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The ocean is sleek and shiny black under the moon. A cold, salty wind tousles Bucciarati’s bangs as he watches the lacy white waves roll in and out. Mother Sea’s heartbeat, he thinks, romantically cheesy. He’s always been close to the sea.
Abbacchio sits beside him, trying hard not to hold his hand. Bucciarati can hear his fingers shifting over the sand, stretching and flexing, and wonders what’s scaring him out of doing it. But he doesn’t want to cross any boundaries, so he doesn’t bridge the gap either.
Abbacchio’s hair is silver in the moonlight, liquid and metallic. He’s pouting; it’s his resting face. He looks pale and siren-esque under the moon, all dark eyes and lips. Bucciarati can picture him washing up with seaweed tangled around his legs, lithe body dressed in a fisherman’s net. He’s gorgeous beyond belief.
Bucciarati is a little tipsy, but Abbacchio is drunk. They went for drinks in town, Abbacchio went overboard like usual, and now Bucciarati can tell he’s getting emotional. He sulks out at the ocean with one arm folded atop his knees. The other hangs so his hand can rest inches from Bucciarati’s, thin fingers switching through a cycle of arching toward him and then retreating like crabs into their shells. He’s letting his guard down, but apparently not enough to touch him.
Tonight wasn’t a date, but it wasn’t really defined as anything at all. Things sort of got away from them. The drinks were part of the plan but Bucciarati doesn’t really know how they ended up wandering down to the beach. A little alcohol had been enough to make him sentimental, he’d followed the ocean breeze, and Abbacchio had followed him. Abbacchio always seems to follow him.
The night is peaceful. In front of them comes the crashing of the waves, repetitive and lulling; from behind them they can hear the distant sounds of music and people chattering, out on the town for the night.
The quiet on the beach is broken when Abbacchio sighs. He turns his head to look at Bucciarati. His eyes are wet.
“What’s wrong?” Bucciarati murmurs, as his brow furrows and he tries to search for the problem.
He doesn’t know what it is about himself that makes Abbacchio open up, but something does, and combined with the alcohol, he’s borderline sniffling. He leans closer. His head slumps onto Bucciarati’s shoulder. “I want to be your girlfriend,” he mumbles, pushing his fingers into the sand.
A loud wave crashes and breaks. Bucciarati looks away. Oh.
“You’re drunk, Abbacchio,” he says, not unkindly.
Abbacchio’s head shifts on his shoulder, digging for contact. “I wanna be a good bride,” he says, and his voice cracks over the words. He palms at his eyes. “I want to make you proud, and happy. I just wanna be good.”
Bucciarati reaches for Abbacchio’s wrist. Traces it, eases his hand into Abbacchio’s. “I’m already proud of you,” he says. “I always have been. You’re worth much more than you think.”
Abbacchio scrubs his free hand down his face, buries his nose in his palm. “I’m never gonna be what I wanna be,” he says. “I wanna be your fuckin’ wife. I don’t wanna be a fuckup anymore, I’m tired of being a goddamn loser all the time. I wanna be all picture-perfect with the wedding dress and the veil and smiling, and shit.”
He rambles like he’s been holding it in for a long time. It doesn’t all make total sense to Bucciarati, but it’s clearly something important. He squeezes Abbacchio’s hand, trying for comfort. “Don’t talk about yourself that way,” he says softly. “What is this really about? Me? A relationship? Or you, your identity? Something else?”
Abbacchio’s voice comes out as a grumble from his little shell he’s retreated to. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you, it’s, I fucking…”
He never finishes. Bucciarati sits and gives him time to gather his thoughts. At some point, Abbacchio drops his arm from his face and they’re back to where they were at first, quietly watching the ocean, except this time their hands are locked together and growing sweaty.
The sea swells and rushes, sharks swimming in the dark. Whales out there somewhere, maybe mermaids or krakens. Brave little stars twinkle in the vastness of the sky and their reflections get lost in the waves, where gleaming streaks reflect the moon’s glow.
Abbacchio finally breathes in and sits up straighter. “Bucciarati, listen.”
Bucciarati turns to him and nods.
Another breath. Abbacchio’s adam’s apple works as he swallows. His eyes glance to Bucciarati for a moment, then dart back to the sea, nervous. “I think I’m in love with you.”
Just that phrase manages to pin Bucciarati like a butterfly carcass. He freezes under Abbacchio’s headlight eyes and doesn’t know what to say. His stomach feels like it’s floating, and that’s not in a good way. He feels loose and untethered, uncertain. He hates to feel vulnerable like this. The words make his whole body hot and he can only inhale sharply in response.
Abbacchio seems to recognize his discomfort. He pulls back into himself and hides his face within the curtain of his hair. “Sorry,” he says quietly, and as he continues to speak, his voice trails softer into a mumble. “Sorry, that’s not professional, and you already do so much for me anyway…”
The breeze seems to still, or maybe it’s just in Bucciarati’s head, but he feels put on the spot. Guilty, for not responding well. Overwhelmed. He feels this pressure to say I love you too, but when he thinks about doing it his chest gets tight. And Abbacchio does mean a lot to him, but there are so many things that can go wrong, especially in the world they live in. There are so many reasons to keep to yourself. They see people get shot to death all the time, over stupid shit, drugs and turf and just shit that isn’t worth dying over. And there’s no reason to believe Bucciarati could make a relationship last anyway. His parents divorced and his father died young and he often feels like the only gay man in Napoli, and he’s just not ready for something like this.
He hears a sniff, and his heart sinks. He’s hurt Abbacchio. And he’ll only hurt him more the longer they stay out here by the water.
“Hey,” he says, gentle. “Don’t be upset. Let’s get you home. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Yeah.” Abbacchio sighs and stretches his legs, rustling through the pale sand. He sniffs and blinks his eyes.
Bucciarati gets to his feet and helps Abbacchio up as well. He half expects to have to drag him, but Abbacchio’s not that drunk. He stands without putting up a fight.
They walk down the beach and climb the stairs to the road, to reenter the real world. Couples stroll under warm streetlamps and restaurant signs, carrying gelato or wine glasses or clinging to each other’s arms. Bucciarati gets a cab and follows Abbacchio into the backseat.
The ride to Abbacchio’s apartment isn’t terribly long, but he still manages to doze off. Bucciarati can tell that he’s trying in his half-awake state to avoid getting too close. But he eventually falls asleep on Bucciarati’s shoulder anyway. Bucciarati relaxes into his seat and watches lights flash past the window in the dark.
He knows they’ve already crossed boundaries and are crossing them right now. And when the cab drops Abbacchio off and Bucciarati pays for the ride out of his own pocket, he knows he’s crossed another. He knows he can’t have dates if he won’t take Abbacchio too. And there’s no conclusion to that, no but; he’s just selfish. He’s difficult. He hopes for both their sake that Abbacchio will give up and move on from him.
As Abbacchio climbs out of the car, he turns around. “Thanks for the cab,” he says.
“No problem.” Bucciarati leans out the door and presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’m sorry if I reacted strangely tonight. You know I’ve been busy.” Excuses, excuses.
Abbacchio waves a hand in the air. “I dumped all that shit on you at the beach. I should be apologizing to you.”
Straightening his jacket and settling back into his seat, Bucciarati thinks, No you shouldn’t. He closes the car door and watches Abbacchio walk inside. His stomach turns with guilt at the thought that he’s going to repeat this cycle until one of them gives up. But that isn’t enough for him to decide to change. As the car pulls away, he toes at the sand on the floor, wishing Abbacchio was still here to hold his hand.