Work Text:
Antonio lingers at the edge of the lamplit hall, wine untouched in his hand. The laughter from the wedding feast echoes through Belmont, but his eyes are fixed on Bassanio, glowing, golden, his every gesture a spark.
Bassanio notices, of course. He always does, even if he pretends otherwise. With a grin, he excuses himself from Portia’s cousins and slips over, sliding into the seat beside Antonio like he owns the space.
“You’ll sour the wine if you keep staring at it,” Bassanio teases, nudging his arm. His hand lingers, a warm weight against Antonio’s sleeve.
Antonio shakes his head, lips twitching toward a smile. “I’m only… glad to see you happy.” His voice is low, solemn, carrying more weight than he dares admit.
Bassanio leans closer, close enough for Antonio to smell the faint citrus of Portia’s perfume clinging to him. “I’m happy when you’re here,” he murmurs. It’s careless, casual, but it lands like a knife in Antonio’s chest.
For a long moment, Antonio says nothing. He looks at Bassanio, the laughter lines at his eyes, the easy tilt of his smile, and feels the ache swell in his throat. If he speaks too quickly, it will turn into a whimper. So he only nods.
Bassanio, oblivious or perhaps too kind to press, curls an arm around Antonio’s shoulders and draws him close, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. Antonio stiffens, then melts, head tipping slightly toward Bassanio’s warmth.
No one notices in the noise of the feast. But in that shadowed corner, Antonio allows himself one breath of impossible happiness, pressed against the man he has given everything to, knowing it is enough to be near him.