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1. Victoria and Nonna
Victoria opened the door to her father’s flat, staring at the saddest, wettest man she had ever seen in her entire life. Damiano wiped his nose, eyes red, snuffling, and she had to stop herself rolling her eyes. She pulled him in and shut the door, guiding him to the sofa. Damiano sat down, still snuffling, and immediately pulled his legs into his chest. Victoria sat down next to him, and Damiano slumped into her. Victoria wrapped her arms around him, and they sat in silence.
“You haven’t said I told you so,” Damiano murmured.
“I know,” Victoria replied, turning her head and kissing his temple. “Feels mean at the moment.” Damiano curled into her, closing his eyes.
The guest room was comfortable and clean. Not that Damiano had much, rolling his suitcase into the room and sticking it in the corner. He opened the window, leaning out. Victoria’s flat was at the top of the building, and his head spun as he looked down. He leaned further out the window, holding his breath, gazing down at the cobblestones below. It would be so easy to tip forward, just a little—
He caught his breath, straightening up, head spinning, eyes watering. He closed his eyes and backed away from the window. He hated the mad feeling of vertigo, l’appel du vide that came over him like this, every time. Six years of holding his breath, just to stand in a weirdly Scandinavian style guest bedroom somewhere in Trastevere, the quiet squeezing his brain. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his vape out of his pocket.
Victoria walked by, in tiny shorts and a camisole and giant fuzzy slippers. She leaned against the door frame, watching the tendrils of smoke escape from Damiano’s mouth. “What flavour is that?”
Damiano frowned, not expecting the question. He pulled the vape from his lips. “Sparkling strawberry.”
Victoria let out a guffaw, and came in to kiss Damiano’s forehead. Damiano leaned against her, head against her chest. Her heartbeat was comforting, real. He didn’t feel real himself, numb and far away, but here, cheek against Victoria’s warm body—his cheek, at least, felt real. The hand rubbing small circles against his back, that was real too.
“You were right about everything.”
Victoria shrugged. “Love is love,” she said softly. “And I’m always right about everything.”
Damiano snorted. “Will you stay with me tonight?” It wasn’t a strange request. Sometimes Damiano would get too drunk after a show and fall into somebody’s bed, stripped down to his boxers. It had been Victoria lately; their bond had always been firm. Victoria the strong, sometimes cruel glue that kept Damiano from falling apart. So Victoria shrugged, pulling back.
“At least you don’t snore,” she said with a grin. “Thank god for that.”
Damiano snorted again as he went to brush his teeth. That night, they slept with their backs pressed against each other. Victoria often had nightmares, but that night she dreamt of snow piling thick against the doors of her grandmother’s house in Copenhagen, the world outside vanishing in a haze of white. It was actually comforting. Damiano did not dream and barely moved. His mind was too full and would not empty.
+++
He stayed two days in that wretched but comfortable guest room, smoking his sparkling strawberry vape and ignoring the group chat. Except when he sent long, rambling voice messages about missing her, or hating her, or both, or neither. About being glad to be single, about being annoyed that Martina was getting hate on Twitter. Each voice message was punctuated by Victoria’s voice, muffled but obvious in the background. “It was about time,” she would say, or “Shut the fuck up about her!” in another.
It was Jacopo who changed his plans. “Nonna wants to see us,” he said. “Bring whoever.” Nonna’s house, a refuge of refuges, the glorious home on the sea, aesthetic and ancient all at once. Ethan and Thomas declined, already having made their own plans. Damiano was a little offended; he wanted all his friends to wallow with him. But Thomas and Ethan went off on their own adventures, and Damiano called his other friends to Nonna’s. The sun and sea would bleach his brain and all their memories and if they didn’t work, then surely all that expensive wine would.
He claimed the room he always did at Nonna’s, the one of the east side, with the pool and the outlook to the cove; every beautiful sunrise would be his to look at, to drink in and enjoy before anyone else woke up. He wondered if Thomas regretted his choice not to come, and then wondered why he cared about Thomas’s regret more than say, Ethan’s. Don’t go down that path his brain warned him. It’s not worth it.
The food was always good and fresh at Nonna’s. She was indulgent and gracious, knowing when to join the troupe of twenty-year-olds and when to vanish.
“Nonna is goals,” Martina said to him as they smoked next to the pool. Damiano exhaled his smoke and gazed at her perfect body stretched out next to his, her skin golden in the late afternoon light, nipples a dusky pink and her stomach covered in fine white hair. He loved her fuzz; she, like Victoria, kept her entire body waxed, so the fuzz on her belly seemed especially clandestine, like a fresh peach. He reached out to stroke Martina’s belly, feeling her warmth under his fingers. He felt her breathing, heard her sigh. He pulled his fingers back and smiled at Martina.
“Yeah, she is,” he agreed, closing his eyes behind his sunglasses.
2. Ethan
It wasn’t that Damiano wanted to stay at Ethan’s place. Ethan’s place was small, with room enough just for him. But Jacopo was painting the guest room at his place and it wouldn’t be ready for Damiano for a bit, so Ethan invited him without a second thought. (Well, Damiano thought it was without a second thought, and Ethan wasn’t about to correct him.)
The flat was small, spare, barely decorated. There were bookshelves heaving with books, a wall decorated with decommissioned cymbals, cracked and tarnished, some Ethan’s from the early days, some found and carried back carefully like ancient artifacts. There was an expensive sound system with a record player and a stupid amount of records. Damiano rolled his suitcase into the corner of the living room next to the sofa that would be his bed: a large, L-shaped blue velvet affair. It felt luxurious, almost out of place in the spartan flat. He went straight for the records as Ethan went to make coffee.
Damiano would never admit that there was a hierarchy in his friendships with the band, but he, Thomas and Victoria had known each other for it felt like his whole life, or at least the part of his life that mattered, and here was Ethan, some dude from Facebook. And even though they had spent practically every day together for the past six years, it still felt like Ethan was a stranger to them all. He almost always travelled by himself, or stayed later to talk to fans when the other three rushed back to their hotel rooms. During breaks, he rarely answered texts or came out with them; the trip with Lavinia and Thomas had coincided with his latest break up, so he went.
Damiano picked a record of Spanish guitar music as Ethan came back with two perfectly made coffees. “Good choice,” he said, and sat down on the sofa with Damiano. A pillow and thin duvet were folded at the end of the sofa, and Damiano sat, stretching his feet out. They sat, quiet, sipping their coffees and listening to the guitar. Damiano could feel tears on his cheeks. Ethan didn’t mention them, leaning over and pulling a tissue from a box on the table next to the sofa and handing it to Damiano, who blew his nose.
Ethan held out one arm to Damiano, who slid close and cuddled in almost immediately. Ethan leaned his cheek on top of Damiano’s head as Damiano kept crying. After a bit, Damiano wiped his face, but did not move from his spot at Ethan’s side. “How do you do it?”
Ethan blinked. “How do I do what?”
“You break up with someone and you just move on.”
“I don’t stay with people for six years,” Ethan said. “There’s not as many links and memories to untangle. You and Giorgia—“
Damiano flinched. He had avoided her name like a curse, hadn’t heard it in a fortnight.
“She’s not going to leave just like that, you know. You have too much together. Saying her name shouldn’t be frightening. But you and her have all this tied up together, all this love…” Ethan kissed the top of Damiano’s head, and it felt nice, and normal, and real, once more. The numbness that had come with her name vanished under that small kiss, and Damiano closed his eyes to cry once more.
It was three days with Ethan, and in the middle of the second day, Damiano walked by the balcony, where Ethan sat, smoking, squinting into the sunlight and talking into his phone. “If he’d just turn his head a little, he could see someone who loved him.”
Damiano stood, frozen, at the open balcony door.
“Someone who’s always loved him.”
Damiano turned, almost running, away from the balcony, into the bathroom. He stared into the mirror, his heart pounding in his ears. Was Ethan in love with him? Had Ethan been in love with him? Damiano was and had always been unequivocally straight, and Ethan was and had always been unequivocally queer. It was Ethan who explained terms in non-judgmental ways, and encouraged him to post that rant to instagram after being hassled by cops about his crop top. It was Ethan’s painted nails that had inspired his own, the way Ethan ignored the taunting about his long hair that made Damiano braver, his shorts shorter, his makeup more outrageous. But there was never anything there. Just Ethan and his quiet, supportive friendship. He couldn’t possibly have been talking about Damiano.
They cooked together that evening, and their conversation felt natural, real. There was no heavy tension in the air, and Ethan didn’t sound resentful or pining. No, it was about someone else.
“Have you ever liked someone who didn’t like you back?” Damiano asked as they sat on Ethan’s balcony, Damiano lounging in Ethan’s lap.
Ethan only had one chair on his balcony, and Damiano had always just sat on his lap. It felt different now, now that Damiano had heard what Ethan had said earlier.
Ethan stole Damiano's cigarette, turning his head to take a puff. "Hasn't that happened to everyone at least once? You fall in love so easily, I'm sure it happens to you all the time."
Damiano didn't know what to say to that; Ethan was correct of course. Damiano was a soft, bleeding heart who fell in love as easy as breathing. Everyone knew that; only some had ever tried to take advantage of it. His bandmates protected him from the worst of it, which made Damiano fell bad, like he couldn't protect his own heart.
"But to answer your question,” Ethan continued into the silence. "It happens more than you think. I guess I'm just as much of a soft heart as you are."
"I don't think anyone could guess, looking at you," Damiano said, kissing Ethan's temple.
"Ah, I think anyone can see, if they just pay attention." Ethan said softly, rubbing Damiano's bald head with a small smile.
3. Jacopo
Jacopo had a gorgeous flat. It was big and bright, perfect to mourn a breakup in. The guest bedroom was freshly painted and still smelled like it. The bed was big and comfortable, enough for Damiano to sink into the pillows and duvet. It was lonely, sinking into the bed every night, listening to Jacopo and his partner talking into the small hours. Jacopo's cat would join him sometimes, a small joy that kept him from sinking further.
It was Thomas who found him the Saturday before their tour started back up, sinking into the bed with the cat curled on his thighs, sucking on his sparkling strawberry vape.
"We missed you," Thomas said, sitting on the bed, legs akimbo, hair in the way that said "I've just woken up" as it did all the time (mostly because he had just woken up). Damiano sucked on the vape for a moment, scratching the cat under its chin.
"I missed you too," he finally said, surprised by his voice. He didn't talk much anyway, saving this voice for the stage, but lately he had said even less, hours going by before saying anything to Jacopo.
"So Lavinia and I..."
Damiano looked up at Lavinia's name. He liked her fine; she had been introduced to the group by Giorgia, but without any of the attendant baggage so she was pretty much the best thing that had ever happened to Thomas. But Damiano couldn’t stop the boiling envy in some dark, ugly part of his heart. To answer why he was envious though would be to answer other questions in that dark, ugly corner of his heart, answers to questions that he could not bear to think, let alone ever say out loud.
Damiano had fallen so deeply into his thoughts that he didn't hear the rest of Thomas's statement. “Sorry, what did you say?"
"Lavinia and I are getting a flat." Thomas repeated.
“Congratulations,” Damiano said, automatically, unsurprised that he meant it. "It's a serious step but it's really nice, having your own place."
Thomas nodded. "My folks said the same thing,” he said, his smile wide and sweet, and Damiano's dark little gremlin heart ached. "But uh... we wanted to ask if you wanted to move in with us.”
Damiano stared at Thomas, feeling as if he had forgotten Italian or in fact any language. His vape sat forgotten in his half-open palm and he just stared at the other man.
“You want me to move in with you?"
“Well we thought you might want to stay with your brother—“
“Yes!" Damiano's voice burst so loud the cat squeaked in protest, but didn't move. "I mean, yes I want to move in with you... and Lavinia." Couldn’t let the gremlin reveal itself too quickly.
Thomas smiled, leaning across the bed to hug Damiano. Damiano turned his face into Thomas's shoulder, letting himself smile as he hugged him back.