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‘You sure this is okay?’ Tom runs a hand nervously over his hair, waiting for Peter’s approval.
While Peter’s been rehearsing at the Pieta, Tom has spent the afternoon decorating the flat. Christmas decorations are on sale everywhere in the city, shops glittering with different coloured tinsels and winking lights. There are even makeshift stalls on the streets streaming with colourful Christmas banners and fake cottony snow and little Santa Clauses with reindeer to hang on the thick branches of the tree he’s bought. Mr Greenleaf’s money, as far as Tom is concerned, was never better spent.
‘This is…’ Peter slides his fingers through his own thick, dark hair, perhaps unconsciously copying Tom’s gesture. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
Tom comes up behind him, sliding his arms around Peter’s waist. He’s glad Peter still has his thick black coat on because his palms are sweaty with nerves as he curls his fingers into the soft fabric. ‘Say it’s okay. Say you like it.’ Peter is taller than him, and Tom settles for pressing his mouth to the back of Peter’s right shoulder.
Peter turns around in his arms, careful not to dislodge them. ‘I love it,’ he says simply, leaning in and brushing a lock of Tom’s hair off his forehead before kissing the corner of Tom’s mouth.
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ Peter says firmly. He kisses Tom again, with more intent this time, and they don’t quite make it to the bedroom.
—
When Tom opens his eyes a while later, Peter’s hair is tickling his nose. There are discarded clothes strewn on the floor in front of the fireplace, and Tom can’t help but smile at the memory of their frantic haste to get each other unclothed just a while ago. They’re nestled together in a warm fort of blankets in front of the fire, Peter’s head on Tom’s bare chest and his long limbs everywhere, over and around Tom.
‘What’re you thinking?’ Peter murmurs, his voice sleepy and sated.
‘Byron,’ Tom whispers back, as though they’re boys in a church, keeping his voice down to keep from making noise in a place of reverence.
‘What about him?’ Peter’s voice is also a whisper, slightly amused, as though he’s playing along with Tom’s game.
‘You said he lived here once.’
‘He did,’ Peter says around a yawn, burrowing closer and getting more comfortable, his body a long, lean line of warmth along Tom’s. ‘So?’
‘And he named the Bridge of Sighs.’
‘From the Italian translation, yes.’ Peter’s fingers walk desultorily down Tom’s side, and he doesn’t bother to suppress a giggle.
‘Pedant,’ he accuses, biting Peter’s shoulder.
‘American,’ Peter says in retaliation, and Tom laughs out loud and tickles him back, and there’s really no more space to be serious after that.
—
Ponte dei sospiri is the Italian name for the Bridge of Sighs. No one quite knows how the name came about, but Tom loves the origin story about how prisoners would look upon Venice as they were being taken to be incarcerated, sighing at their last glimpse of beauty because they had no words to express something so ineffable.
‘Legend has it,’ Peter murmurs as they stand shoulder to shoulder at the Bridge that evening, ‘that if lovers kiss on a gondola under the Bridge while the bells of St Mark’s are tolling, they’ll be together forever.’
Tom wants to take Peter’s hand and kiss him right then, but there’s decorum to think about—not to mention that the likes of Inspector Verrecchia would probably arrest them on sight if they so much as looked each other ‘wrong’ in the streets of Venice.
‘What are we waiting for?’ he asks, and sets off for a gondola, hoping that Peter will follow.
—
They don’t kiss on the gondola, but Peter joins their hands together, hidden safely between the warm press of their bodies.
‘If I could kiss you,’ he says softly, ‘I would.’
‘Later,’ Tom whispers back. ‘When we get home.’
‘When we get home,’ Peter promises, his smile brilliant in the waning sunlight.
The air is quiet with the promise of snow. ‘I wonder what it would be like if the world were frozen,’ Tom says softly, trying not to disturb the air of silence. ‘If we could be frozen like this forever, stuck in this canal with the gondolier humming a frozen song and everything still and silent, forever.’
‘Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,’ Peter murmurs back.
‘Keats? I thought you were a Byron man.’
‘Oh, I like to mix it up,’ Peter says, grinning.
—
They’re still laughing together when they tumble through Peter’s doorway.
‘Wait, wait,’ Peter says, breathless. He rummages in his pocket. ‘Close your eyes.’
‘What for?’
‘Just do it, will you?’
Tom does as asked. He hears a rustle of cloth as Peter pulls something from his pocket. Then Peter’s hands are on his shoulders, positioning him in place, and Tom squirms. ‘Can I open my eyes now?’
‘You may,’ Peter says, and there’s still humour dancing in his voice.
Tom blinks. ‘What’m I supposed to be seeing?’
‘Look up.’
Tom’s standing on the threshold between the living room and the dining area, and there’s a tiny spring of mistletoe hanging over their heads.
He laughs. ‘When did you get this?’
‘On the way home from the church this afternoon.’
‘You’ve had it all this time? Why didn’t you put it up earlier?’
‘I don’t know.’ Peter ruffles his hair with both his hands, messing it up even more. ‘I suppose I was waiting for an opportune moment.’
‘An opportune moment to kiss me?’ Tom says teasingly, fingering the collar of Peter’s coat. ‘You can do that any time you want.’
‘I know.’ Peter steps closer to him, leaning in, nuzzling against Tom’s nose, his cheek, his jaw. ‘I’m just… I’m not used to that.’
‘To kissing people?’
‘To having someone to kiss.’
‘I’m here,’ Tom says, his fingers tightening in the front of Peter’s coat. ‘And I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. I promise.’
‘I forgot to mention,’ Peter says. They’re still almost cheek to cheek, their breaths quickening in the barely-there space between them, on the verge of kissing desperately, and Tom wants to hold on to the moment and let it go at the same time so they can move on to something sweeter, more lasting. ‘I got us tickets for the Hellenes. For my concert in Athens. You still want to go with me, right?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ Tom promises, and pulls Peter into his arms.