Chapter Text
Outside the open window is the sound of the sea, the scent of flowers, the gathering warmth of the day. Against his skin; the kiss of a breeze, the feel of cool cotton, a yielding, familiar pillow. Nigel smiles, and stretches; languorous, half-awake, and reaches out for Elio, but the other side of the bed is cold. He moves his arm, back and forth, and finds nothing but emptiness, where the Italian should be.
He wakes up properly at that, smile fading away.
He turns over, pushes himself up onto an elbow, and blinks in the sunlight at the deserted bedroom. He’s more than a little disappointed to find himself alone.
He surveys the mess surrounding him, filling every inch of floor, encroaching up to the edge of the bed like a besieging army. There are teetering piles of boxes, bin bags full of clothes, stacks of books that all need to be sorted out. That's his job this morning. Elio, he knows, doesn’t mind mess at all, he barely notices it, in fact. It probably wouldn’t bother him to keep the room like this for another six months, but Nigel has other plans. Start as you mean to go on.
It's no easy thing, combining two lives like this, even if there's plenty of room in the villa that once belonged to Elio’s father.
Elio had always said he wanted to buy a place like this. He probably didn’t think it would actually be his father's house. But, after everything that’s happened, Nigel couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
It had taken some hard bargaining, for sure, with Mr de Angelis senior (you don’t get to be a millionaire without some economic nous, Nigel supposed), but eventually a fair price had been agreed, hands had been shaken, contracts signed in clear black ink.
And today, the house has two new names on the lease. Today, it’s home.
Or at least, he thought it was.
Nigel hears a creak on the stairs, light footsteps along the stone tiles of the corridor, and Elio appears in the bedroom doorway.
“Good morning.” The Italian is a sight to behold, dressed in a half-buttoned shirt and boxers, holding a tray of breakfast things. The dark circles under his eyes, that have lingered since Paul Ricard and the hospital stay, are fading away, and his face is losing it's thinness, filling out every day. He looks more than ever like his old self, handsome and sunkissed, eyes sparkling with far-away light.
Nigel is unmoved, though. If Elio expects him to be placated with fruit and pastries and coffee, with his lovely familiar face, he’s in for a surprise. He folds his arms, and Elio’s bright smile falters.
“Breakfast in bed.” The Italian rattles the tray.
Nigel sighs, only slightly theatrically.
Elio quirks an eyebrow, from the doorway. “Are you ok?”
He shrugs. “Dunno.”
“What do you mean?” Elio smiles, bemused. “Here, have your coffee.”
He approaches, and holds the tray out. Nigel doesn’t take it from him.
“Mansueto.” Elio frowns, but it’s a patient frown. “We are not beginning like this. Have the damn coffee, and tell me what’s wrong.”
He relents, and takes the mug, with a pout. “I’m fine. It’s nothing. Just thought you'd left me already, that’s all.” He mutters.
“Left you?”
“Woke up on my own, didn’t I?”
“I wanted to make you breakfast.” Elio sits, on the edge of the bed, and rests the tray on the bedside table.
“Yeah, but… I sort of thought we'd wake up together, y'know, the first time. Living together.”
“Is that what's upsetting you?”
“Well.” He kicks his feet, under the sheets. “Yeah. That’s always my favourite bit.”
“What is?”
“Waking up with you.” He can feel a blush creeping over his face, and Elio is smiling at him so fondly, that it's hard to stay annoyed.
“Look at it this way,” the Italian says, eyes crinkling, “at least I've got tomorrow morning to make it up to you.” He leans forward, and blows a soft kiss against Nigel's neck. “And the next morning. And the next, and the next-"
He keeps going, kisses turning ticklish, until Nigel pulls away, giggling.
He leans across Elio, and takes a croissant from the tray, and bites into it. “Alright. I'll hold you to that. Tomorrow morning.”
“Yes. For however many mornings you want.”
He drops the croissant, letting crumbs flake everywhere, onto the sheets and underneath them, too. He’ll regret the mess later, he knows, but right now he can’t seem to care.
He pulls Elio to his lap, and the Italian allows himself to be manoeuvred with a grin.
When they’re settled, Elio straddling him with a suave smile, warm hands resting on his shoulders, Nigel smiles up to him, his own hands cupping round Elio’s waist.
“All of them. Every single one.”
Then they kiss, with the slow, comfortable passion of old lovers. Elio starts to move against him, gently rolling in his lap, as Nigel unfastens the remaining buttons of his shirt.
As it turns out, Nigel thinks, unpacking the boxes will have to wait for a while.