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Far from home, everything looked more magical to Charles.
The lights on the street were brighter, the fashions more creative, even the horses looked more imposing in Milan than they did in dreary London. The sky during the day was as bright as Pierre’s eyes and the sunsets were almost as beautiful. As Charles looked out from the balcony of their home for the moment, large and beautiful and owned by a business associate of Pierre’s, the world seemed to close in on the night breeze and the sounds of the city below.
“Charles, my love, are you ready to leave?” His husband’s voice startled him out of his reverie.
Husband.
Even if it had been some time since their actual wedding, it had not been as long since Pierre confessed to returning Charles’ feelings. “I have been in love with you my whole life,” Pierre had said the first night they shared a bed and Charles couldn’t believe it back then. It took him a while, even during the long boat trip to Italy where they got used to being each other’s, to truly believe Pierre’s words. The thoughts of the lost opportunities between them haunted Charles, but he tried no to dwell on that much - all that mattered was the here and now.
A here and now where Pierre, despite his polite and rigorous upbringing, couldn’t get rid of his chronic condition of being always late and was asking Charles if he was ready to leave when they were expected at the Opera at least ten minutes ago.
“I have been ready for almost an hour, darling,” he answers, raising an accusatory eyebrow. “The valet has left already. All I was missing was you.”
“How late are we?”
“Terribly so.” Charles walked up to him and wrapped his arms around his neck. Pierre, despite his misstep, didn’t look embarrassed at all. “But the opera will survive waiting for us a little.”
Pierre smiled. “You are too kind to me.”
“Perhaps.” Charles shrugged but let a mischievous smile bloom on his lips. “Perhaps we can even eschew the opera altogether, if you want me to be even nicer to you.”
“Tempting offer.” Pierre leaned in and left a kiss on the corner of Charles’ lips. “But now that we’re both ready, we shouldn’t waste these fine clothes having them crumpled on the floor. Besides, we already promised Andrea we would attend.”
Andrea, Pierre’s associate who had taken a great liking to Charles in particular, had even taken the time to book them a special box. Charles knew his husband was right in that they should fulfill their promise, plus they could excuse their tardiness with somewhat-newlywed bliss, but that did not make it any less frustrating.
“Pierre –”
He leans in closer, whispering in Charles’ ear. “And when we’re done, I’m going to take my time with you. We won’t leave this room until next week, if it’s up to me.”
Charles felt a shiver go down his spine and his knees would have buckled if he hadn’t been holding onto Pierre’s neck so tightly. “Fine, I will allow that.”
Pierre kissed his cheek and pulled him closer, grinning into his neck. “Thank you, my love.”
The ride up to the theater was spent in a comfortable silence, though Pierre also spent most of it playing with Charles’ hands in his lap and occasionally leaning over to kiss him. The need to be physically close was still strong with them and Charles made sure to enjoy every second.
He never thought he would get to have this, especially considering how troubled and initially fake their courtship had been, so every time he looked at Pierre it was like he was discovering a treasure all over again. Charles knew Pierre looked at him much the same – his eyes sparkled every time they caught sight of each other and it made Charles’ heart flutter. Perhaps this fairytale stage would fade at some point and they would settle into something quieter and more comfortable, but for now Charles was settled on enjoying the butterflies. When they returned to England in however many months, he would take care of the rest.
Their carriage halted to a stop in front of the opera, large and magnificent just like they had been told by others. Trickling music could even be heard from outside and Charles saw Pierre's smile bloom when their gazes locked.
Finding their assigned box when they got in was slightly more difficult, but after a few minutes of dodging beautifully dressed people in their gowns and tailored jackets, they met Andrea and his wife.
“When you said he was always late, Charles, I didn’t know if I should believe you,” Andrea said. He didn’t look vexed, just vaguely amused.
“That was your first mistake,” Pierre was quick to respond, “you should always believe my husband.”
Charles intertwined their fingers and squeezed his hand. Pierre’s capacity for possessiveness surprised him even now. “I’m afraid Pierre is right,” he said, making Andrea chuckle and his wife, Maria, smile sweetly.
Andrea beckoned them to their seats then and they joined the conversation easily, but Charles felt his gaze drifting to the stage more and more. His love of music and training for it had always given him a great appreciation for the arts and he had always thought there was something magical in the theater, however frowned upon it might be by the beau monde. Something about the thought of bringing fantasies to life enthralled him and the way the Italians did it, with all their grandeur and romanticism, fascinated Charles even more.
He allowed himself to get lost in the story – his Italian was good, perhaps not as good as Arthur’s but enough to follow the storyline – and the voices of everyone around him dropped off. All that was left was the music in his ears and the feeling of Pierre’s hand in his own.
Charles only felt himself brought back to reality once they hit an intermission and the sound of people talking and moving took over the room once more.
“Do you like the show, Charles?” Pierre asked.
“It’s lovely.” He nodded sagely. A couple of the songs caught his attention, thinking he could probably recreate the piano melodies if he tried hard enough and the thought of his home filled with music and Pierre in it warmed his heart.
“I know some of the people involved, perhaps you can go and tell them yourself after the show ends,” Andrea suggested. His smile was bright, inviting.
“I would love that, thank you.”
After the conversation moved on to a different topic, Pierre took advantage of a moment of distraction and leaned in to kiss Charles’ cheek.
“What was that for?”
“No reason. Or, well – you are very beautiful when you’re this excited by something, my dear.” Charles blushed but couldn't formulate a response, despite his trying. “Your eyes go sparkly and you always get a tiny smile. It’s sweet.”
“I love you.”
Pierre kissed him properly this time. “I love you too.”
So many public displays of affection would have been frowned upon in London but they were far enough from home and no one here in Milan batted an eye. Besides, the darkness of the theater shielded them enough that Pierre felt brave enough to wink.
Once the show ended – after a story about a debauched man that ends up marrying his childhood lover, where Charles thought wait, this sounds familiar – Andrea led them down a twisted staircase, hidden behind red velvet curtains that led down to what seems to be the orchestra pit.
The room was bustling with people – noisy actors still in costume and musicians carrying their instruments around. It was not at all a scene Charles was used to, but it somehow felt… familiar, like in another life he might have belonged there.
“Damiano!” Andrea called, shouting a man over. A head popped up from behind a wall and said man walked over – tall and skinny, with longer messy hair on the edge of unkempt but clothes tailored in the newest fashions, a walking contradiction.
“Hello.”
“This is Damiano, he was the composer for the play. Damiano, these are Pierre and Charles – business associates, friends. They’ve come from far away, so you should play nice.”
Damiano grinned, baring all his teeth. The gaze from his massive green eyes was sharp and piercing. “I’m always nice.”
He shook Pierre’s hand and leaned forward to kiss Charles. Maybe that would have unsettled Charles, but despite the fact he knew Damiano was objectively a beautiful man, he only cared about his husband beside him. Pierre, who wrapped a possessive arm around Charles’ waist and pulled him closer when he saw Damiano approach.
“Your opera was gorgeous,” Charles said honestly. “Andrea brought us here so I could offer my honest congratulations.”
Damiano’s eyes sparkled and Charles felt Pierre’s arm tighten around his waist. “Thank you, Charles. Are you an artist, perhaps?”
“I was trained in the pianoforte.”
Damiano seemed to want to say something else, but Andrea interrupted. “They are nobles – please actually play nice.”
“I said I would!” He answered with a grin. “I understand, they are nobles and very very in love.” Damiano nodded at Pierre’s tight hold and winked when Charles caught his eye. “Would you like me to show you around backstage?”
Charles turned around to look at Pierre and stood on his tiptoes to leave a soft kiss on his lips, a reassurance. “It’s your decision,” he whispered in Pierre’s ear.
Instead of answering with words, Pierre kissed him again and nodded. “If you want to, my love, then we go.” He might have been a jealous bastard, but he was always going to care about Charles’ opinion first and Charles himself appreciated that immensely. They were a partnership, first and foremost.
Damiano seemed incredibly pleased with their positive answer, leading them to another hallway that held row after row of door, dressing rooms most likely. In the next period of maybe twenty minutes, the group were introduced to half the cast including the leading man, the entire string section of the orchestra and Damiano’s composing partners.
“It’s a little…overwhelming,” Charles said with a laugh.
“That’s the theater for you, darling,” he answered. His charming ways weren’t particularly amenable to Pierre, but Charles knew that he was holding back for his sake. “We can go in further if you want, but uh – I don’t know if –”
Charles might be somewhat innocent, but he’s not stupid. He saw Andrea frown and knew Pierre was probably shaking his head behind him. “It’s fine, we can stay here.” He intertwined his finger with the hand Pierre had still wrapped around his waist. “Now tell me, Damiano, what gave you the inspiration for the story? Because, well – I thought it was quite interesting.”
Pierre couldn’t hold back a laugh and Damiano raised a curious eyebrow. “Interesting? How so?”
“Sometimes things seem quite…close to reality sometimes, wouldn’t you agree? Art sometimes resonates quite closely with one’s story,” Pierre posed. It was probably the most he had talked since they had walked backstage, and by the change in Damiano’s expression it was clear that he understood what Pierre was implying.
“Oh,” he laughed. He turned his gaze toward Charles, a twinkle in his eye. “I see, that is interesting. Maybe I should write another version of the story, one that takes place in England if it resonated with you.”
Charles felt the blood rushing up to his cheeks, but he also surprisingly felt the rumble of Pierre’s laughter in his chest. “Maybe so.”
It was an alliance of sorts, Charles noticed, and he smiled softly.
When they were back at the house, after they had had a few drinks of celebratory champagne and had said goodbye to Andrea and Maria, Charles stumbled into their bedroom with Pierre's hand in his. “So… that was…”
“Interesting, yes,” Pierre said cheekily.
“You’re quite sweet when you’re jealous.”
Pierre hid his face in Charles’ shoulder, but he could feel the smile against his skin. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Charles put his hand under his chin and moved his face so he could dive in for a kiss. “I didn’t mind. If we get an actual opera truly written about us though, I will have to thank you.”
Pierre chuckled, kissing him again and again and pulling Charles closer to the bed. When the back of his knees hit the bed frame, he sat down and started untying Charles’ cravat with expert fingers. “You are a marvel, Charles.”
“And here I was thinking you were going to call me egotistical for wanting that.” Charles climbed on Pierre’s lap and smiled against his lips. “I should have known you would interpret me kindly.”
“I will always think the best of you, my love,” Pierre said. He started unbuttoning Charles’ shirt and leaving kisses down his neck. “That’s why I’m your husband.”
“Yes, and that’s why I am your husband – so you can have things to marvel about.”
Pierre laughed, warm and bright and full, and Charles echoed his happiness.
Even if he thought it was once impossible, Charles was beginning to realize this was going to be his forever and he couldn’t be more glad. Even when they got back to England – when they got away from magical Milan and the Paris they were soon to visit, when they got back to the beau monde that they knew most – Charles wished for this feeling to never go away.