Page 29 of Hold Me Under (Water, Air, Earth, Fire 1)

Ethan

Even the sky looks different here, high clouds and morning sun silvered with a shimmering haze that makes everything feel ancient. Mom and I always promised we’d see the world together, and for a minute I forget that she’s not here and point at a mountain looming on the horizon. “That’s Vesuvius, right there,” I say in wonder, quoting the in-flight map.

Victor shoves past, almost knocking me down the stairs to the tarmac. “Thanks, PBS special.” I imagine the volcano exploding in a cloud of ash, coating us in lava. Watching Victor burn to death and then sleeping forever sounds worth it.

Feeling dazed and a little nauseous, I follow Victor toward a row of three black cars, idling as if wasting even a second would bring civilizations crashing down. I spot a glitter of press cameras at the fence a few hundred yards away, and Victor puts up a hand to block his face.

Werner gets into the first car, Gray into the passenger seat of the second. Victor shoves himself and most of his luggage into the back like a hoarding dragon, leaving barely any room for me. I shut the door and search between Louis Vuitton carry-on bags for the end of my seatbelt. It’s tempting to throw a few out the window as we pull out of the airport gates, show him how it feels.

Gray turns around in his seat. “It’s go time now, boys. You’reonat all times, except in your room.”

Victor looks sullen and squinty in the bright morning, long, dusty lashes framing his pale irises. When he sees me watching him, he sticks out his tongue and mimes stuffing two fingers down his throat.

“Love you too.” I turn to the window. Where the Pacific Northwest is all dark pines and fog, the light in this place sparkles across dusty, sunbaked grass and tawny stone buildings. Between two hills, I catch a glimpse of the sea, bright as a jewel. With a rustle, Victor sits up and stares intently, hunger in his eyes. His knuckles flex where he’s gripping his seatbelt. Maybe that explains what’s wrong with us—the same endless void that terrifies me calls to him.

I turn on my phone and dial Mom, before remembering she’s asleep.Landed safe. I love you.I hope that if she was scared, she fell asleep holding the t-shirt I left her. I text Peyton:Have her call me when she wakes up.

It’s actually kind of peaceful in the car, swooping around the curves with the sunlight moving across my skin, listening to a radio DJ speak a million miles an hour in a language I don’t know. Then Gray takes a call on his cell. “Damn.” He speaks briskly to the driver in Italian, then turns around. “You won’t be able to settle in before we meet the director and board members.” My eyebrows go up as the car slows and pulls into a gas station, splashing through puddles on the dirty concrete. “Go inside and change. Your suits are in the trunk.”

“Seriously?” Victor slides down in his seat until his knees are curled up against his chest. “It’s gross.”

“Do you want us to make out in front of the cashier on the way?” My snark surprises all of us, most of all me. Victor can’t stifle a giggle.

Gray looks at me likenot you, too. “Hurry up.”

We’ve entered an urban area on the edge of Naples, and it smells like gas and burned tires as I climb out of the car. Traffic flows steadily past, just like it does everywhere else in the world. The air clings to my skin, slides along the sweat at the back of my neck. When the trunk springs open, I rummage around and pull out two garment bags, hanging them awkwardly over my arm. There’s no way to be subtle about this.

The speakers in the convenience store are blasting an Italian pop ballad that’s way too cheerful for the bad lighting and floors covered in dirty shoe prints. The cashier, a large, oily man, doesn’t look up or remove his borderline pornographic magazine from the counter.

Victor catches up when I stop in front of the only toilet, a small tiled room with sticky yellow patches on the floor. “Wait here.” I hand him his suit. “I’ll go first.”

He shakes his head, eyes skimming around the store uneasily. The shelves are tall enough to block the view of who’s coming in or out. “I’m not standing out here by myself while you change.”

When I look uncertain, he elbows past me, stepping gingerly over the urine stains. I latch the door and carefully hang our suits on the hook on the back. That damn song goes on and on as I face the wall and pull down my pants.

These suits are lighter colors, cut differently, like rich European guys from movies. The unfamiliar way the fabric caresses my skin reminds me of the press conference. “You gonna be ok?” I ask the cracked, taupe tile in front of my nose.

His belt rattles against the floor; I risk a quick glance, trying not to notice the way his underwear hugs the tight curve of his ass. He’s balancing in bare feet on top of his sneakers, squashing them flat as he unfolds a pair of socks. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Our voices sound loud and tinny. “You shat the bed about five minutes into the reception.”

“That was a warm-up. I can do anything now. Book me to read to some kindergarteners, shit, put me onSesame Street.”

I turn around, buttoning up my shirt. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He stands there with his lower lip in his teeth, watching my chest disappear behind the white linen. His dress shoes are still in the garment bag, so he does a weird hop-shuffle to scoot his sneakers closer to me without touching the floor. He grabs the ends of my tie, and I swat his hands away.

His jaw tightens and he jabs his finger against the base of my throat. “No touching rule. Are you stupid?” His voice sounds strained. I hold up my hands, trying not to put him even more on edge.

He goes back to looping the pieces of black silk around my neck, frowning in concentration. “I know how to knot a tie,” I protest, watching his eyebrows furrow. They’re thick, and darker than his hair.

“Then do mine.”

I slide my arms under his and try to figure out how to do the knot backwards. “You’re just going to say it’s shit and do it over.”

He smiles, but doesn’t say anything. We stand side by side in the mirror, transformed from worn-out travelers to suave businessmen. Kind of. I try to smooth my hair down with some water from the tap.

“Yeah, sorry. It’s hurting my eyes.” Victor pulls his tie apart and starts over. Grabbing my stuff, I leave him behind. He bumps into my back halfway across the shop, hopping on one leg as he pulls his other shoe on and grabbing my shoulder for support. I wonder what the difference is between touching and being touched, why it matters so much.

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