Italian Sunset

AN: The soundtrack for this story is Occidentali's Karma by Francesco Gabbani. Lyrics aren't relevant.

Alex loved the crowds: the masses of tourists sprawled on the golden sands, their vivid umbrellas and beach towels like the dabs of paint in a pointillism painting, he one of them. Anonymous.

Best yet was Tom, who sat beside him where he would certainly notice if anyone ominous were to approach. Although, Alex had pointed out, that didn't reassure if the attacker didn't care about being spotted, or if it were a sniper with pinpoint vision. Tom said he knew that, but he'd definitely be able to take down the attacker with his Mad Karate, or trace the line of fire.

It was almost enough for Alex. The hot air, tempered by the cool sea, loosened his muscles, relaxing him more than he had for at least a year. Though he still kept an eye out for eyes kept out for him.

Jerry was meant to be there, but they'd been in Tropea for a week already with no drama, so he'd taken a trip to see the active volcano of Stromboli. He'd left after lunch, and wouldn't be back until the beach party that night. Tom and Alex had eaten their lunch overlooking the sea and the Santa Maria dell'Isola Monastery, before going back to the beach as they had the previous few days. It was repetitive and passed the time with little effort, but Alex found it just as fulfilling as the jam-packed adventures he'd taken with Ian so many years ago.

The salt stung his lips and nose.

"I'm hungry," said Tom.

Alex laughed. "How long ago did we eat? One hour, two?"

Tom held up his watch and squinted to see the numbers, against the sun reflecting off the water. "The latter. I'm not that greedy."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Alex smirked. "I guess I could do with a bite, too."

"I feel like some of that spicy sausage we had. The spreadable stuff. It's like the best thing I've ever tasted, I'm telling you!"

Alex had to agree. He held up his hand, skin all prune-y. "All the better for gripping food?"

Tom just laughed and shook his head.

"Do you know what I heard?" Tom asked, tossing a pot of sweet red Tropean onion marmalade into their picnic basket.

"How would I know?"

Tom shrugged. "Maybe you're such a good friend that we share a telepathic bond. Oh wait, you're not my friend."

"How am I not your friend?!"

"Well you got me shot," he pointed out, grinning. "And then you ditched me to go live with Sabina. What happened to 'bros before –"

"Her family offered! Besides, I'm here with you now, aren't I?"

"Only because your love is sadly unrequited and now she's off on a romantic road trip with her new boyyyfriend."

"And several other friends, of mixed genders."

"I know that! Anyway, you still haven't answered my point about being shot."

"Girls dig scars! I was doing you a favour, you ungrateful prat. Anyway, the fake-sniper was shooting blanks, remember? You just got hit by desk shrapnel."

Tom winced. "And now you make light of my terrible affliction. You'd be the worst wingman, you know?"

"I know," grinned Alex.

Tom sniffed. "I choose to believe it's because you love me too much to let go."

Alex scoffed and added bread to go with the marmalade. The shopkeeper asked them how long they were staying in Tropea and Alex, after a beat of hesitation, deliberately let the lie die before reaching his lips. "This is our last day."

Later, as they ate their picnic at the cliffs overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea, Tom slapped his forehead. "You distracted me from telling you what I learnt!"

Alex smiled sardonically. "Forgive me," he said. "Please, share your transcendent knowledge."

Tom sniffed. He seemed to do that often around Alex, as though he had some sort of allergy. "I don't know if you deserve it, after all you've done."

"I showed you how to get to this spot," he pointed out. "And I do all the Italian-speaking for you."

Tom inclined his head. "You have a point. Mayhaps I'll be magnanimous, then, and tell you, even though you still don't properly deserve whatever I impart."

"No, of course not," murmured Alex. "Please –" he gestured with the half-bergamot he'd been eating.

"Well," said Tom, settling into his storyteller posture. "I'm sure you know of puttanesca –"

"Anchovies, olives, garlic –"

"Yes. Well, literally it means 'in the style of the prostitute', although you knew that. Wait, do you? How good is your Italian?"

"Good enough," said Alex wryly.

"Huh." Tom shook his head. "Well, anyway, the name's because the prostitutes used to cook puttanesca to be really stinky –"

"Fragrant?"

"– Yes. To attract their customers."

Alex waited. "Is that it?"

Tom sniffed again. Maybe the sea air was getting to him. "If you're going to be so ungrateful, then maybe I won't tell you anything anymore."

"I'm so sorry," said Alex. "Whatever can I do for you to forgive me?"

A wicked look came over Tom's face. "Well, now. Isn't that a loaded question?" He tapped his chin with a finger, leaving a red streak from the food he'd been eating. "You'll have to wait for me to think of an idea."

Suddenly, Alex began to regret his hasty words. "Hey, look! The sunset," he said, trying to distract his friend.

Tom looked.

The sea was a light lilac, the sky above carnation pink. Alex had seen many sunsets before, many sunrises too, but this one was in the top ranks.

"I've thought of something," Tom said musingly.

Alex's heart sank.

"You like monkeys, don't you?"

Jerry had returned from Stromboli, but just as quickly he left again with a girl he'd met at the eruption. Tom and Alex were left to wander the stalls of the festival.

"You know what," said Tom, "I think I could do with another bite to eat."

"When couldn't you?"

"Hey!" Tom poked him hard in the ribs, but his normally-sharp fingers had less of an impact this time through the thick fabric.

He was right, though. The constant walking and swimming was doing wonders for Alex's appetite, which had decreased at the Pleasures' such that he ate only for sustenance. Not only that, but the smells of chili, and those sweet onions and bergamot oranges, mingling with the char of fresh seafood on the grill, made Alex's mouth water. He could imagine the cod melting on his tongue, the juicy tenderness of the octopus…

They bought a small bag of hard biscuits made from honey and mulled wine, and a bag with nuts and dried figs, and walked to a small stage where a man was breathing fire.

A loud noise from behind made him turn around, but he forcefully relaxed on seeing the costumed performers weaving around the crowd, cheering on their leader, who was juggling an orange, a wine bottle, and, of all things, a squid.

"If you're not careful, they'll think you're one of them and make you participate," said Tom's voice from his side.

Alex's thoughts faltered for a moment, and then he remembered the ridiculous costume Tom had used his opportunity to force Alex to wear – a black gorilla, with a prominent bowtie. He hadn't been able to find a monkey suit, but Alex wasn't sure whether that would have been any better.

"Bowties are cool!" Tom had tried to reassure him, but Alex felt reassured only as much as he was sure Tom felt reassured by the fact that Blunt's gunman had been firing blanks.

"Can we go somewhere more private, then? So people don't try to get me to perform tricks?"

Tom grinned at him. "What, a little shy, are we?" But he let Alex move off to where the crowds were thickest, watching a bigger stage with brighter lights throwing the crowd into even darker shadows.

"Here," he said, holding up an object that Alex could barely make out through the mask. "I got this from Jerry to celebrate."

"Celebrate what? And… is that a thermos?"

"Celebrate everything. Mulled wine in a thermos. Do you want some, or not?"

Alex shrugged, although Tom couldn't see it. He'd know Alex's response, anyway.

Tom poured some of the mulled wine into the lid of the thermos. "Here. There's your share."

"Thanks," said Alex. He took a sip, savouring the warmth of the spices and the alcohol, and breathing in the sweet steam.

A part of him wished Jack could be here to experience this, but that part had learnt to appreciate what he had experienced with her, before.

Tom suddenly gripped his shoulder in a sort of sideways hug, and though he didn't say anything, Alex knew that he'd known what Alex had been thinking about.

"I propose a toast," he said, awkwardly holding up the thermos. "Life, liberty, fraternity."

Alex raised his lid to match Tom. "That's not the proper quote. And we're in Italy, not France."

Tom clinked his thermos against Alex's lid. "I know."

They watched together as the lights of an aeroplane drifted overhead amongst the stars, so high that the noise didn't reach them.

The End