Chapter Text
The day had unfolded in its usual rhythm for Tommaso.
He had signed off a shipment of new records, stepped out onto the street to light a cigarette and catch a few rays of autumn sun, even noted with private satisfaction that his favorite tree across the road had begun to turn yellow. Now, back inside, he was in the cramped storeroom, sorting through a stack of battered LPs they were planning to sell cheap at a charity fair.
It was the kind of quiet, repetitive task that let his mind wander — until Francis’s voice cut sharply through the air.
“Ivan Graziani? Seriously? Who even looks for this stuff?”
There was laughter in it, half-mocking, half-genuinely incredulous. Tommaso sighed, already rubbing a hand over his face. Francis had found someone to spar with, again, and when Francis dug his teeth into a music debate, he never let go. They are never going to make a profit like this.
He pushed the storeroom door open, ready to intervene — and forgot, for a moment, why he’d come out at all.
Because the customer standing at the counter wasn’t just anyone. Long hair fell over his shoulders, catching the dim shop light. He wasn’t smiling, exactly, but listening — actually listening — to Francis with an intensity that made the whole argument seem more like a late-night philosophy seminar than a spat over a record.
And when the stranger finally spoke, his voice was gentle, careful:
“I don’t know… maybe it’s not about who looks for him. Maybe it’s about the way his words stay with you. Graziani’s songs — there’s a sort of poetry in them. Even if you think no one’s listening.”
It wasn’t defensive, not aggressive — just quiet conviction. And something in that softness tugged at Tommaso before he could stop himself.
He found his voice, stepping forward into the exchange.
“Poetry doesn’t always sell, though. Francis isn’t wrong about that. But—” he glanced at the young man, taking in the sadness that lingered strangely in his eyes, a sadness that somehow fit the season outside—“sometimes what matters is the record that makes you come back.”
The stranger looked at him then, and for one dizzying heartbeat Tommaso thought, god, he’s beautiful. Not conventionally, not like the posters in magazines. Beautiful in a way that caught at you unexpectedly, like the first chill in early autumn air.
Francis leaned back against the counter with exaggerated resignation.
“Fine. Fine. You want poetry, you can have poetry. You are the poetry department here,” he said, waving his hand in mock defeat. “I’ll leave you to him before I scare off another customer.”
Tommaso shot him a look but couldn’t help laughing under his breath.
“Ignore him,” he said, turning back to the stranger. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the Graziani record you’re after. But—” he reached behind the counter, rifling through a crate, “we do have this. Lucio Dalla, Com’è profondo il mare. Not the same, but in spirit, maybe.”
The young man’s lips curved into a small smile as he took the sleeve. His eyes flicked from the cover back to Tommaso.
“That’s funny,” he said softly. “That’s my name. Lucio. Maybe it’s a sign I should take it.”
The name hung between them for a moment. Tommaso hadn’t meant to say anything, but the words slipped out before he could stop them.
“It suits you,” he murmured.
From somewhere behind the register, Francis let out a dramatic cough. Tommaso rolled his eyes.
“Right. Well, Lucio, why don’t you take this one? And — since you didn’t find what you came for — I’ll give you a discount. Consider it a… consolation prize.”
Lucio blinked, clearly not expecting that. A faint color rose to his cheeks.
“That’s very kind of you.” He hugged the record to his chest, then gave a quick nod. “I’ll listen to it, and… maybe I’ll come back to tell you what I think.”
“Do that,” Tommaso said.
He rang him up, slid the record into a bag, and handed it over. Their fingers brushed just for a second, and Tommaso felt it longer than he should have.
The bell above the door jingled as Lucio stepped out into the crisp autumn light. Tommaso lingered by the counter, pretending to shuffle receipts while his eyes followed the figure through the shop window, long hair catching the sunlight as he walked down the street.
“You’re ridiculous,” Francis announced, coming up beside him. “Throwing staff discounts around like roses at a parade. If you’re going to flirt with clients, at least don’t bankrupt us in the process.”
Tommaso gave him a side glance.
“If you want fewer losses, maybe try not starting a debate with every person who walks through the door.”
“That’s what music is for,” Francis retorted. “Arguments, doubts, different opinions. Otherwise it’s just background noise.”
Tommaso shook his head, but there was no real heat in it. As he closed the register for the evening, he found himself replaying the stranger’s quiet voice in his mind. Lucio. A name that already felt too close.
He realized, with a flicker of surprise, that he hadn’t told him his own.
***
The next few days, Tommaso kept finding excuses to open the old laptop. He only had a name — Lucio — which was about as useful as trying to find a single grain of sand on the beach. Still, he typed it into Facebook, into Instagram, into search bars that yielded nothing but strangers’ profiles. He scrolled, hoping for a flicker of recognition — dark eyes, the fall of hair across a sharp jawline — but there was nothing.
Francis, of course, noticed. They only had one laptop between them — partly because the shop barely kept itself afloat, partly because Francis considered anything extra a “pointless indulgence.” Which meant the browser history was always there, waiting.
“Lucio, Lucio, Lucio,” Francis sing-songed one evening, tapping through their accounting sheets. “Maybe try ‘Lucio Handsome Hair, Melancholy Eyes’? The algorithm might surprise you.”
Tommaso ground his teeth and pretended not to hear. He knew it was ridiculous, chasing after a name that common. But the boy lingered in his head, and Tommaso even caught himself planning which records he’d recommend if Lucio ever came back.
And a few days later, the rain hadn’t stopped. Customers filed in with umbrellas, leaving wet footprints across the floor, which Francis cursed at under his breath. And then — there he was.
Lucio slipped in without an umbrella, only a green cap pulled low, his damp hair clinging to his temples and the clean line of his neck. He looked a little disheveled but bright, like someone carrying a secret piece of good news. For Tommaso, his very presence was the good news.
“You won’t believe it,” Lucio laughed as he shook off droplets near the doorway. “This was the first place I could escape the rain.”
Tommaso smiled despite himself, heart thudding.
“How are you? Want some tea? We’ve got a stash in the back.”
Lucio waved it off with an easy grin.
“No, grazie. But—” he tilted his head—“I wanted to tell you about the Dalla record. I listened to it, and… it was wonderful. I hadn’t played him in years. I forgot how much I loved his work.”
“That’s good to hear,” Tommaso said, warming to the conversation. “I’ve always had a soft spot for his song about the wolf.”
Lucio’s eyes lit up.
“That’s funny. I have a song about a wolf too.”
That made Tommaso blink.
“You… write songs?”
Before Lucio could answer, Francis emerged from behind the counter, eyebrows lifted.
“Now that sounds interesting.” He didn’t push further, just leaned casually on the register, listening in.
Lucio nodded.
“I write, yes. I don’t perform much — just in small places, when I get the courage. But this wolf song… it’s about fears. About the trials people go through to face them.”
“That’s… intriguing,” Tommaso said softly, meaning it.
Lucio hesitated, then added with a faint, almost embarrassed smile,
“In the song, every trial that falls on the wolf comes through women. Strange, isn’t it?”
Francis pounced on that with a crooked grin.
“So what’s the deal, eh? You’re not playing for that team?”
Lucio shifted, caught between laughter and discomfort.
“Or maybe it just… never worked out with them.”
“Interesting,” Francis murmured, giving Tommaso a quick, pointed nudge with his elbow — the kind that said see? your Lucio might just be more your type than mine.
Tommaso tried not to flush, but his thoughts were already racing.
Sensing Lucio’s hesitation under Francis’s prodding, Tommaso stepped in. The bell above the door jingled, and a young couple slipped inside, dripping rainwater and laughing. Tommaso seized the moment.
“Francis,” he said pointedly, nodding toward them, “make sure they don’t start kissing between the shelves again. Last time it was right in front of the jazz section.”
Francis snorted, tossing him a look.
“Always the romantic, Tommaso.”
At the sound of his name, Lucio turned, brows raised.
“Tommaso?” he repeated softly, as if testing the syllables on his tongue.
Tommaso felt a quick pulse of heat in his chest.
“That’s me.”
Lucio’s lips curved in a smile.
“Well, now we’re properly introduced.”
To steer them away from the awkward turn the conversation had taken, Tommaso gestured toward a side aisle.
“Come on. Let me show you a section that’s less about women and heartbreak, more about the trials people face in life… but through music. I think you’d like it.”
He named a few Italian records as they walked — Fabrizio De André, Francesco Guccini — albums that dug deep into struggle, politics, survival. Lucio drifted down the row, fingers brushing the spines of the records with long, elegant precision. Tommaso caught himself watching the movement of those hands, listening to the faint hum Lucio let slip as he followed the store’s background music.
Francis sidled back to Tommaso’s side.
“You’re not going to tell him, are you?”
“Tell him what?”
“That you play. That you write.”
Tommaso’s gaze stayed fixed on Lucio across the aisle.
“What would be the point? It’s the last show anyway. The band’s done.”
Francis shrugged.
“Maybe it doesn’t have to be an ending. Maybe it’s the start of something else. He’s into music. You’re into music. Stranger things have happened.”
Before Tommaso could answer, Lucio returned with a sleeve in hand.
“This one,” he said, almost proudly. It was an old glam rock record, bold and glittering on the cover.
Tommaso smiled, genuinely delighted.
“Excellent choice. That era was reckless and theatrical in all the best ways. It’s still more honest than half the polished pop we get today.”
Francis leaned over the counter with a smirk.
“You should come to the bar down the street, Lucio. Tommaso’s playing there with his band.”
Lucio blinked, surprised, then brightened.
“You play? Really?”
Tommaso didn’t flinch.
“I did. Still do, technically. But we’re winding down. Everyone’s moving in different directions.” His tone was serious, but he added, “Still, you may come. It would be good to hear what you think.”
Something flickered in Lucio’s eyes — excitement, maybe, or curiosity.
“I’d like that.”
Tommaso hesitated, then took the leap.
“Do you have Facebook? Instagram?”
Lucio chuckled.
“Neither. I’m a bit old-fashioned.” He slipped a phone from his pocket.“But I have WhatsApp.”
Tommaso hesitated for a beat, then pulled out his own phone. Their fingers brushed as Lucio leaned closer, showing him the screen, and for a second Tommaso forgot what number even was. He cleared his throat, typing it in carefully, as if afraid to get a single digit wrong.
His name finally lit up on Lucio’s phone, and Lucio gave a small, genuine smile.
“There. Now we’re officially in touch.”
When Lucio finally moved toward the door, Tommaso noticed the rain still hammering down outside. He ducked into the back room and returned with the shop’s umbrella.
“Here. Take it. You’re still soaked.”
Lucio blinked at the gesture, hesitated — then took it with a grateful smile.
“That’s generous. But what about you?”
Tommaso grinned.
“This way, it’s guaranteed we’ll see each other again. When you bring the umbrella back or… at the bar.”
Lucio laughed, warmth sparking in his eyes, and stepped out into the rain.
Tommaso stood for a long moment at the window, watching the figure recede into the blur of the street.
Behind him, Francis sighed dramatically.
“You realize that was our only umbrella, right? So congratulations, Romeo — we’re walking home in the rain tonight.”