Page 108 of The Pairing

“You’re right,” I say. “Very presumptuous of Antoninus.”

On our way out of the forum, we realize neither of us ate enough lunch, and we still have four hours until group dinner. Hungry and overheated, we choose the first pizzeria we see, partially because the waiter is attractive and partially for the sheer volume of mist piping into the outdoor seating area. Everything from the chairs to the silverware is slightly damp, sparkling with tiny, cooling water droplets. When the hot waiter takes our menus away, there are two dry rectangles left in their place on the brown paper tablecloth.

“Is this too much mist?” Theo asks. “I feel like I’m at a Rainforest Cafe.”

“No, it’s nice,” I say, watching a drop of water roll down the side of their neck. “Like being a cucumber in a grocery store.”

I drink a limoncello spritz, Theo has a glass of chilled Orvieto, and we split a pizza. When we’re done, we walk uphill to the Trevi Fountain, which is absolutely awash with tourists dripping gelato and sharing crispy fried supplì stuffed with cheese and tomato. We find a spot near the fountain’s edge and sit together.

“And there waits our lover, Sexy Neptune,” I say, admiring the fountain. “He always comes back to us.”

“I think that might be less about us and more about him being a popular subject for fountain sculptures.”

“No, we have a thing going on.”

“Hmm. Hold on.” Theo studies the fountain more closely. “I know this place. It’s in the seminal rom-com—”

“Roman Holiday,” I say at the same time Theo finishes, “The Lizzie McGuire Movie,” and we laugh.

I look at them, freckles out, hair whipped wild by the helmetand frizzed from mist, beside me in Rome after all. My charioteer. They made their own life, and it brought them here, and I’m lucky enough to see it.

I think of Faustina in the Forum, Theo on the plane. I want to do better this time. I want to know what they want. And whatever they want, I want to give it to them.

So, this time, I ask.

“Theo,” I say. “What do you want?”

It’s an open question. It can mean whatever they want it to mean.

They consider their answer for a long time, watching water crash into the bowl of the fountain.

“I’m working on it,” they say. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

That night, we have dinner at the kind of family-owned side-street osteria a person would only find if they knew where to look. It’s nothing special to see—flat and brown among all the ivy-draped alleys and heroic statues—but itfeelsspecial. The walls are covered in a riot of black-and-white portraits of great-grandparents, hand-painted pizza posters, grainy shots of sauce-smeared grandchildren, and signed headshots of Italian singers. Red-and-white-checked vinyl tablecloths drape each table, and mismatched plates overflow with pasta in a dozen shapes and colors.

After, Theo and I finally make it to our rooms. For our two nights in Rome, we’re booked into an old apartment building turned hotel, our rooms at the top of five flights of marble stairs so steep we take the last one gasping on hands and knees. On a dusty, open-air landing lit by string lights, Theo unlocks their door and finds our bags dumped inside.

I reach for mine, but they take my key and say, “You should stay.”

In Theo’s room, we take turns rinsing dried sweat off with coldshowers. Even then, it’s too hot to consider clothing, and since yesterday at the villa—God, how can that be only yesterday?—there’s no reason for modesty. We leave our damp towels in the bathroom and lie naked on our backs atop the duvet, careful not to share body heat by touching. Our heads soak wet halos into the pillowcases.

I’m not looking at Theo with any real intent. But there is the plain, extraordinary fact of their body beside me: the taper of their forearms from elbow to wrist, the ridges of their shins and the sturdy knot of bone at their ankles, the gingersnap hair that dusts each leg and thickens between them. Their chest is almost as smooth as mine when they lie like this, subtle swells a shade pinker at each peak. It’s not only the beauty of their body but the casual presence of it, the way I’m allowed to lie beside it in a quiet room, that gets to me.

“Kit,” Theo says.

“Theo,” I say.

“You’re hard.”

I close my eyes. “I know.”

Theo spreads their feet apart, indenting the bedspread in two soft points under their heels. One of their hands—those strong, lovely hands—skims down their stomach and between their legs. They lift it to the lamplight and show me the wetness glistening on their fingertips.

It’s an admission and a question. I answer both by reaching down and pushing into my own palm.

And so we lie there on a bed in Rome, twelve hours after settling our scores, touching ourselves together.

There was one other time like this, when we were nineteen and high and eaten up with longing. A late night in my room, an endless conversation that had drifted to the people we were fucking instead of each other. For years we pretended not to remember lying beneath the same blanket with our hands under our own waistbands, the rustle of cotton and whisper of skin, but I couldn’tforget how it felt to learn the sound of Theo getting off.

---