?”

Liam remembers one night the summer before he started college, kicking his heels against the bricks on a wall, splitting a bottle and a poorly rolled spliff between two mates.

“Yeah.”

“Do you drink it to enjoy it often?”

“No, not ever, really.”

“Well. Let me teach you how to appreciate a glass of wine. You up for that?”

Niall frees the cork from the bottle with a soft pop, pouring the ruby wine at an angle into a decanter. He rests it upright gently, swiping some invisible debri away from him and lines up the glasses in front of him.

“The thing about chianti is it isn’t a fussy wine,” Niall says, pouring over the lip of the tilted glass from the decanter, “it’s the people’s wine. Everybody can learn to love wine from a good glass of chianti.”

The foot of the glass scrapes across the grain of the table top. Liam grabs it by the bottom of the bowl, cupped between the web of his fingers.

“No no no!” Niall scolds him, hand flapping in front of his face, “Hold the glass by the stem for now. You’re gonna warm up the wine, muck up the flavours.”

Liam gently sets down the glass to readjust his thumb and forefinger to pinch the narrow stem.

“That’s it,” Niall pipes down, carefully pouring another glass for himself, “now the first taste is important, so you’ve got to make sure you’re really ready for all of it. Yeah?”

Liam nods, tilting the edge of the glass up to his lips.

“Not yet!” Niall flails a hand around in Liam’s face again, “No drinking, stop.”

“We’re bloody 18 years old! What’s with you policing my drinking habits? Why are you turning into some posh sommelier?”

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re the one that’s all about getting the most out of an experience. Fine—guzzle it down like some naff bottle from Spar.”

“Niall, I was only taking the piss,” Liam shoots back.

Niall folds his arms across his chest, blue eyes glazing over with irritation. They’re icy and unblinking, cut with a fluster in his stillness, and Liam suddenly understands he's offended Niall. He’s torn down something that means a lot to Niall, and he has every right to bark at Liam for it.

"Shit, I'm really am sorry," Liam tries again. “I’m listening.”

“Oh, so now you’re gonna listen to me, yeah?”

Liam nods, eager to please, fingers still pinching at the stem.

Niall shrugs his shoulders and Liam watches the tension melt away. “Thanks, I overreacted.” Niall’s over it, and Liam’s relieved. “You’re gonna smell it first.”

“Smell it?”

“Yes, because you need to become one with the wine, dear Liam. You need to capture that scent in your nose, let it rattle about for bit before you sip it.”

“Now I’m not sure who’s taking the piss.”

“Give it a chance! I’m going to change your life.”

It’s the upturn on Liam’s smile that gives Niall the okay to tell him about the body of the wine, how to anticipate the black cherry notes. When he takes his first little, little sip, it glides across his tongue; smooth, dry, spicy. On his second sip, he can taste that hint of vanilla that’s settled into the the drink. Niall tells him it’s from the barrels they’ve been using on the vineyard, how they’ve been perfectly seasoned to deepen and develop the flavour each aging process.

Niall talks about drinking wine from a bottle versus a decanter, and how his dad always tips his reds into a gaudy crystal decanter every night before dinner.

“It opens up the taste after being stoved up in a bottle,” he assures him, “Got to air it out. Not that having wine straight from the bottle from time to time means it’s bad. It’s just another way you can experience it.”

Niall gives him a little wink, and Liam can’t help but return it with a smile.

+

After sending off a post-breakfast email update to his mother on the second day at the vineyard, Liam thanks Nonna Sofia for the basket of salami sandwiches and wine she put together for him and Niall to take on their picnic lunch.

They head off in the garden, walking beyond the walnut trees and down the hillside, a subtle indication of the end of the estate and into freeland. They walk on a trampled trail in high grass that goes up to Liam’s knees, passing by another vineyard in the distance, then an olive grove, all the while the sun is beating down on their necks and Niall babbles on about how his father took him and his brother on picnics to a particular hilltop each time they came to visit Giorgio. It was their little secret space, and Liam becomes delighted to know Niall is offering a look into yet another part of his life.

When the roaming begins to feel calculated with sharp turns and hymns and haws, Niall pushes past a line of oak trees and stops them in a bed of tall grass at the top of a hill.

“Here we are,” he says, dropping to his knees, pushing down the stems of the high grass. Liam gets down to aid in flattening out a bed in a comfortable circle. The basket is placed behind them and Niall immediately pulls out the bottle of wine. “Do you want to bother with glasses?”

“What?”

“You just want to share the bottle or bother with glasses?”

“Uh, whichever you prefer.”

Niall throws the cork into the basket and tips back the bottle for a few long seconds. Liam watches the wine spill down his throat with each swallow until he puts it down into the grass between them.

“Christ,” Liam tuts, “and to think just yesterday you were barking at me for drinking it without smelling it first.”

Niall wipes the back of his arm across his mouth with a satisfied smile fizzling onto his face. “It’s just another way of tasting wine, mate. I did say having it from the bottle time to time isn’t a bad idea. ”

“I didn’t think you meant the actual bottle.”

“Well, now you do, so shut up and drink and enjoy the view.”

It is rather lovely up on the hilltop: they’re surrounded by plush green grass and bunches of white wild daisies and red poppies. Liam can hear the current rolling through the river that’s carved out at the bottom of the hill, sweet trickles and whirls gliding over ragged rocks. It’s idyllic, vibrant, like being swallowed up by a rainbow from all sides. There are so many colors, and the swell of it all is glossing over his mind, the intensity of his environment sinking deeper by the minute. He takes a few bites of his sandwich, relishing the peppery taste of the salami, complementing and turning over new flavours on his tongue with each swig of wine.

He wipes his hands on the legs of his jeans before getting up to pluck up stems of the wildflowers, harvesting them into a delicate bouquet in the crook of his arm. When he trails back to their wild bed of grass to see Niall’s now lounging on his back, hands tucked beneath his head, eyelids closed to the blinding sunlight. It’s peaceful watching him, the scarlet flush on the apple of his cheeks, the soft rise and fall of his chest. Liam so desperately wants to crawl into that head of his, tinker with his gears.

The wilted grass has been warmed by the sun when he sits back down, crossing his legs to drop his pile of flowers into his lap. Niall doesn’t open his eyes, but takes the bottle back to the corner of this lips for another sip. Liam starts to pull apart the poppies from the heartsease, separating them by flower type to consider the marigold stems the sturdiest for the start of a crown.

He weaves together a modest crown to pluck on the top of his head, patting it down a few more times than necessary when Niall cracks open an eye. Liam’s starting on another crown for Niall, carefully poking in the bold violet bulbs of tassel hyacinths around the calendula stems.

"Good at making things, aren't you?"

"I suppose," Liam says.

"Okay. Well, you're making me smile. That's something."

Liam looks up from the second wildflower crown he's making, and he can't tell if he is staring at the sun or Niall's grin. He blushes and goes back down to weave together the rest of the flowers, "here we are." Liam puts the crown in front of Niall, "it's yours."

"You do the honors," he tucks his head down for Liam. A slow roll of wind swims through his hair, blond locks catching a glimmer. Liam rests it on top of his head, gently. The violet looks impossibly brighter on his golden hair.

"How do I look?"

Bloody gorgeous is how you look, Liam thinks. Even in his white vest with an obnoxious red wine stain on the front of it from last night. Liam feels trapped in this moment, burning inside and out, and all he can say is,

"Can I kiss you?"

Niall laughs, and Liam feels the world kickstart up again, the ground beneath their palms drawing them closer, and the day feels it's getting warmer by the second— the sun pulling forward, but it's just Niall's sweet breaths stopping themselves against Liam’s open lips.

"Sure," he replies, just low enough for Liam to hear. Only Liam— not the grass, or the poppies, or the dragonflies, or the now empty bottle of wine, or the wind. They share a kiss. It’s only for them, with sweet–hums by bumblebees, on grassy knees beneath the wildflowers.

This is what Niall is for Liam under the Tuscan sun: a taste of the world.

+
It’s their last morning on the vineyard. Liam wakes up with a cup of cappuccino at his bedside table and Niall’s tongue licking away at a lovebite he gave to Liam just below his ear last night.

“Get up, sleepmonster,” Niall says. Liam pushes at the air, missing Niall’s face by a longshot, and the momentum rolls him on top of Niall with his hand thwacking onto the mattress. “Up! Up! Off!” he wriggles the heel of his hands on Liam’s shoulders to lift him from his chest.

Liam’s still half asleep, but his eyes are slit open and slightly focused, heart racing more out of disorientation than a fear of crushing Niall. He braces up on his hands, bracketing the corners of Niall’s squared shoulders. Niall’s breath is catching up to the moment, but he’s still offering Liam a smirk.

“Morning,” Liam croaks, voice thick with sleep.

“Morning,” Niall says. Liam doesn’t move, just keeps staring at Niall, taking in this vision beneath him, sheathed in sunlight and the shadow of his arm. He’s thankful for that, because Niall has his eyes open, and they’re a wild shade of blue. He imagines they’re the color of the Mediterranean Sea, should he ever get there to see it for himself. The brilliance is cut short when Niall squeezes his eyes shut and covers up a giggle in his hands. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” Liam eases down on an elbow to his side, head supported by a fist.

“Nevermind what—something’s died in your mouth overnight. Brush your teeth.”

“That isn’t fair! I’m not even awake yet!” Liam pulls the pillow from behind him to throw it onto Niall’s stomach, earning a hey! and an oof. He scoots up to sit on the bed, leaning over to pick up his espresso on the bedside table. “Thank you for bringing me coffee.”

“You’re welcome,” Niall throws the pillow off the bed and flicks the side of Liam’s arm. “You got your bag packed?”

“Almost.”

“Well, I’m going to check out some casks with Giorgio before we leave, so meet me outside the door in an hour.”

Liam closes his eyes and nods through a sip of his coffee to let Niall know he heard him. He feels the weight of the bed shift and hears Niall close the door quietly.

They’ve only spent three days in the countryside, and he’s settling into the bittersweet aching in his bones when he cleans up for the day. Liam’s leaving with nine different ways to prepare porcini mushrooms thanks to Nonna Sofia, and a taste for having wine at breakfast. He sips at his coffee, licking away at the foam on his lips, and can’t help stealing a glance out his window between tucking away the rest of his freshly laundered shirts Rosalia brought in for him. They’d been drying on the line in the garden and smell like Tuscany: wildflowers and freshly chopped basil and orange rinds.

He takes one final look out his window, admiring little white spots floating through the vineyard, harvesting plump grapes into buckets. It’s his last look of the rolling hills from this portal, peaking in the distance that’s as golden as Ancient Giza, gilded in sunflowers. He pats the windowsill, sliding his fingertips across the grain, smoothes over his bed linens one last time before slinging on his backpack and heading down the stairs with the empty coffee cup in hand.

When he arrives, Rosalia and Nonna Sofia aren’t in the kitchen, but he snags a bread roll off a plate to nibble at on his way out the door.

After shuffling around for Gian’s truck to pull up the door, Liam spots Niall: shoulders bare and slightly pink peeking from his grey vest, coming up the drive lined in pillars of Cypress trees. It’s hot, but that’s expected for the late morning, and the cotton of Niall’s shirt is clinging to his chest by a rounded patch of wetness, sprawled across like an emblem. He’s wiping the back of his hand across a sheen of sweat on the side of his neck. He’s walking alone, and the closer Niall gets to Liam, it’s obvious to see his steps are getting heavier for him to take.

“Liam.” Niall’s voice is firm, though there’s a slight waver in his confidence when he walks up to Liam. “We have some bad news.”

“What do you mean?” Liam hikes the strap of his pack a little tighter, shifting the weight on his hips. “Bad news?”

“We aren’t going back to Florence today.”

“What?”

“It’s Gian’s truck— he’s called up Paolo to take him to go find someone in town to get it fixed, so he can’t take us back into the city until maybe tomorrow.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me, Niall. Please tell me this is a joke.”

Niall shrugs and adjusts the hat on the top of his head. He looks so calm, so casual, and it’s annoying the fuck out of Liam.

“I already talked to Giorgio. They don’t mind us staying here until the truck’s fixed.”

“But my train,” Liam whines, “you said I’d be back for my train!”

“I did, but you can’t hold the world in your hands all the time, Liam.”

Liam shrugs his backpack off his shoulder to throw it onto the ground. A cloud of dirt billows around his feet, and he plants one next to it to swing his other leg back the kick the bag away from them.

“Fuck!”

“I’m really sorry, mate. You can always catch a train tomorrow. There’s always a train to Venice, if not, Milan.”

“No!” Liam shouts, “It’s not that easy!”

“Erm,” Niall cocks his brow and takes a step back, “it actually really is.”

“It’s not!” he refuses to back down: “This completely fucks with my plans, my allowance, you know that? And you promised me— you promised me everything would be okay. It’s not like I have an aunt in Venice whom I can just go up to her door and see if I can kip a night or two. Because you see,” Liam can feel the heat rising to his ears just thinking about how much worse this story gets when he begins to process it all, “me missing my train means I’ve lost fifty euros, and then just shat away another seventy–five on top of that. All because I won’t be refunded for my no–show cancellation on my lodging.”

He’s pacing now, carding his trembling fingers through his hair, unable to unhinge from his anger-fueled nervous energy. “Shit, it’s a bloody waste!”

“Liam,” Niall says flatly.

He ignores him, lets the rising pressure ring out everything else from his ears, let the stress consume him, “Now I’ve got to put up another night in Florence, hope to god something is available there—”

“Liam, Liam, Liam. Can you please just—”

“I won’t ‘just’ any longer. I won’t listen to you ever again. I’m not a spoilt brat who gets to galavant around Italy all summer like you, okay? Not all of us have friends in high places.”

Niall keeps his chin up, locking into a wide stance with crossed arms. His defenses are up, jaw set tight with his bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth, and he’s bravely taking in every blow out of Liam’s mouth. There’s a visible and palpable tension straining in Niall’s shoulders. Liam’s breaking him down with all his rising fury, and Liam’s so blinded with frustration that he can’t see how miserable he’s making Niall feel for something neither of them could control.

“Liam!” Niall finally shouts. It takes Liam by surprise, “Quit being a bellend and let me get a fuckin’ breath in!”

Liam wipes the shock from his face and waits for him to continue, still poised with arms crossed around his chest. Now his domineering look of intimidation is haughtiness, pride.

“Look, I can see you’re beyond angry about this situation right now. And I’m sorry the burden of worrying about your funds is getting the best of you right now. Yes; I’m very lucky to have been given what I have, and what I am allowed to keep. But I also need you to understand I would never, absolutely never turn you from my door. I’m not going to kick you to the pavement and expect you to sort all of this on your own because I need to see you living this— just like we did here for the past three days. You’ve got a whole year ahead of you, Liam. Not everything is always going to work out in life, but have you once thought about how sometimes shit happens for a bigger, maybe even better, reason?”

Liam hadn’t. Chaos is a wicked phenomenon, churning a path so deep and relentless through sensibility. Liam never gave predestination a second thought before he met Niall. It’s a considerable idea at this point, something to account for that unexplainable feeling he gets thinking about their time together, so he gives a stiff nod to Niall to continue speaking.

“I think this might mean our time together isn’t up yet. And I feel so, so bad seeing you upset like this. So you’re coming back to stay with me at m’da’s house. You’re a plan man, and I like that about you. Admire it, even.” Liam spots the beginnings of a little grin in the corner of Niall’s mouth. Niall’s edging forward, albeit with some hesitancy, probably like Liam’s a wild bear. “Don’t worry. I’m also going to try and help you find some work so you can feel a little better about your plans, Mister Plan Man. Alright?”

Liam’s stunned— now he feels like the spoilt brat who’s cried his way into getting his way. Ah, that’s the guilt settling in. “What?”

Niall’s been all too understanding through all of this.

“I want to help you. Is that alright?”

It’s more than alright, it’s, “too much. God, Niall, you’re too much.”

“Will you make up your fucking mind? Would you like me to help you?”

“I—first,” Liam’s burning with embarrassment. He knows by now he should just answer Niall, but there’s some damage control that needs to be taken care of, “I was a complete dick right now, and I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

Niall stays still, but he’s much closer to Liam now. “Apology accepted.”

“I can’t begin to tell you how really, really fucking sorry I am.”

“You just did—”

“But, you just, you keep giving, and I feel like—”

“Like you owe me?”

Liam licks at his lips, “Yes.”

“Will you stop it with that already? Jesus Christ— the reason I keep giving is because I really like spending time with you, Liam, but the one thing about you that I’ve noticed this week is that you seem to think you don’t deserve everything good that’s offered to you. And that is a damn shame. You’re brilliant, and I hope you realize that.”

He’s comforted by these words from Niall. He feels a little homesick in the moment, mostly because as sappy as it sounds, Niall being so forgiving and supportive, seeing things in Liam that he can’t see himself, and it’s reminding him of home, mostly his mum. She’s the reason he even bothered with Cambridge anyway, and taking the awful shifts at a greasy chip shop on the weekends to help save up for this year abroad. Liam’s already had so much in his first week here; tasted the finest wine and felt the warmest sun. Maybe he’s a little afraid the fun has been front loaded, that it really can’t get any better than this. He thinks if he sticks to being the Plan–Man, he has a chance in making sure the goodness is consistent.

“Thank you,” is all he can find in the moment. It’s in a low rumble of his own modesty.

“I fucking mean it.”

“I know.”

Niall opens his arms to invite a hug, and Liam accepts, squeezing him tightly with Niall’s lips to his temple. Liam’s murmuring a litany of thank yous into his ear.

“Get your chin up then,” Niall breaks the hug. “Come on— grab your bag.”

Liam obeys, leaning down for the strap of his dirtied sack, knees cracking.

“Ho fame,” Niall whines, rubbing a grand circle with his palm over his belly and a wrinkled brow.

“Did you not have breakfast?”

“What kind of man do you take me for? Hurry up! I think they might have some wine for us, too.”

“Oh, do they? Here, on a vineyard? Fancy that.”

“Shut up, you knob,” Niall says, helping dust off the rest of Liam’s backpack. He cleans his hand off the side of his shorts before offering it to Liam. “Follow me.”

Liam slides his fingers between Niall’s, squeezing one last apology into his palm, “I always do.”

+

After spending another night at the vineyard, Gian’s truck is fixed to take Niall and Liam back up to Florence. The morning of their farewell is an emotional affair over biscotti dipped in wine, a toast to safe travels in their futures. Sofia reminds Liam that her door is always open for him if he’s ever near or wanting to come back to Chianti, after complimenting his Italian several times.

The drive back to the city feels shorter than the one when they left, like they’re actually flying past the manicured vineyards and untamed countryside. Liam does his best to keep his ear on the conversation Niall’s holding, not wanting them to find him rude and believe he’s completely tuned them out in favour of the scenery.

Buildings start to cluster closer together as the approach the city limits. They may have only been gone for a few days, but it’s a bit of a shock to be thrown back into stoplights and pedestrians. Florence is a much quieter city than London, even Wolverhampton, but it’s churning with much more artificial movement than Chianti. There’s chaos amongst the order, and despite Liam having sat in the car, he decides traveling is exhausting and keeps his goodbyes with Gian brief to hurry behind Niall inside the house.

The door looks similar to the one he met a little over a week ago at his hostel. When they get inside, they trudge up several flights of steep stairs to reach the top.

“Bloody hell,” Niall sighs, pushing the door open and immediately dropping his bag at his feet. “Didn’t think I’d ever see these walls again.”

Liam slides his pack off, gently resting it against his calf to stand awkwardly in the middle of the atrium. The interior is surprisingly modern, very spacious with simple decor. It’s warm, very homely, much like the villa, with hardwood floors covered in plush coloured rugs; even the minimalist sculptures look inviting.

Niall leads him down a wide passageway to show him the guest room, decorated in a similar fashion to the lounge.

“Take it easy, yeah?” Niall says, leaning against the doorframe. “Rest a while and I’ll come get you for dinner. Maybe some FIFA or a film later?”

Liam nods a thank you as he settles on the edge of the bed to unlace his trainers. He wrinkles his nose at the little black scuff mark across the rubber toe before licking his thumb to rub it out. He hears the door click when he sinks onto the pillow, lids heavy and closing, but only for a minute—

+

“Oi, get up you lump!”

Liam curls tighter into a ball on first instinct, then flies to his feet when a heavy pillow is thwacked across his face.

“Fuck,” he growls.

“You’re gonna sleep through breakfast,” Niall dives onto the bed, belly first. “Get up!”

“I’m on my feet,” Liam says, rubbing the sleepers from his eyes, swaying back and forth on heeltoe between sleep and awake. “Wait—breakfast? It’s tomorrow?”

“Today, actually,” Niall corrects, chin held up by the heels of his hands.

“Why didn’t you wake me up last night?”

“Jesus, now you’re gonna be a grump with lots of sleep. I knew you’d be the type when you’ve had slept too much, aren’t you?”

Liam shrugs, knee sinking down onto the edge of the bed.

“Don’t you dare fall back into this bed,” Niall falls face down, spread eagle across every corner of the duvet.

“Fine, fine.”

“I have some news for you.”

“News? You and the news—I’m scared. Last time you had news for me, I missed my train.”

“You still got the hump? Get over it.” Niall pouts, getting up from the bed, “And this is good news. Well, for you anyway. I’m going to need to get some coffee in you first.”

“Why?”

“You can’t sound sleepy on the phone.”

“Why are you putting me on the phone?”

“I was talking to Gian’s cousin last night, and I happened to mention you were looking for work, and...” Niall trails off when Liam falls back onto the bed. “Oh—I’m trying to help! He can get you in at a resort near Rome, and—”

“It’s not that,” Liam chews onto the corner of his mouth, arm over his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Plan–Man, but, at the vineyard—”

He slides his arm up to his forehead, squinting out a smile. “It’s all very thoughtful of you.”

A look of relief washes over Niall’s face, “Good.”

It’s the understatement of the year; everything Niall has done, keeps doing for him, it has felt too much, but this was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. He didn’t even consider how he was going to find work, just hoped for the best that he’d eventually meet the right people who could lead him to it along the way. Or, at least that was initially all part of his plan. Then again, this entire trip has turned out to be the epitome of the anti–plan. So much is happening at once, and he knows he’d be a fool to turn away from this.

+

In the evening, long after a couple bottles of Peroni with their feet kicked up on the window ledge in Niall’s bedroom, after the sun settled down in the West, with the light of the moon flickering off the Arno, Niall leans over to press a kiss behind Liam’s ear. It is soft, the first nudge to get Liam to turn away from the midnight view of the illuminated Palazzo Vecchio, and his lips stay still, pursed tightly, dragging across the smooth plane of Liam’s cheek.

“Don’t you ever get tired of looking at things?” he murmurs against the corner of Liam’s mouth.

“What else can you do with your eyes open?”

Liam tries to look into Niall’s eyes. They’re far too close to focus on clearly, but they’ve gone pale under the full moon–light, hanging high in the sky and streaming through the open window, and he starts to feel a little dizzy by the closeness, so he takes to closing his eyes, feeling the little breaths from their noses getting trapped between them.

“I—” Niall starts. And it’s funny now; Liam’s focused on the way his words brush against him, the heat with each overturned R, and curling O, “I suppose you’re right. But. How often do you just,”

He feels the tip of Niall’s tongue glide from left–to–right, perhaps to wet his own, but Liam parts his, leans into this sensation, bringing a hand underneath Niall’s chin to tilt to pull–push them together, taste each other fully. It’s the last of their beer: dry, and bubbly (It’s Italian champagne, Niall had insisted). Their hands are moving in time with their mouths, smoothing over collarbones and down shoulder blades, up necks, nails scratching lightly into each others scalps.

Niall pulls away with his teeth tugging at Liam’s bottom lip, hands sliding down Liam’s arms. He knocks over an empty glass bottle with his foot when he stands up to move over to his bed. Liam opens his eyes to see Niall sitting on the edge of it, hands curled over into the striped duvet. Niall curls a finger, beckoning him over, patting down to the space between him and the head of the bed.

Liam picks up the fallen bottle, rattles them neatly into the corner of the room, and walks over to the bed. He smiles, finally sitting down and leans over to kiss him again—

Niall leans forward, hands pushing Liam’s shoulders back, head falling onto the bed. The wind’s knocked out of him, fighting the fire in his lungs through an aborted breath, when Niall leans back down to lick back into him, tongue sliding across the roof of Liam’s mouth. Niall has him trapped: knees straddling Liam’s hips, palms pressed into his temples, fingers carding through his hair. Liam’s got his hands pulling at the front of Niall’s shirt, back arching up from the linens, levying closer into the kiss. They’d done a lot of kissing in Chianti. At the time, Liam had believed the fresh air compelled them to lazily kiss each other under the sun. But now they’re back in Florence, on Niall’s bed under the moonlight, encouraging an entirely different type of want to surface between them.

Liam whines into the touches, never daring to open his eyes as Niall’s mouth travels down his neck. He nods impatiently when he feels Niall stretching out the neck of his tee and gently press his teeth into the skin at his shoulder. The first bite stings, but Niall soothes it over with his tongue. He laughs into the bite as he sucks away at the skin. Liam feels restless, hand on the back of Niall’s neck, the other up the side of his shirt, fingers digging into Niall’s hip. He’s flushed, panting, blooming with heat through each pulse, and there’s ringing in his ears each time Niall scrapes his teeth lower on his collar, sucking a new bruise onto the top of his chest.

Niall sits up to curl his fingers under the hem of Liam’s shirt, silently asking if he can push it upward. Liam pushes his hands out of the way to peel it off himself, crumpling it beside them on the bed. Niall leans forward again, spending time to slowly kiss into Liam’s mouth, and the room is quiet, despite the open window. The city is asleep, but the room is alive with only the sounds of rustled cotton and kissing lips.

“Fuck,” Liam sighs. He’s pulling at Niall’s shirt again, begging for him to take it off, undoing the buttons of his jeans, getting a little forward by sliding his hand down the side of Niall’s shorts.

They strip down to their underwear, and Liam plants his hands on Niall’s waist and rolls them over to hold him down. They stop, catching their breaths, staring into each other’s eyes with heaving chests.

“Are you sure you want us to do this?” Niall asks.

Liam’s breath catches, and he tips over to lay beside Niall. He’s shaking his head frantically, mustering up the confidence to respond with a casual, “it’s cool,” but manages a shaky, “yeah?”

Of course he’s going to do this— it’s part of the whole idealized experience of being eighteen and on your own. He wants this, to indulge in such finite pleasures at once, drunk on the feeling of living in the moment. He isn’t a child anymore, he isn’t home, he isn’t going to let the Fear hold him back, because if there’s anything he’s learned in his first week in Italy, it’s that the feeling he has isn’t really Fear, but it’s curiosity, a passionate desire for Newness.

“Look, Liam—” Niall wraps a hand around Liam’s wrist.

“It’s not like I’ve not had sex before, alright?” he blurts out.

(And he remembers being fifteen and clumsy, arms straining around black curls on the pillows beneath him, pinching his eyes closed, trying not to whine into her neck, and being overwhelmed by how hot and tight her cunt was around his cock. Maybe it was the fact he was fucking someone [at that time, a very beautiful girl], but it was probably because it felt better than his hand, more exciting and wild and out of his control. It was over for him before it really even started for them, and he ended up on his back feeling cheated and spent too early for his ‘first time,’ because it didn’t feel like much of a big deal, or a deal at all, until he brought it up with his mates the next day.

And perhaps recalling it, especially right now, leaves him more embarrassed than turned on.)

Niall picks up his hand, rubbing slow circles with his thumbs on the knots on his wrist. Liam feels his heart pick up in waves with every turn, and then a deep flush wash over him when Niall brings the wrist up to his mouth for a light kiss.

His initial question is still lingering for Liam, but this time in his eyes. It isn’t fair: Niall isn’t giving him much of a chance to consider backing out of this situation, not with the teasing kisses tracing from his inner wrist, to the lines in his palm, nosing at his tense, spread fingers.

“It’s—” Liam shivers, feeling Niall’s teeth graze under the pads of his fingers, dragging over his bottom lip.

“Are you sure?” he asks once more before taking Liam’s index and middle fingers into his mouth.

Now Liam’s frustrated— because the hesitation was there a second ago, and Niall was encouraging it, but it’s like these small, intimate gestures have masked this feigned confidence with arousal.

“Yeah,” and this time he whines, feels the silken glide of Niall’s tongue swirl beneath each crook of his fingers. Liam’s staring, slack–jawed in awe, but the lips wrapped around his two fingers smile. Niall swallows, sucking harder with an approving hum, his focus pouring into Liam’s gaze. The vibrations tickle, easing the tension that had fluctuated so rapidly in the past thirty seconds, even Liam isn’t sure he could ever keep up with his decision.

But he knows what he wants now:

He wants for this to happen.

He lets Niall take over, sinking into the battle between Curiosity and Hesitancy weighing down in his mind, and the sweet brushes over his skin keep Curiosity propelling forward. Niall settles between his legs, talking him through it all (“If anything doesn’t feel right, tell me,” —but Liam thinks, in the midst of that fleeting moment, that’s absurd: Niall’s got a spit–slicked palm twisting up and down around Liam’s cock under the waistband of his briefs, and it’s just enough pressure, that this couldn’t possibly feel awful). They kiss for a while longer, Liam getting a feel for jerking off a cock not of his own, and trying to not overthink it all, or hang up on too many sorry’s when Niall pulls away with a hiss.

The first time he wraps his lips around Niall’s cock, he’s got his knees digging into the floorboards and the side of his face on Niall’s thigh, hand lazily curled around the base of the cock, gently pushing the head into the side of his cheek. Niall’s sitting on the bed, looking down at him, breathing steadily, babbling how–to’s between hard swallows and eye–squints. He may have grazed his bottom teeth against the sensitive skin a few times at the start, but Niall is enthusiastic about his improvement later, with a hand in his hair and the other clenched at the duvet. Liam tries to take him deeper, eyes watering, but throat resisting, and Liam’s flushed with embarrassment, most likely from the fact he can’t do it than the hideous wretches from his throat. He keeps trying until Niall begs him to stop, half in laughter. So Liam stops, sits patiently on his heels, arms crossed with tear–stained cheeks. Niall assures him it’d be a miracle if he could do that overnight, but to give it practice (“Perhaps another time,” he winks).

Liam wants back on the bed, but he can’t stop thinking about how he also wants to keep sucking Niall’s cock, maybe he wants to taste him... but really, all it boils down to is that he can’t believe Niall’s casual nature is setting him off into a state of internal panic. Shouldn’t this be a bigger deal?

Niall’s got him on his hands and knees now, and Liam is shivering with each brush over his hole. He keeps hearing Niall reminding him to relax, and he tries his best not think about how cold and wet Niall’s fingers feel, how sensitive and new this is all is for him: he’s going to let someone, Niall, fuck him. But he gives, bites through it, because warmth is no longer captive to a blush, and he lets Niall in. He can hardly believe himself in this silence, and he thinks maybe Niall can’t either, so he immediately seizes up.

“Talk to me, love,” Niall says. Liam opens his mouth to speak but is caught with a heavy tongue and a low grunt. "Tell me about the Duomo.”

Liam's breathing fast; he’s gone dizzy. The room has gone spinning, head heavy with air and Oh, it's horrible, even if Niall tries to move. Liam holds his hips still, resting his cheek on the pillow, straining to slow the blood rushing to his ears. He keeps whining with each exhale.

"Breathe," Niall says, rubbing his palm against Liam’s lower back, "think about the dome. Brunelleschi's."

"That's unorthodox," Liam grits through his teeth. “You— want me to think about a church with your finger up my arse.” He hears Niall laugh and feels his finger push in a little further.

"Just, it's gonna be so good if you just—" Niall begs and Liam feels himself unconsciously slump lower into the sheets for Niall. His thighs are shaking. After a few tense exhales, Liam can feel the pressure of Niall’s finger sliding into him begin to fade. He’s adjusting to this, the annoyingly dull feeling of something being inside of him slowly starts to be taken over by relaxation.

“Nobody thought is was possible,” Liam pushes back onto Niall’s finger, swiveling his hips. He’s filing through his enthusiasm for architecture, filtering it through his lips, spilling every detail he can remember in the heat of the moment.

He must have been babbling about the dome longer than he thought, because he’s suddenly cut off by an involuntary gasp of his own, and, “yes,” because this feels good. Too good. Liam can’t remember when he was last thinking about the dome, and he could care less, because Niall has three fingers up his arse that are making tortuously slow circles over something that’s got Liam gripping at the sheets now, and constructing a coherent thought right this moment would be counterintuitive to his newfound pleasure. Niall’s got his other palm pushing into the flesh on Liam’s hip, digging in with his fingertips, but he’s so gentle, and Liam never thought it would drive him this crazy— the Everythingness of it all: his awe and wonderment he’d bring himself to this, the feelgoodness blurring his expectations.

Liam’s more vocal about his wants, more forward with the spread of his knees and the knock of his hips. Liam’s completely forgotten the difference between nerves and excitement when Niall slides his fingers out and lines his slick cock up behind him. Before Niall gets a chance to distract Liam again, Liam takes it upon himself to talk through his aesthetic preference for the belltower of the Badia Fiorentina over Giotto’s Belltower. Niall takes one hand to spread open his cheeks, the other to tease the head of his cock around Liam’s hole. Liam continues to babble, voice speeding up, words rolling into and onto one another, and he refuses to allow himself to stop talking, no matter how much the push of Niall’s cock feels like he’s splitting him open.

Niall’s hand on his hip digs in a little further, but Liam can hardly feel the curve of his nails biting into it over the blood in his ears and his own grunts slipping from his lips.

“Shit,” Niall says through gritted teeth.

“Hah—oh my god, you’re going to kill me,” Liam cries.

“I—I need you to relax, or you’re actually going to kill me,” he tries pushing in further, “Jaysis.”

“Does it ev—” Liam’s a little winded already, trying to catch his breath, but he feels Niall slide in all at once, and the seconds are splitting between themselves until he feels the press of Niall’s hips on his ass.

“Oh—Liam. Fuck...” his voice sounds trapped in a headlock. “You’re way too tight, babe. Gonna need—hold on.”

Liam considers barking back a that makes one of us; he can’t hold onto much else with his breath burning like water in his lungs when a cock is stuffed up his ass, until the minute is cut short and Niall starts to pull out and push back in just as slow. It doesn’t feel amazing the first few thrusts, nothing at all like he was expecting it to be, but he feels the heat of Niall lean closer to his back when Niall’s fingers wrap around his half–hard cock. It’s a bit sloppy and awkward in the time between getting him hard, but it gets him breathing again— more steadily with dropped shoulders and his fists unfurling to open palms.

“That’s it,” Niall whispers, pressing a kiss to the back of Liam’s neck. “There you go, Payno. You feel so fucking amazing right now.”

Liam keens at the appraisal, moving his hips back into Niall. They work together to find a rhythm: Niall fucking into Liam, and Liam into Niall’s hand. It starts off slow and calculated, intimate from proximity. Niall’s trailing little kisses across Liam’s flexing shoulders, testing out how much pressure Liam needs around his cock for a response. His right hand is tracing through the crown of Liam’s hair, drawing lines down the back of his neck, his shoulder, his arm. Liam feels the heat of Niall’s palm press onto the top of his hand, then Niall’s fingers slip and curl between the webbing of his own. Liam’s locked into a whimper, at the mercy of a trail of goosebumps down his spine when he feels that sharp burst of pleasure he felt when Niall had his fingers in him; it’s back, and it’s more intense, and needs to let Niall know that,

“This— you—Niall—therethere—fu—ckmeincredibleshit.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes—” Liam hisses.

“Can I—”

“Please,” he begs. The thing is, that flush over his prostate isn’t consistent, it isn’t lasting, but it’s bloody amazing when it washes over him.

Niall takes his left hand off Liam’s cock to replace it with Liam’s right hand. Liam picks up the friction, falling down to his elbow and mouth kissing the pillow. It’s shifted the angle, allowing Niall’s cock to push in deeper, something Liam couldn’t have imagined possible. The air is cold on the sweat rolling down his back, sending a shiver throughout the room. Now Liam wants to take the wheel, hopes Niall understands what he likes and needs more of through each moan and groan.

It’s from a chorus of hums and theretherethere’s, and the discovery of the perfect twist around his cock that gets Liam the loudest he’s been all night.

“Can hardly hear myself think,” Niall says. Liam can feel him pressing the heel of his palm harder into the meat of his shoulder, keeping him pinned at the golden angle. He’s fucking the screams out of Liam, absolutely reckless, egging him on to, “let me know how much you like it.”

Liam’s voice is already strained, but fighting through each hoarse ah, more for him than for Niall. Because in the heat of everything, it does feel good. He isn’t thinking about what it took to get him here, or how he’s going to feel by the end of it. He’s relishing it all: the tensing in his thighs, the damp heat of the pillow brushing against his cheek, Niall’s thumb digging deeper into the back of his neck.

“Ah—fuck,” he’s still, voice caught in his throat, and Niall’s still fucking into him as he’s coming, spilling over his knuckles, onto the linen. His thighs are shaking, over–sensitive, forehead sliding further up the sheets when he feels Niall move both hands to his hips to pull out of him. He hears the wet slick of Niall’s hand over his own cock tugging once, twice, and a deep groan.

Liam’s still got his arse up, and Niall puts a hand on the small of his back to ease down next to Liam. Their breaths are both labored and still in sync, bodies covered in sweat. Niall’s flushed a deep, velvety red down his chest, but he has the goofiest grin on his face.

“Not bad,” he says, fist bumping at Liam’s arm. “That was aces.”

They share a laugh as Liam plunks down to his side facing Niall. He’s careful to not settle into the come on the sheets, wiping what’s on his hand on the top of his thigh. It’s uncomfortably sticky, drying on the hairs of his leg, but he tries to push the thought to the back of his mind.

“Yeah, I suppose it was.”

“Suppose? You cheeky fucker!” Niall pokes him in the cheek. “‘Ooh, Niall! Fuck me!’”

“Shut up!”

“Shame you mucked up my sheets, though.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Liam says, sounding so shy and distant from moments before.

“Don’t worry about it—sounded like it was worth it. Eh?”

Liam diverts his eyes from Niall for a moment, thoughts catching up to the soreness in his throat. All he can do is nod, but he leans over draw the pad of his thumb over the curve of Niall’s cheek before leaning in for a quick kiss. He hopes that’ll do for a thank you.

+

The days begin to bleed together, calling for lie–ins with bottles of chianti with biscotti’s and a late afternoon stroll through the Giardino di Boboli (including rest stops on benches in grottos to kiss each other behind statues), and daytrips to nearby hilltop towns that end in Florentine nightclubs. They meet other tourists and make conversation with the locals, but spend most of their time together in solitude. Liam takes a liking to kicking his feet up in the lounge, watching the sun move over the rooftops and bell towers.

Niall was right about him leaving and coming back with a feeling like he has seen it all. It’s not that he’d seen all of Florence, it’s that he had initially seen it much differently compared to his return, a perspective filtered down to textbooks and guidebooks (like almost every other stereotypical tourist). Or perhaps he had initially seen it all wrong, because seeing a city goes beyond observing the two-dimensional scenery before your eyes.

Liam remembers his first sips of chianti at the vineyard, poured fresh from a French oak barrel, far more than his initial impression of a gallery of medieval Madonnas. He remembers the coo Niall would make when he’d slide his thumb down from the skin behind his ear more than the glittering details of Botticelli’s Venus. He remembers the heat on his skin, and the guilt in his bones when he was rotten to Niall outside the villa more than all the stones Donatello carved into across Firenze. Seeing a city doesn’t mean to take in just what you’re looking at: it calls for you to absorb your surroundings.

So Liam breathes in as much as he can: a glutton for silly conversation and Niall’s body flushed against his. It’s entirely liberating, and perhaps a little romantic, but never once obnoxious or overwhelming since their arrival back from the vineyard. It’s their companionship, a mutual understanding that their giving has never been one sided. Surely their time together has been loaded monetarily by Niall, and that was the first thought that weighed Liam down like stones in his stomach, but that’s only half the experience. It’s difficult to buy laughter and an open ear that’s wrapped up in some tangled, organic intimacy only found amongst kindred spirits. There’s a mutual understanding that’s been established between these two now, and Liam feels the knot wrapped around his finger now. The thread isn’t as taut as it was his second day in Florence, but it’s loosening now, stretching to accommodate for the distance that will span between them. Niall is someone Liam can’t forget; too big to dismiss from his mind, and even larger than life itself.

At the end of the week, he’s back at the Stazione Santa Maria Novella, this time with Niall at his side, backpack melting into his shoulders. It’s only been two weeks in Florence for Liam, but it’s felt like years. They are sitting on a bench across from the small queue of tourists in front of a drinking fountain. Niall’s talking about how he already misses a good, cold can of cider, and Liam’s waving a plume of cigarette smoke away from his face.

The board flashes that his train to Rome has been delayed by twenty–two minutes, and if this had been the Liam two weeks ago, he would have been irritated and anxious. But now he rests his hand on Niall’s knee and gives it a gentle squeeze just to let Niall know he’s still listening (though he’s only half–listening), but he doesn’t look up, just keeps his eyes focused on the Marlboro butts scattered beneath his feet. He nods at whatever Niall’s gabbing on about now, rubbing small circles on the side of his knee, blinking away the prickly feeling behind his eyes.

Not now. It isn’t time for that.

“Liam?” Niall puts his hand on top of the one on his knee now.

“Yeah?”

“You gonna be okay?”

“Gonna have to be,” he feels Niall rest his head on his shoulder. Niall takes both hands to clasp Liam’s between his.

“Don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t—” Liam feels something catch in his throat, “it’s just, it won’t ever be the same.”

“Nothing should ever stay the same. But this— this was good.”

“Yeah, it was more than good.”

“It’s gonna get better,” Niall assures him with a pat on his shoulder.

A mother is scolding her daughter for getting water down the front of her shirt, and Liam still can’t focus on the inevitable sitting next to him. Can’t bring himself to confront it. And if there’s anything he has learned with his time with Niall, it’s been to go forward, and only forward. Do what pleases you. He’s had this inside him all along. He wouldn’t have made it to Italy without it, but Niall affirmed that these qualities can only bring happiness.

Niall is happiness. And he’s ignoring those thoughts that tell him he shouldn’t rely on others to see it— to feel it, because it’s been in him all along. He could have said no at the Uffizi. He could have stayed in Wolverhampton. He could have started Cambridge in October. And if he had done all of those things, he wouldn’t have made it here. On this bench, sitting next to the start of something bigger than what he could hoped for.

“Thank you,” he says, “For—really, showing me around, and—and my job. I can’t thank you enough. For everything, Niall. I won’t forget this summer.”

He can see Niall smile from the corner of his eye, and that prickly sensation swells up again. He feels an arm wrap around his shoulders and Niall plant a wet kiss behind his ear. His train’s being called, and he can’t believe it’s already been twenty minutes.

“Don’t be sad, mate.”

“Niall,” he sighs, turning to look at him. And there are wet lines rolling down his face, too. Liam uses his thumb to wipe them away, shutting out the whirl of luggage wheels clattering on the station floor. Time’s up. “We’ll see each other again,” he whispers, resting their foreheads together. He isn't bothered by the sticky, drying sweat between them, “I promise. The world brought us together once. It can do it again.”

“It fucking better,” Niall laughs.

"Thank you," he whispers again, then leans forward to kiss him. They're still calling for his train, but he takes his time with Niall, soaking in this feeling, knows he has five more minutes of Firenze, like he's taking a sip of sunlight, and burning with brightness and warmth.

Niall pushes lightly at Liam’s shoulders to push away. He hooks his forefinger around Liam’s thumb as they stand up from the bench and says, "They're calling your train."

"So... Goodbye, I guess."

"No, it's never goodbye. It's see you later. I'll write to you. Come down to the resort. We’ll see each other in Cambridge.”

Liam’s shaking his head, rattling the thought of starting up at Cambridge in fourteen months— he’s only just started in Italy.

“You promised we’ll see each other again,” Niall’s looking straight into his eyes. Liam knows he says it out of comfort, and that’s what Niall has given to Liam during their time together. He was a guide, a host, a companion. “Go on, Payno. The world is yours."

Liam nods, memorizing the smile in Niall’s blue eyes one last time. He winks— or tries to—because everything has been said between them. They’ve exhausted their speech, and he should be seated in the car by now. He kicks up his feet, inching backward, keeping his eyes on Niall who tries to shoo him away. He is gambling on missing his train, and tries to convince himself he’s imagining this feeling of goodbye. And that’s the reason why it feels so heavy, and he can’t bring himself to face the train, because when he turns away from it all, it’s over. It’s really over. He will never have it back in full. And in each instance he will recall this time of happiness, whether it be in his camera, on the leaves of his journal, in a sip of chianti, or in the middle of a thought in nine years time, he knows he’s going to relive through the same ache burning into his chest he’s getting right now from this moment between seeing and no longer seeing Niall. He thinks he’ll learn to take comfort in the ache, because he knows when he feels it that Florence, or rather their time together, has been imprinted in his heart.

Liam closes his eyes and turns to run into the train car. The path to his cabin is empty, but he stays to keep his eyes out the window onto the platform. Niall’s gone, probably halfway out the door of the station by now. But Liam stays there, palms curled over the bar, eyes taking in his final minute at Santa Maria Novella. He’s learned a lot about himself in such a short amount of time—and now it’s that he actually believes he has it in himself that he can go and do absolutely anything. This is his exodus. He is free to wander, and losing himself has already written him into an awfully big adventure. He’s found a lot more of himself in Tuscany. As hard as it is for Liam to part from the gates of paradise, he’s taken what he’s needed, accepted what he’s been given, and loved every minute of it.

And it’s here, standing tall, flushed against the window of the train car: this is the moment where the story really begins.