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Summary
“Let’s do something,” Tony says at last, sprinting back to where Fabio is lazily sprawled under the sun and crawling on all fours until he’s practically on top of him, a mischievous grin splitting his sunkissed face in two. It’s hot and it’s afternoon, and Fabio really doesn’t want to do anything in particular, so he wraps his legs around Tony, throws him off balance, and catches him right before he smashes face first into his nose.
“Can’t we just cook in the sun a little more?”
Tony snorts, his plush lips curling into a displeased pout.
“But we’ve been here for hours,” he laments, excessively plaintive. Fabio chuckles: it’s been hardly thirty minutes, he’d argue, but he knows better than to start a war he can’t really win.A slow, lazy afternoon on Fabio's yacht.