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Joe’s day isn’t going very well.
He’s had worse. Of course he’s had worse. This one doesn’t even reach his top ten worse days, really, so why is he complaining, this is fine, this is-
“Fuck.” He groans, fingers gathered at the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.”
Joe fights back a sniffle. He wants to cry, has been holding it in since he stepped out of the questura; he knew better than to expect the police to care about some random tourist’s stolen property, but it still hurt to be turned away, to see and hear the condescending and annoyed disinterest as he explained just what had been taken from him. They didn’t get it.
It’s almost funny; just a few weeks ago, he had scoffed at Booker when the Frenchman had showed him the bludgeoning weapon he called his new cellphone, but now he’d give the world to give his mother or any of his friends a call.
His heart is heavy and the bag hanging on his shoulder is the lightest it has ever been as Joe walks down the street. The Monday afternoon keeps the crowd inside, at work or at home or at school or having a late lunch, leaving the cobblestone roads to the pigeons and the seagulls. After almost a week of rain, the sun’s out and shining down onto the color wheel of buildings around him. The sky is as blue as the Genoese sea, and the Genoese sea is as calm as the sky above it. The trees seem to sing along with the summer breeze.
It’d make such a beautiful picture, Joe thinks, and promptly loses the battle against his tears.
The few people out at this hour must be looking at him now, but Joe’s too busy choking around his sobs to take notice. He can barely see which way he’s going; his vision gets blurrier with each gasping breath he takes, his legs working on their own to keep him from getting run over by a car while he walks further and further away from the center of the city.
What happens now? What’s he going to do now?
A hot gust of wind suddenly hits his side, strong enough to startle. Swiveling on his feet to avoid the brunt of it, he’s propelled forward, almost tripping as he rounds the corner and enters a shadowed back street, the harsh sunlight prickling at his skin only a second ago now only a faint impression. For a few minutes, Joe’s content with allowing the wind to guide him, focusing on the way it flows around and through the thin wool of his shirt to ground himself once again and trying to take deep breaths until he can inhale without hiccuping, until he can take a look around and realize he’s completely and utterly lost.
At least his surroundings are not as bad as his luck; he’s found a little, peaceful piazza, hidden at a dead end and surrounded by closed storefronts and small apartment buildings with a ‘for sale’ sign on nearly every window. The little tufts of grass flanking the concrete pathway cutting across the small square of dirt look as dry as Joe’s throat feels, but the tiny fountain in the middle is running clear and the bushes near the corners are green and flourishing. Red Clover, Joe notes through the slowly dissipating haze in his mind, just like the ones his mother has in her garden. Well taken care of, well loved.
It’s not just his heart that weighs a ton now, it’s his entire body. Every limb seems to be pulling him down, and instead of catharsis, the only thing all that crying has given him is a headache. All Joe wants to do it drag himself to the nearest bench and take a nap until he either gets shooed away or robbed again. That last one’s not much of a concern; there isn’t anything of real value left to take, not anymore.
He’s about to follow that whim just as he stupidly followed the wind, but, as he takes a step towards his quarry, his eyes catch on something that stops him in his tracks.
On the other side of the piazza, there’s a shop.
It’s on the ground floor of a two-story building, old but just as well tended as the Red Clover; the green paint on the storefront is chipped but still bright, the letters on the sign are faded but still bold, and when Joe’s feet bring him closer to the window, he can see rows and rows of shelves and stacked piles of books, reaching higher than his eyes can track without bending forward. Tiny suns and moons and stars decorate the space above the glass door and under the window, whimsical little details that he would certainty run his fingers over if he had been just strolling by on any other, less dire day.
But it’s not the golden lettering of Libreria, or the promise of all and more written right underneath, or the sun and the moon and the stars, that intrigues him.
There’s a man sitting inside the shop, almost hidden by the colorful clutter, hunched over an open book with his head propped on one hand and a look of deep concentration on his face. He has short brown hair, pale skin, and a statuesque nose tinted red either by the Genoese sun or the time spent in that position, and wears a soft-looking light blue jumper over a white shirt that catches slightly at his wide shoulders.
If it weren’t for the occasional twitch of his lips, Joe would think him a statue. Joe already thinks him a hallucination as it is.
He must look like a fool, standing with his mouth hanging open outside the bookshop for who knows how long. It’s no surprise when the man finally feels eyes on him, but Joe still startles when that sea foam gaze suddenly meets his.
He blinks.
Joe blinks back.
After a moment, a tentative smile pulls at the corner of the man’s mouth. Joe attempts to mimic it, wincing internally at the sad sight he must make, with his trembling lips and reddened eyes and the snot still dripping from his nose. Thankfully, his sorry state doesn’t bother or isn’t seen by the stranger behind the window, whose grin only widens as he beckons him inside first with a nod, then with a wave of his hand once the other man hesitates, and Joe has no choice but to give in and get in.
His friends and family often compliment him on his talent with words, at how quickly he can grasp the language of every new place he visits, but when he steps into the shop Joe finds his hold on Italian slipping from between his teeth. Eyes jumping from the man, to the green and white checkerboard floor, to the cardboard boxes on the ground, to the rainbow array of books all around him, he tries to come up with something to say, a greeting, simple small talk, anything.
The man beats him to the punch.
“Hello.”
Joe swallows, getting halfway through raising a hand for an awkward wave before thinking better of it and simply nodding back at him. From up close, he can make out the finer details of the stranger’s face, the pinkness of his lips, the elegant curve of his neck, and the way his eyebrows pull together as he too takes in the details of Joe.
Ah, so he hadn’t noticed before.
“Are you alright?” He asks, rising from his seat.
“I-” Joe begins, throat already constricting around the lie he has planned, but then he pauses.
His lips tremble again, and before he knows it, the man is at his side, holding onto his arm. It’s a firm grip, reassuring but not strong enough to hurt, and Joe revels in the contact for the half second he’s being ushered to sit down on the same chair the man had been in. He feels lightheaded, like he could start swaying at any moment; his now very worried stranger seems to think the same, disappearing between the apparently endless shelves and returning with a cup of water. Joe doesn’t even go the polite route of denying it first, wordlessly taking it from his hands and downing it in one go.
“What happened?”
The cool drink did him no favors, seeing as Joe’s mouth dries up all over again. Instead of answering, he lets his thumb run from the rim to the bottom of the cup, feeling the ridges on the glass.
“What’s your name?” This question is easier to answer.
“Joe. Uh, Yusuf.” He tips his cup towards the other, unsure if he should offer a handshake.
“I’m Nicky. Nicolò.” It reassures Joe that he also doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, keeping them close to his chest before placing them on his hips.
Heavy silence hangs between them for a very short eternity. Nicky’s eyes are fixed on his face, his lips pulled into a thin line; for a terrible moment, Joe thinks the man’s so far surprising hospitality has run its course, but instead of coming up with an excuse to kick him out, he brusquely points to the shelf next to him.
“Would you like to read something?”
“I... I thought you had to buy to read in bookshops?”
“Well, it’s my shop.” His smile returns, just as tentative and just as warm. “You can read anything you like and put it back. I promise I won’t be mad.”
Joe turns to the piles and the shelves, lets his eyes scan the hardcovers and the paperbacks and the ones too old and used for him to know what their spines are made of from afar, and thinks of his empty hotel room and the empty bag resting on his lap.
“Do you have anything on architecture?”
* * *
Whatever is in the air inside the Libreria, Joe finds himself relaxing more and more as the shadows change directions outside of the shop.
It helps that the libraio is good at keeping the conversation going, never letting the silence get too awkward once Joe gives up on trying to focus on the pages in his hands instead of the beautiful man in front of him; they discuss their tastes in literature, their latest reads, the bookshop.
“It’s just me,” Nicky says when he asks about it. “And a loyal clientele, of course. They keep the business open.” He glances outside at the closed shops surrounding his own before continuing. “But it was my aunt’s. She left it to me after she passed away last year.”
“Oh. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. She’s still here, though, in a way. This shop was everything to her.” The man looks around his shop, wistfulness pulling at the edges of his eyes. “I spent most of my childhood here. Most of my life, really.”
He seems lost in thought, and Joe uses the moment for his own longing, quiet introspection.
Something lies heavy in the pit of his stomach, something that feels too close to jealousy for his liking. Nicky looks at home among the books. He belongs to this space, and this space belongs to him, and Joe can’t help feeling like he’s intruding, like he wishes he could have such a place as well.
“Is it hard? Managing this place?” he asks, forcing the melancholy threatening to take over to back off.
The libraio shrugs. “Some days, yes. But I have to keep going.”
He moves to sit next to Joe on the only part of the table not covered by books, his thigh almost brushing Joe’s shoulder. Nicky smiles down at him, eyes shining brighter than he thought possible, and Joe feels his heart stutter in his chest.
“I’m a photographer.” He blurts out before his mind can catch up with his mouth. Beside him, Nicky blinks.
“Travel photographer. I go to beautiful places and get to capture them on film and show them to people who might never see them otherwise, or might even visit these places because of them.”
“Sounds like a wonderful job.”
Nodding, Joe has to gulp against the knot slowly twisting itself in his throat before continuing. “It is. I love it. I was so happy that I got to come here. I went to Castello D’Albertis, and the Cimitero Monumentale di Staglieno, and the old port, and almost everywhere else, and it was beautiful, Nicky. But my mother always complains that I’m never in the photos. She doesn’t want to put photos of ruins and churches and cemeteries on the family albums, not if I’m not in them, you know?”
His lips curl upwards, more a grimace than a grin, and Nicky’s eyebrows draw together at the sight of it.
“So this time I wanted to take a photo just for her, just like she asked. I asked a man to do it for me, I thought he was another tourist. And he did. He took the picture. And then he took everything.”
The confusion on the other man’s face clears into earnest sorrow. “Oh, Joe.”
“Now it’s all gone, all the photos I took.” Joe’s eyes start to water once more, and he turns away, unable to counter the anger that tears at his insides at being so vulnerable in front of a near stranger. “I should have known better. Such a stupid thing to do.”
Nicky shakes his head. “It wasn’t stupid, it was trusting.” He slides off the table, hand surging up to grab gently at Joe’s shoulder and prompting the photographer to look up at him. “You shouldn’t be mad at yourself for it.”
Warmth seeps into his skin, spreading along the length of his arm to the tips of his own fingers, and again Joe feels them twitch against his pants, the need to capture the soft lighting shining over his host’s equally soft smile absolutely overwhelming on top of everything else churning inside his head. Over his shirt, he feels Nicky’s fingers twitch along.
They stay just like that, looking at each other and still as if posing for a portrait, before the libraio clears his throat and pulls back, leaving Joe instantly missing his touch. Almost in sync, the two of them turn away and pretend to focus on anything else.
“I-” Whatever Joe is about to say to save face is cut off by a gasped exclamation next to him. When he turns back to Nicky, he finds the man wide eyed and startled by his own interjection.
“Wait here!” He says, practically scrambling from Joe’s side and into the labyrinth of shelves. Joe hears his heavy footsteps move further and further away after he disappears from sight, going down the shop and then... up?
The old wood above his head creaks, and Joe stares up in confusion at where Nicky must be. A few minutes of shuffling sounds later, the footsteps make their way down the steps hidden at the back and the photographer’s eyes make their way down the bright red staining Nicky’s face once the man comes to a stop in front of him. It’s a nice color on him.
“Here.” The libraio snaps Joe out of his momentary daze by shoving a cardboard box into his hands, motioning for him to open it. It’s worn and covered in a thin layer of dust, but the flaps are still firmly secured to its side, and Joe fumbles for a second when trying to pull them out. Eventually he manages to do it, flipping open the top only for the box to nearly escape from his lax fingers.
Nestled in a bed of crumpled plastics is a camera.
It’s not as old as the dust on the box might suggest; a Minolta, a model Joe remembers seeing everywhere some years ago when he was just starting out, and when he holds it in his hand, the photographer finds it significantly smaller than the one he lost.
“My aunt had a habit of starting but never going through with new hobbies.” Nicky nods at the camera while he inspects it. “I remembered seeing it when I was sorting out her things. I’m sure it still has the film inside.”
“Nicky.” Joe breathes out. “I can’t take your aunt’s camera!”
“I don’t think I’ll be using it anytime soon.” Shaking his head, the libraio tries to wave away Joe’s reluctance.
The photographer fiddles with the edge of the lens, unwisely uncovered but hopefully undamaged. “Still...”
Nicky pauses. “Well, then… then let me take your photo, yes? For your mother?”
Hands hovering over the focus ring, Joe starts. There’s no joke hidden behind Nicky’s eyes when he raises his head to meet them again, no malice, only an earnest expectation and a mirror of his own hesitation.
“I would like that.”
Nicky holds out a hand and Joe takes it without thinking twice, only for the libraio to laugh and put out his other hand.
Blushing, Joe gives him the camera. Nicky pulls him up anyway.
Without saying a word he places his hand on Joe’s hip to move him backward, taking the bag off of his shoulder and positioning him to lean against the table; the photographer tries his best not to topple the book pile directly behind him in his flustered state, especially after Nicky lets out a satisfied hum at the scene.
Stepping back, the man turns on the camera (Joe will have to ask exactly what batteries his aunt bought, because wow, they are durable) and looks through the viewfinder. There’s a multitude of tips and instructions hanging on the tip of Joe’s tongue, but he keeps quiet. It’s not as hard as it should be, letting another do his job, even after everything he went through earlier, and he wonders at the reason while trailing his gaze from the man’s large calloused hands, to the deep look of concentration on his face, and finally, to the warm, familiar darkness of the lens.
Finger on the trigger, Nicky licks his lips nervously, eyes sliding from the viewfinder to him.
“If you want… maybe we could go to the places you said. Tomorrow. To retake the photos. They won’t look the same, but...”
Hours ago he didn’t think he could do it, but the photographer smiles in full. He doesn’t even hear the echoing click of the shutter in the stillness of the shop, lost as he is inside the eye of the camera staring back at him and the thoughts of what could be.
“Yeah. Yeah, I would like that too.”