Work Text:
Translation in Russian available here by hazel_crescent
The Tuscan sun cast a mosaic of light and shadow through the leaves overhead, dappling the ancient grapevines that snaked their way across the rolling hills of the vineyard. Pete, his name as vibrant and unpredictable as a desert storm brewing on the horizon, knelt amongst the rows, pruning with an practiced grace. His eyes, the color of a twilight sky where the pinks of sunset met the depths of night, held a quiet intensity that flickered to life when a low whistle broke the silence.
He looked up, and time seemed to stop. A figure stood at the crest of the hill, bathed in the golden light. A broad-shouldered man, with dark hair that danced in the breeze, he was sketching the breathtaking view before him. Vegas felt a familiar tug in his chest, a current that defied logic. This stranger, with his brooding gaze and the furrow in his brow as he concentrated on capturing the scene, felt strangely…known.
As he descended the hill, his steps light on the dusty earth, the breeze carried the scent of sandalwood and something deeper, a hint of woodsmoke and worn leather that sent a shiver down Pete’s spine. He rose to his feet, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Vegas’ eyes, the color of a deep forest under a full moon, met his, and the world seemed to shrink until all that existed was the space between them.
A hesitant smile curved Pete’s lips, "Beautiful view, isn't it?" His voice sounded rough to his own ears, unused as it was to such sudden, unexpected encounters.
Vegas blinked, momentarily startled, then grinned, his smile brighter than the Tuscan sun, "It truly is. I couldn't resist trying to capture it." He held up his sketchbook, the lines charcoal and flowing, already capturing the essence of the landscape.
Vegas' gaze snagged on his calloused fingers, stained with the tell-tale smudges of charcoal, and a memory flickered in the dusty corners of his mind – a hand, strong and warm, holding his, smeared with the same dark ink. But the memory was fleeting, like a wisp of smoke on the wind.
He extended his free hand, "I'm Vegas," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down Pete’s spine.
"Pete," he replied, taking his hand. The moment their skin touched, a surge of electricity coursed through him, a jolt that felt as familiar as it was shocking. It was a connection that transcended years, a recognition that defied explanation.
Days turned into weeks, and the vineyard became their shared haven. Vegas, it turned out, was an aspiring artist, traveling Europe in search of inspiration. They spent their days exploring the picturesque villages, sharing laughter under the shade of ancient olive trees, and stealing stolen kisses amidst the vibrant rows of grapes. Vegas was captivated by Pete’s fiery spirit, his passion for the land evident in every calloused hand and sun-kissed brow. He found his stories of harvest moons and stubborn grapevines as captivating as the paintings of the Renaissance masters.
Pete, in turn, was drawn to Vegas’ quiet strength, his soul as vast and open as the starry Tuscan sky. Their laughter echoed through the valleys they visited, their joy as vibrant as the summer wildflowers that painted the meadows. They talked for hours about everything and nothing, their past a closed book, their future an unwritten poem. But a shadow always lingered in Pete’s eyes, a flicker of sadness that Vegas couldn't quite decipher.
One evening, as they sat by a crackling fire in the old stone villa that served as Pete’s home, Vegas traced a constellation with his finger on the star-dusted canvas of the night sky. "They say," he said, his voice soft, "if you wish upon a shooting star, your wish will come true."
Pete’s smile faltered. "Do you believe in that?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Pete looked at Vegas, his gaze searching Vegas’ face, "I believe in things I can't explain," Vegas said gently.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the only sound the crackling fire and the chirping of crickets. Finally, Pete took a deep breath. "I wish," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "that time wouldn't steal you from me."
Vegas frowned, worry etching lines on his forehead. "What do you mean?"
But before he could answer, a sharp pain ripped through Vegas' chest, a sudden, unexpected cough racking his body. Pete, alarmed, was beside him in an instant, his strong arms enveloping him. Vegas leaned into him, drawing comfort from his warmth, the familiar feeling a stark contrast to the growing coldness spreading through his own body.
As quickly as it started, the pain subsided, leaving behind a terrifying emptiness. Vegas looked at Pete, his eyes filled with unshed tears.
‘Don’t leave me again, Wegath…’
Decades bled into centuries, a slow, relentless march of time that Pete felt etched into every line on his face. The vibrant memory of Vegas, his fiery love lost to a cruel twist of fate, remained a constant ache in his heart. He had now buried himself in his art, his canvases now awash with the melancholic beauty of a world that seemed to move on while he remained tethered to the past.
One crisp autumn morning, the first blush of golden light kissed the rolling hills of Tuscany. Pete, still young as ever, stood on the crest of a familiar hill, overlooking the vineyard that once held his heart. The vines, once bursting with life, now stood skeletal against the clear blue sky, a testament to the passage of time. A pang of loneliness, sharp and unexpected, ripped through him.
Suddenly, a flicker of movement in the distance caught his eye. A figure, silhouetted against the rising sun, stood amidst the rows of dormant vines. Pete squinted, a jolt of electricity sparking through him. The way the figure stood, a confident hand resting on their hip, the way the sunlight seemed to catch the dark waves of their hair – it was uncanny.
He descended the hill, his steps quicker than ever. As he drew closer, the figure turned, and Pete's breath hitched in his throat. There, bathed in the golden light, stood a young man, his eyes, a mirror image of Vegas. The world seemed to shimmer, the air crackling with an energy he couldn't explain.
The man, his name was Vegas, was an aspiring writer, drawn to the vineyard by its quiet beauty and the whispers of a forgotten love story that lingered in the air. Pete, hesitant at first, found himself drawn to him like a moth to a flame, ready to burn in love again. There was a spark in Vegas’ eyes, a mischievous glint that captivated his mind all over again. Vegas, in turn, was captivated by Pete's quiet wisdom, his stories of a bygone era woven with tales of art and love.
Their bond wasn't the same fiery explosion, bustling in young cities, as it had been in the past. This time, it was a slow burn, a comforting ember rekindled after years of dormancy. They spent their days exploring the quaint villages, sharing quiet picnics under the shade of ancient olive trees, and discussing art under the vast Tuscan sky. Pete found solace in Vegas’ company, the ache in his heart from centuries was dulled by a newfound companionship of the same man. He taught Vegas the art of charcoal sketching, his touch lingering a little too long on his as he guided his hand. Vegas, in turn, filled the old stone villa with laughter and vibrant energy, chasing away the shadows that had clung to Pete for so long.
He never let him know it was their second time around, but the lingering in Pete’s eyes and the craving in Vegas’ soul spoke a thousand words.
They built a life together, a haven of peace and understanding nestled amidst the rolling hills of Tuscany. They spent their evenings curled up by the fireplace, sharing whispered secrets under the canopy of twinkling stars.
But life, as it always does, had a cruel twist in store. Fate, a relentless thief, once again snatched away Pete's love. This time Vegas wasn't struck down by a sudden illness. It was a carriage accident, a violent collision on a dusty road, that claimed his life in the prime of his youth.
‘Till we meet again, love’
Pete became a solitary star, forever adrift in the vast ocean of time. Centuries bled into one another, empires rose and crumbled to dust, and yet the memory of Vegas remained a vibrant ember in his heart. He wandered the world, a restless spirit haunted by a love lost and a life forever changed. The joy he once found in art turned into a melancholic echo, his canvases now reflecting the desolate landscapes of his soul.
One blustery Parisian morning, centuries after their encounters in Tuscany, Pete found himself drawn to a quaint cafe tucked away on a silent street. The air hung heavy with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the murmur of conversation. As he settled into a corner booth, a melody drifted through the cafe, weaving a tapestry of bittersweet notes. It was a hauntingly beautiful song, filled with a yearning that resonated deep within him.
He looked up, his gaze drawn to the source of the music. On a small stage, bathed in the warm glow of a spotlight, stood a young man. His dark hair, tousled by stray strands that danced with the music, echoed a familiar silhouette. But it was the musician's eyes that truly stole Pete's breath away. They were the color of a stormy sea, swirling with a deep, ancient sorrow that mirrored the ache in his own heart.
The young man's name was Vegas, a name that sent shivers down Pete's spine. His music, a blend of classical and contemporary, held a depth and maturity that belied his years. As the final note faded, the cafe erupted in applause. Pete, captivated by the performance and the strange pull he felt towards the musician, found himself pushing through the crowd.
Backstage, the air hummed with nervous energy. Pete stood hesitantly, waiting for a chance to meet Vegas. Finally, amidst the flurry of congratulations and well-wishers, their eyes met. A spark of recognition flickered in Vegas' gaze, a fleeting echo that vanished as quickly as it appeared. But Pete, his heart hammering in his chest, felt a surge of hope he hadn't experienced in centuries. ‘He’s back’
They began to talk, drawn together by an invisible thread that transcended time and logic. Their bond deepened, blossoming into a love as unique and captivating as Vegas' music. They spent their days exploring the hidden corners of Paris, their laughter echoing through the ancient streets. They shared quiet evenings under the Eiffel Tower, Pete writing sonnets that captured the depth of his love, Vegas composing heart-wrenching melodies that echoed their shared sorrow.
Their love story, a testament to the enduring power of connection, became a source of fascination in the Parisian art scene. Pete, inspired by Vegas' vibrant spirit, found his artistic fire rekindled. His canvases, once shrouded in darkness, bloomed with color and light, depicting scenes from their Parisian adventures. Vegas, in turn, poured his love for Pete into his music, creating symphonies that spoke of timeless love and the bittersweet nature of existence.
But time, the relentless sculptor of lives, had its own plans. Decades turned into years, and the youthful vibrancy that had characterized Vegas began to fade. The once-bright fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a quiet acceptance of his own mortality. Vegas, a celebrated musician whose music touched the hearts of millions, eventually succumbed to the inescapable grasp of old age.
As Pete stood by his bedside, the melody of their love fading into a soft sigh, the weight of centuries of loss pressed down on him. He held Vegas' hand, his heart a hollow echo chamber filled with the ghosts of memories. This time, the pain of loss was different, tinged with a profound acceptance of their cyclical love story.
“Please be back soon,” Pete’s whispers hung in the air around him as he prayed to the wishing star falling across the sky.
Unfortunately, a millennia rolled by with no sign of Vegas. Pete, his heart a tapestry woven with grief and love, retreated to a secluded mountain village living with the memories of his love, waiting to meet him again in his new lifeline. There, amidst the whispering pines, he met him once more. Vegas, a young woodcarver with a gentle smile and eyes that mirrored the twilight sky. This time, their love was a silent poem, a knowing glance across the breakfast table, a shared hand as they walked through the woods.
With each lifetime, Vegas recognized him; a birthmark on his shoulder, a melody he hummed unconsciously, a shared dream of soaring through starlit skies. He, however, remained blissfully unaware, living a new life, untainted by the memories that haunted Pete.
One starlit night, as they sat by the crackling fireplace, Vegas, for the first time, confessed a strange feeling – a sense of deja vu, a yearning for something just beyond his grasp. Pete, tears glistening in his twilight eyes, reached for his hand. "Perhaps," he whispered, "it's not your first time feeling this way." And for the first time, he told Vegas their story, the epic saga of their love that stretched across millenniums.
As dawn painted the horizon, Vegas looked at Pete, his eyes filled with a love that transcended lifetimes. He may not have remembered, but his soul recognized him. Their love story, a testament to the enduring power of love, would continue, a whispered echo across the ages.