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Everything was quiet, even the clock whose hands ticked along the face with nary a sound. It was this intense silence that Massimo had grown accustomed to. The villa was far larger than they needed, just the two of them, he and Diavolo. They were removed from all else, kept high upon the ivory cliffs of the southern Italian coast. To one side, a narrow road that winded up the cliffside, the other a sheer drop into Neptune's merciless realm. Isolated.
The silence broke with a flutter of paper as Massimo thumbed to the next page of his book and silence immediately resumed. Laying on his side, head resting on the arm of the black leather sofa, eyes mindlessly scanning along the translated words of Emmanuel Kant. It was often like this. Sometimes he wondered if anyone else was here with him, whether there were secret tunnels Diavolo had built in order for him to quietly escape and keep Massimo locked up in this villa like a medieval princess in a remote tower.
He did not doubt the possibility of underground escape tunnels, but he did doubt being alone. Diavolo was here, no doubt cooped up in his office, tending to business he kept Massimo ignorant of. He did not need to know everything the Don did. He did not need to know anything at all. The fact Diavolo shared anything with him was a privilege exclusive to Massimo. He was too useful to be kept in the dark like the rest of Passione.
Their relationship was strange, though even that was putting it mildly. Massimo worked hard to please Diavolo, his praise being worthier a reward than the expensive and luxurious gifts he showered upon Massimo, seeing as the man had little care to use the money himself. Both he and Diavolo struggled to properly express themselves to one another, finding odd ways to show their devotion without the use of words.
But there were the times where their affection came as naturally as breathing. Tender caresses and soft kisses shared in warm embrace, silence a lullaby set to the tempo of beating hearts.
Massimo's attention fell from his book and towards the figure in the doorway, though his eyes portrayed the opposite. Naked footsteps padded along, silent as a cat’s. Massimo raised his unoccupied arm and Diavolo slumped onto the sofa, onto Massimo, with a muted huff. Massimo's arm draped along his lover's backside. Diavolo shifted upward, pressing his head beneath Massimo's chin, nose brushing against his throat.
Diavolo's body radiated heat, enveloping Massimo in kind. Finding his spot comfortable, he fell still. Massimo's eyes finally glided from the book's pages and unto his lover. Diavolo's eyes were half-lidded, unfocused and distant. His hands curled into loose fists, arms tucked between their bodies. His spotted hair was a mess, ungroomed for some time. He was dressed in only his trousers, not even caring to dawn his fishnet shirt. His face was gaunt, a lack of sleep bruising beneath his eyes.
Diavolo's anxiety had been keeping him awake for hours. Maybe even days.
Massimo shut the book and balanced it on the arm of the sofa. His idle hand found work stroking his lover's head, fingers combing through his messy locks and tidying them best he could. He felt Diavolo relax a tick, distant gaze softening.
Massimo knew not what plagued the mind of Diavolo, what ghosts wailed in the attic and who's skeletons chitter in the closet. It was not for him to know, even though he wanted to. But he did not need to know to understand and to recognize the subtle signs that betrayed emotion and experience, to which he studied like a science.
Massimo wrapped his other arm around his love, giving him a light squeeze, which earned a cool exhale through the nose that brushed against his collarbone. Diavolo's stiff form finally gave way, relaxing in the younger man's embrace. Tired eyes fell shut at last.
A kiss brushed atop the head earned a muted hum, silent to the ears and heard within the heart. Massimo had managed to straighten and smooth as much of Diavolo's hair as his hand could reach without needing to move the resting man. The once occupied hand reached up to the top of the couch, pulling down the throw blanket that once sat folded. Black-dyed cashmere draped across their bodies. The hand returned to its place upon Diavolo's head, continuing to comb fingers through his locks all for the mere comfort of it.
Massimo need not hear a word from his superior, need not know his reasons. But Massimo understood and Diavolo took great comfort in it. A thousand words, thoughts, feelings, shared in a muted moment.