Chapter Text
Lassatimi un raggiu di lu suli
‘Na guccitedda di l’azzurru mari
(Nostalgia by Rosa Balistreri)
July 2031
“Mommy,” Beatrice whispers, her voice laced with wonder, “They have Andrea.”
They’ve been in Italy for nearly two weeks, meandering their way through historical buildings and cobblestoned streets and long dinners with old friends from med school, enjoying all that the North of the country has to offer.
But it’s their first full day in Sicily and the heat is sweltering. Which is saying a lot, Maya thinks, considering she once busted through doors in thick turnouts to put out fires.
She’d stepped into the oversized souvenir shop simply for a break from the beaming sunshine, dragging Beatrice and her equally fair skin along behind her. Carina had specifically forbidden the gaudy, American-drawing storefronts for the duration of the trip, so it’s the first time Beatrice has even been in one.
And, of course, she’s entranced – because their daughter does nothing in halves.
Maya grits her teeth as Beatrice tugs at her hand, trying desperately to get closer to the display of magnets with their identical renditions of the local tourist traps. She can already imagine the look she’ll get from Carina when they meet back up for dinner, when their daughter is clutching something that doesn’t support the local economy and doesn’t teach her anything about the real Italy and Maya, why can’t you ever say no to her?
It's why she’d suggested they break off for the afternoon; there’s less enticement for Beatrice to ask for anything when she isn’t being bored to tears by hours spent in a museum, endlessly told not to run or touch or yell.
If anything, Maya’s really been doing their daughter a service by buying her something in every single museum gift shop in Italy.
The souvenir shops are definitely the line not to cross, though.
“Bea,” Maya tries to coax, attempting to reel their five-year-old back in, “Mama said no.” If she can just get her back outside, they can reapply their sunscreen, Maya thinks, and then surely there’s a park or some greenspace or something Beatrice can run freely through.
“But look,” Beatrice argues, pointing at a stack of child-sized cups beside the magnet display. They’re done up with pictures of characters; dinosaurs and lions and unicorns in bright, juvenile colours. “They have Andrea.”
Sure enough, each one has a carefully printed name across the top, just below the lip of the cup. With one quick glance, Maya spots Alessandro and Aurora and Antonio.
Beatrice reaches for the one that says Andrea, running her fingers across the letters as if it’s something precious. “It isn’t pink, Mommy,” she murmurs, awestruck.
Maya frowns, crouching down to their daughter’s level as she tries to grasp what, exactly, Beatrice finds so absolutely wonderful about the little cup with her brother’s name on it. Apparently, she hasn’t even noticed that there’s one with her name on it, too.
“Can we get it for Andrea?” Beatrice asks, her little hand wandering up to stroke Maya’s cheek as it seems to lately when she’s trying to encourage the outcome she desires.
The tiny manipulator.
Maya replicates the action, pushing the sweat-covered wisps of Beatrice’s hair behind her ears. “Why, B?” she presses, studying the wonder that’s made those sparkling brown eyes so wide.
Beatrice purses her lips, looking back at the souvenir. “Mama got me a cup at the Needle,” she says softly, the words slipping off her tongue like a secret she’s been trying to keep, “But not Andrea, cause all the ones with his name were pink and Andrea doesn’t like pink.”
Because the name Andrea at home is said with harsh, feminine syllables, Maya knows; a name for a little girl who wouldn’t mind something covered in princesses and unicorns. Not like in Italy, where they’ve only heard it shouted after boys in crisp, button-up shirts.
And although their children are staunchly Carina’s children and don’t believe in colours being specific to gender, Beatrice knows that her brother’s favourite colour is green – not pink.
“We could bring him a cup,” Beatrice nods, resolute in her plan, “And make him happy. Then he won’t feel left out anymore.”
It’s instantaneous, the rush of love that fills Maya’s chest. Instinctively, she wraps her arms around Beatrice, dragging her in against her chest in a ferocious hug that elicits joyous giggles.
“Mommy,” Beatrice squeals, “It’s too hot for huggin’!”
“I can’t help it,” Maya laughs, pressing a kiss into sweaty curls, “I love you so much.”
“That means we can get it?” Beatrice asks, pulling away just enough to meet Maya’s eye with one of her wide, convincing smiles.
The tiny, skillful manipulator.
~
“Really, Maya?” Carina scolds the second they arrive in the hotel lobby, a Happy Sicily Negozia bag clutched tightly in Beatrice’s hand. “You couldn’t say no even once? I specifically –”
“Shh,” Maya murmurs, pointing over Carina’s shoulder as Beatrice climbs onto the couch next to Andrea, leaning over to look at the new book he’s reading. Even from a few feet away, Maya can see that the pages are filled with pictures of ancient artifacts, likely the same ones Carina and Andrea had spent the afternoon learning about.
Carina turns, still frowning. “Sei così facilmente manipolabile. Quando imparerai a dire di no?” she mumbles beneath her breath, clearly agitated. (You are so easily manipulated. When will you learn to say no?)
Maya creeps closer, wrapping her arms around her wife’s waist and setting her chin on Carina’s shoulder. The physical contact is enough to loosen the sharp edges, Carina leaning back against her chest for the first time all day.
Breathing, in the safety of the queer-friendly hotel lobby.
“It’s for me?” Andrea asks, peering at the bag his sister has thrust into his lap. He frowns, for a brief second the spitting image of his mama; tanned cheeks and sun-lightened hair and that serious, inquisitive gaze.
Carina hums, not yet impressed.
Andrea reaches into the bag, carefully pulling out the owl-covered cup. The ones with his name hadn’t had dinosaurs, unfortunately, those pictures apparently reserved for the Alessandros of the world. But Beatrice had been adamant once the plan was in her head.
Maya holds her breath as she watches Andrea examine it.
“It’s like mine,” Beatrice tells him, studying the cup as seriously as her big brother.
He doesn’t say anything right away, slowly turning it in his hands as he analyzes. The silence seems to make Beatrice nervous and she rushes to fill it, shifting closer.
“Mama and I wanted to get you one at home,” she explains, “But they didn’t have a colour you like at the Needle and then Mommy and I found one here!” She vibrates with her worried excitement, pushing up against Andrea’s side.
Slowly, a smile stretches across his face. “Did you know that owls can’t chew?” he asks, tipping just enough that his shoulder bumps Beatrice’s. “They rip their food into little pieces.”
“Ew!” Beatrice squeals, covering her mouth with delight.
Carina growls, tapping at Maya’s hands where they rest on her stomach. “Fine,” she concedes, her voice quiet enough to remain in the bubble of their embrace, “È buono.” (It’s good.)
“Mhm,” Maya nods. She rubs her nose into the curve of Carina’s neck, drinking in the scent of sunscreen and sun-warmed skin as her wife becomes pliant again beneath her hands. “We made good kids,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to the thump thump of Carina’s pulse.
“Are you trying to make more?” Carina teases, fingers winding around Maya’s wrist before her hand can slip lower. Before the tips of Maya's fingers can stroke a path along the waistband of her shorts.
“I missed you today,” Maya murmurs, undeterred by the vice grip. The Italian sun has been as kind to Carina as it has the kids; a few hours on the beach the afternoon they’d arrived in Sicily enough to have them all glowing and freckled, their hair curlier in the humidity.
On Carina, though, it’s intoxicating.
On Carina, it makes Maya want to peel away every bit of her clothing and worship each stretch of her skin. To kiss the untouched line that was hidden beneath her bikini as she’d laid back on the sand.
“We have kids to feed,” Carina reminds her, trying to be pragmatic even as she tilts her head to the side, making space for yet another kiss. “And bathe and put to bed.”
“Kids who slept through the night finally,” Maya whispers, “In their own room.” She presses one last kiss beneath Carina’s ear, stepping away reluctantly. Despite her protests, the loss of contact makes Carina frown, too. “Kids who are totally going to understand, one day, that their moms gave in to the romance of Italy.”
Like magic, Carina laughs, the musical sound of her joy filling the lobby. “That’s not the only thing you give in to,” she chides, following as Maya slots herself onto the couch beside Andrea, peering over his shoulder as he shows Beatrice the pictures in his book.
Maya waits until Carina’s snuggled up against Beatrice, catching her wife’s eye across the top of their children’s heads. “I can’t help it,” she murmurs, “It’s Italy.”