Chapter Text
Florence, late autumn. The city wore its usual contradictions: pale Renaissance stone drenched in golden light, students hurrying beneath porticoes with espresso cups in hand, bicycles rattling over cobblestones. Professors too young to be quite dignified and too old to be truly reckless carried leather satchels through the university’s cloisters, while the bells of Santa Croce chimed the hour with ancient indifference.
Aldo Maria Bellini, professor of political history, sat in his office with his reading glasses perched low and a piece of mail in his hand that soured the coffee on his tongue.
Another letter from his landlord. Another increase.
He leaned back in his chair with a weary sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. The rent had already been high; Florence, beautiful Florence, had long since learned to price herself like a jewel. Inflation was the unkind guest who never left. Alone, Aldo could not shoulder the rising costs without sacrificing either dignity or sanity. The flat he had kept all these years—the one with the narrow balcony overlooking a street where children played calcio at dusk—was about to slip beyond his grasp.
And so, for the first time since his student years, Aldo Bellini found himself uttering words that felt almost scandalous:
"I may need a flatmate."
Raymond O’Malley listened patiently, as he always did, over a quiet coffee in the university courtyard. His presence, tall and steady, was a comfort. Where Aldo’s voice dipped into resignation, Raymond’s carried a warmth that refused to let despair take root.
“You’ve carried that flat alone for decades, Aldo,” Raymond said, stirring his cappuccino. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Times are hard for everyone.”
Aldo gave him a dry smile. “Yes, but not everyone is a sixty-four-year-old professor who has grown accustomed to silence.”
“You don’t need silence. You need relief.” Raymond’s pale blue eyes crinkled with kindness. “Let me help. I know people. Younger colleagues, fellows—someone decent, steady. You deserve someone who won’t make your life more difficult.”
Aldo arched a brow. “Raymond, I would rather not invite chaos into my living room.”
“Not chaos,” Raymond said with quiet certainty. “A friend.”
And when Raymond O’Malley promised help, help had a way of arriving—whether one asked for it or not.
That evening, at home, Raymond relayed the story to his husband.
Giulio Sabbadin did not so much listen as stalk about the kitchen, opening cupboards with the impatience of a man who believed pasta should already be boiling. His dark brows furrowed, his expression one part irritation, one part interest.
“So,” Giulio said, uncorking a bottle of wine with unnecessary force, “Bellini is finally caving to reality.”
“Be kind, Giulio,” Raymond murmured, though his lips betrayed a smile.
Giulio poured the wine, gesturing sharply with the bottle. “He should have done this years ago. That flat of his is too much for one man. He needs someone who won’t let him wither into solitude.”
“And you have someone in mind, don’t you?” Raymond asked, amused.
Giulio’s smirk was thin, sharp. “As it happens, yes. There is a man—old colleague, friend. He’s just been transferred from Venice to a new teaching post here in Florence. Brilliant, insufferable, loud as thunder but loyal as the saints. He needs a place.”
Raymond tilted his head. “Name?”
“Goffredo Tedesco,” Giulio declared, savoring the sound. “And before you frown, sì, he is… a storm. But storms clear the air. He will keep Bellini sharp. Better sharp than lonely.”
Raymond chuckled softly. “Or better sharp than strangling each other in the kitchen after three weeks?”
Giulio’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, they will clash. Of course. But tell me, amore, wouldn’t you rather see Aldo sparring with a Venetian tempest than sighing into an empty flat? Trust me. It will work.”
Raymond raised his glass. He had long ago learned not to argue with Giulio when his tone suggested fate had already been decided.
“To Goffredo Tedesco,” he said, half-resigned.
Giulio clinked his glass with a victorious smirk. “To Aldo Bellini’s new flatmate.”
The next day, Raymond brought the proposal to Aldo with the same careful tone one used to introduce a wounded bird to the idea of flight.
“Aldo,” he said in the corridor, “I may have found someone.”
Aldo, carrying a stack of essays, narrowed his eyes. “Already? Raymond, I asked you yesterday.”
Raymond only smiled. “Efficiency is not a crime. His name is Goffredo Tedesco. He’s being transferred to Florence to teach ecclesiastical history. Needs housing immediately. Giulio knows him well. Speaks highly of him.”
“Giulio speaks highly of no one,” Aldo muttered.
“Exactly,” Raymond said, lips twitching. “Which is why you should consider it.”
Aldo sighed. The essays in his arms felt lighter than the decision pressing on his shoulders. “Tedesco,” he repeated, as though tasting the name.
Raymond placed a reassuring hand on his friend’s arm. “At least meet him. No commitment yet. Think of it as… an interview.”
An interview. As if one could possibly interview fate.
The first time Aldo met Goffredo Tedesco was in the staff lounge later that week.
He heard him before he saw him: a deep, gravelly voice rolling through the room, laughter that shook the walls, a cloud of peach-scented vapor curling in the air. Goffredo stood broad-shouldered, silver-streaked, gesturing wildly with one hand while holding a battered book in the other. His presence was thunderous—impossible to ignore.
When their eyes met across the room, Aldo felt something shift.
Goffredo’s gaze was sharp, amused, assessing. He smiled—wide, daring.
“You must be Bellini,” Goffredo said, striding over without hesitation. His handshake was firm, his grin irreverent. “So. Word is you need a flatmate. Lucky for you, I need a flat.”
Aldo blinked, caught between indignation and reluctant fascination. “This is hardly a negotiation yet, Professor Tedesco.”
“Oh, it will be,” Goffredo said, smirk widening. “You make the rules. I break them. Balance.”
Raymond, watching from the corner, tried not to laugh. Giulio, had he been present, would have lit a cigarette in smug satisfaction.
The flatmate agreement had not yet been written, but its failure was already inevitable.
That night, Aldo returned to his too-expensive flat. The letter from the landlord still sat on the table, but his eyes kept drifting to the scrap of paper where he’d scribbled a name during their meeting:
Goffredo Tedesco.
A storm on the horizon. A choice pressed into his hands by fate—and by meddlesome friends who always seemed to know too much.
Aldo set the kettle on the stove, poured himself tea, and stared out at the Florentine night. Somewhere in the distance, bells tolled softly. He thought, absurdly, of balcony plants and stolen sweaters—things he had never wanted, yet might soon have.
And for the first time in years, Aldo wondered if home might change shape again.
A few days later, the University of Florence assembled its faculty in the grand Aula Magna. It was one of those ceremonies meant to be practical but dressed in grandeur: polished wood, high windows that let in too much Tuscan sun, the president of the university at the lectern extolling “new beginnings” with all the enthusiasm of someone who had given the same speech every year for twenty years.
At the end, with his usual sweeping charm, the president spread his arms.
“And now, colleagues, we are pleased to welcome Professor Goffredo Tedesco to our faculty. He will be joining us in ecclesiastical history. Professor Tedesco is no stranger to Italian academia, but as he is newly arrived in Florence, perhaps one of you would be so kind as to show him around our university—its halls, libraries, courtyards—so he may settle in quickly.”
There was a pause, a murmur of shifting chairs. No one volunteered at once. Professors were busy, reluctant to add unpaid labor to their schedules.
And then Giulio Sabbadin’s voice rang out, dry and sharp as a blade:
“Bellini will do it.”
Heads turned. Aldo, who had been pretending to read his notes, froze.
“Excuse me?” he said, voice clipped.
Giulio arched a brow, entirely unrepentant. “You know the place better than anyone, Aldo. And you are a gracious colleague, no?”
Raymond, seated beside his husband, tried and failed to suppress a smile.
Aldo inhaled through his nose. “If the president wishes it…”
The president, delighted to have a volunteer, clapped his hands. “Splendid. Professor Bellini, you will accompany Professor Tedesco after our session.”
And Goffredo—seated three rows back, broad-shouldered, arms crossed, grinning like the cat that had just been offered cream—leaned forward enough to catch Aldo’s eye.
“Looking forward to it, bello ,” he said under his breath.
Aldo’s ears went warm. He muttered, “Rule number two will need to be written sooner than I thought.”
The tour began at the cloisters, sunlight slicing between stone columns. Students lounged in the grass, the murmur of Latin recitations mixing with the hum of scooters beyond the walls.
Aldo walked with deliberate precision, his hands clasped behind his back, posture impeccable. He pointed out lecture halls, seminar rooms, the archives.
“This is the main library,” he said, tone crisp. “Do not be fooled by its beauty. The cataloging system was last updated sometime in the seventies, and the archivist guards manuscripts like family heirlooms.”
Goffredo, beside him, did not take notes. He strolled with infuriating ease, occasionally blowing a curl of peach-scented vapor into the sun. His gaze lingered less on the stone and more on Aldo himself.
“You walk these halls like you own them,” Goffredo remarked.
“I respect them,” Aldo corrected.
“Mm. Same thing, in your case.”
Aldo shot him a look. “Do you intend to mock me the entire tour?”
“Mock? No. Admire, perhaps.” Goffredo’s grin widened at Aldo’s exasperated huff.
They passed through the faculty garden, where lemon trees lined the path. Goffredo paused, plucked a leaf, rolled it between his fingers.
“Venice is all water and salt,” he said, almost softer. “But Florence—Florence has roots. I could get used to this.”
Aldo studied him, unsettled by the sudden sincerity. “You should focus on your new post first.”
“Perhaps. But every storm needs an anchor, Bellini.”
Aldo decided not to answer that.
At last, the tour ended in the north wing, where new faculty offices had been prepared. Aldo opened the heavy wooden door with a key borrowed from administration.
“Here,” he said, stepping aside. “Your office.”
The room was simple but dignified: a high ceiling, tall shelves waiting for books, a desk angled toward the window that overlooked terracotta rooftops. Dust motes swirled in the light.
Goffredo walked in, placed his hands on the desk, and exhaled slowly, as if claiming the space already. He turned, leaned back against the desk with casual command, and regarded Aldo.
“Not bad,” he said. “But the view could use improvement.”
“The view is of the Duomo,” Aldo said dryly.
“Exactly. Still not as interesting as you.”
Aldo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Rule number two. No flirting. It will be written. It will be enforced.”
Goffredo laughed, deep and gravelly, echoing off the shelves. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to see how long that lasts.”
Aldo set the key on the desk with deliberate care. “Welcome to Florence, Professor Tedesco.”
“Grazie, bello. I have a feeling this is going to be… entertaining.”
And Aldo, though he would never admit it, had the same sinking feeling.
“Bellini,” Goffredo’s voice rumbled from behind him before he could step into the hall.
Aldo turned back, brows arched. “Yes?”
Goffredo pushed himself off the desk, crossing the room with deliberate ease, beard catching the last shaft of sunlight from the window. His grin was infuriatingly wide, infuriatingly certain.
“Do you have time for a coffee?” he asked, casual as if they were old friends already. “There’s a bar on the corner near Piazza San Marco. Decent espresso, terrible cornetti. I’ll buy.”
Aldo hesitated. He had papers to grade, errands to run, every excuse at the ready—yet none seemed to leave his mouth.
“Coffee,” he repeated, careful.
“Coffee,” Goffredo echoed. “It won’t kill you. Besides…” His gaze lingered, warm brown eyes gleaming with that storm-borne mischief. “I’d like to ask if you’re still interested in a flatmate.”
Aldo felt the words hit like a stone dropped into still water.
So. That was how quickly Giulio’s meddling bore fruit. That was how easily Raymond’s gentle hand and fate’s cruel humor had set the stage.
He should have said no. Should have explained he valued quiet, solitude, order. That sharing his flat with a man like Goffredo Tedesco was like inviting thunder into a study lined with fragile glass.
Instead, he heard himself say—soft, resigned, but not without a trace of something else—
“Perhaps we should discuss it. Over coffee.”
And Goffredo, grinning like the storm that he was, gestured toward the door. “After you, bello. ”
Aldo ignored the provocation, striding down the corridor with practiced composure. Goffredo fell into step beside him, easy, relaxed, as though he’d been doing so for years.
The late afternoon light poured into the cloisters as they left the university. Students trickled out of lecture halls, laughter and chatter carrying across the stone arches. Aldo walked briskly, hands in his coat pockets, every inch the efficient Florentine academic.
Goffredo, on the other hand, ambled. He glanced up at frescoed ceilings, squinted at the lemon trees in the courtyard, paused to greet a passing colleague with a booming “Ciao!” that echoed off the walls.
“You walk like you’re late to everything,” Goffredo observed.
“And you walk like you have nowhere to be,” Aldo replied, not unkindly.
“Exactly,” Goffredo said with a grin. “Balance.”
Aldo muttered something that sounded like Dio ci salvi.
They reached the corner café near Piazza San Marco, a narrow bar with brass rails, marble counters, and a few small tables on the pavement. The air smelled of espresso and warm pastries.
Goffredo pushed open the door for Aldo with an exaggerated flourish. “After you, Professor Bellini.”
Aldo rolled his eyes but stepped inside. The barista looked up with practiced familiarity. “Professore Bellini, the usual?”
“Yes, grazie,” Aldo said.
“Make it two,” Goffredo added, thumping a large hand against the counter. “And two cornetti, though you’ll tell me they’re terrible.”
“They are terrible,” Aldo muttered, but his lips twitched.
They carried their cups and pastries to a small table by the window. Outside, scooters buzzed, and the late sun gilded the piazza.
Goffredo leaned back, already stirring too much sugar into his espresso. “So,” he said, fixing Aldo with a steady look. “Tell me about this flat.”
Aldo adjusted his glasses. “Before we discuss anything, you should know—I’m not agreeing yet. If you’re serious, you should at least see the place before you decide.”
Goffredo inclined his head. “Fair. But you didn’t say no.”
“I said—” Aldo exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I said we’ll discuss it.”
Goffredo grinned into his coffee. “Which is Bellini-speak for I am curious but too dignified to admit it. ”
Aldo took a measured sip of espresso, letting the silence rebuke him.
Still, it was Goffredo who broke it, voice a little lower now. “Tell me, though. Why do you need a flatmate? You don’t strike me as the type who likes sharing space.”
Aldo’s eyes darkened, a flicker of resignation there. He set his cup down with care. “My landlord increased the rent. Inflation doesn’t forgive sentiment. Unless I find someone to share the costs, I’ll be forced to give up the flat. And I’m not ready to leave it.”
Goffredo studied him—really studied him—for the first time. “So it’s not just a flat. It’s… home.”
“Yes,” Aldo admitted quietly. “It has been for many years.”
“Then we’ll keep it yours,” Goffredo said simply, as though it were already decided. “Let me see it. If it suits, we’ll make an agreement. You get to stay, I get a roof. Balance.”
Aldo looked at him across the table, at the storm wrapped in a Venetian frame, peach-vape-scent clinging to his coat. It was madness. It was impractical. It was—he realized with a reluctant thrum in his chest—already set in motion.
He straightened. “Fine. Tomorrow evening, after lectures. You’ll see the flat.”
Goffredo raised his cup in mock salute. “To tomorrow, bello. ”
Aldo clinked his own cup against it, soft but inevitable.
Outside, Florence moved on with its usual rhythm—bells ringing, scooters weaving, light slipping across the Duomo. Inside the café, two professors sat over terrible cornetti and good espresso, and what began as a necessity was already reshaping itself into something far more complicated.
That evening, Aldo found himself drawn into one of Giulio’s not-so-gentle invitations: a table at a small osteria tucked away near Piazza della Signoria, the kind of place with checked tablecloths, Chianti in carafes, and waiters who knew Giulio by name.
Thomas Lawrence had just returned from a seminar in Naples and looked faintly travel-weary, but as dignified as ever in a pressed shirt, a pipe tucked discreetly into his pocket. He was seated beside Raymond, who was patiently explaining the specials. Giulio, predictably, was already pouring wine before Aldo had even taken his seat.
“Finally,” Giulio drawled, sliding a glass toward him. “We’ve been dying to hear how your little coffee went.”
Aldo set his coat on the back of the chair with deliberate calm. “Good evening to you too, Giulio.”
Raymond chuckled softly. “Be kind, love. Let him sit down first.”
Thomas, ever the diplomat, leaned forward with interest. “I appear to have missed several days’ worth of drama. Coffee? With whom?”
Giulio smirked. “With his prospective flatmate. Our dear friend Goffredo Tedesco.”
Thomas arched a brow. “Tedesco? The Venetian? Loud, silver beard, frighteningly charming?”
“The very one,” Giulio said. “Transferred here last week. And as fate—or my wit—would have it, he and Aldo may soon share an address.”
Aldo sighed, taking his glass. “It is not yet decided.”
“Which,” Giulio said smoothly, “means it is already decided.”
Raymond, merciful as always, offered Thomas the background. “Aldo’s landlord increased his rent again. With inflation, it’s become… unreasonable. He’s considering a flatmate.”
Thomas blinked. “Aldo? A flatmate? My word.” His blue eyes crinkled, fond but incredulous. “I thought you prized solitude.”
“I do,” Aldo replied, voice dry. “Unfortunately solitude does not pay rent.”
Thomas’s lips curved in amusement. “No, but it keeps one sane.”
“That is debatable,” Giulio muttered into his glass.
Raymond turned back to Aldo, his voice gentle. “And how did coffee go this afternoon?”
Aldo hesitated, then adjusted his glasses. “We met. We spoke. He inquired about the flat. I agreed to show it to him tomorrow.”
Giulio clapped his hands once, victorious. “Ha! Tomorrow. You see? Done.”
“It is not done,” Aldo snapped, though his lips twitched at the corners. “He has not even seen the place yet.”
“Details,” Giulio said, waving a hand.
Thomas tilted his head, studying Aldo. “And what did you think of him?”
There was a pause. Aldo reached for his fork, poked absently at his plate of ribollita. “He is… thunderous.”
Giulio barked a laugh. “Perfect word. He is a storm. But storms have their use. They clear the air.”
Raymond’s pale eyes softened. “And perhaps he will keep you from shouldering everything alone.”
Aldo gave him a look equal parts fond and exasperated. “You and Giulio seem very determined about this arrangement.”
Giulio smirked, raising his glass. “We are invested in your survival, Bellini.”
Thomas’s smile was faint, but his eyes gleamed with quiet humor. “Well, I for one am eager to see how long before the two of you drive each other mad—or something else entirely.”
Aldo did not dignify that with a response.
As the night wore on, the four men ate and drank, the conversation slipping between work, travel, and gossip. Giulio’s barbs were sharp, Raymond’s laughter soft, Thomas’s observations precise, and Aldo, despite himself, found the knot in his chest loosening.
But every so often, when the conversation lulled, his thoughts returned to the café that afternoon: Goffredo leaning across the table, storm-brown eyes steady, saying simply Let me see it. Balance.
And though Aldo told himself nothing had been decided, he could feel the inevitability rising like the Tuscan night—slow, steady, impossible to ignore.
The plates had just arrived — steaming bowls of ribollita, platters of tagliatelle al ragù, a carafe of Chianti already half-emptied under Giulio’s aggressive pouring. The four of them were mid-conversation, Aldo’s defenses gradually worn down by food and wine, when the door swung open with a gust of cool Florentine air.
A booming voice rolled in with it.
“Buonasera! I’m here for my order!”
Aldo froze, fork halfway to his mouth. He knew that voice already, gravel and warmth braided together.
Sure enough, there he was: Goffredo Tedesco, broad-shouldered, silver-streaked, beard catching the lamplight, filling the osteria doorway as though he owned it. He was dressed not in faculty formality but a dark open-collared shirt under a heavy coat, casual and commanding all at once.
He leaned across the bar to speak to the waiter. “I called ahead — two bistecche, bread, some olives? Goffredo Tedesco.”
And before Aldo could melt into his chair, Giulio Sabbadin’s booming voice betrayed him.
“Professor Tedesco!”
Aldo’s head snapped toward him, horrified. “Giulio.”
But it was too late. Giulio was already lifting a large hand, waving cheerfully. “Over here!”
Goffredo turned, eyes catching the table, and broke into a grin so wide Aldo could feel it in his bones.
“Well, well,” he said, striding over like a storm crossing the piazza. “I thought I smelled Bellini in the air.”
Giulio actually laughed out loud, delighted. “Of course you did.”
Thomas, ever the gentleman, half-rose from his seat to offer his hand. “Thomas Lawrence. A pleasure, Professor Tedesco.”
“Likewise,” Goffredo said warmly, shaking it before clapping Raymond on the shoulder in greeting. His eyes, though, never left Aldo. “Didn’t expect to see you twice in one day, bello. Must be fate.”
Aldo, staring fixedly at his glass of Chianti, muttered, “Coincidence.”
“Coincidence is just fate pretending not to meddle,” Giulio purred, smirking into his wine.
Raymond, for all his gentleness, was grinning too. “Why don’t you sit with us while you wait for your food? Plenty of wine.”
Goffredo wasted no time, pulling out a chair beside Aldo. He sat with the easy sprawl of a man perfectly at home anywhere, one arm draped over the back of his chair.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, voice rumbling low.
Aldo closed his eyes briefly, whispering a prayer to whatever saint handled impossible situations.
The waiter brought another glass without needing to be asked; clearly Giulio had been here enough times to establish a reputation. Goffredo filled it himself, sloshing Chianti into the stemware with the ease of a man who had never measured a pour in his life.
“To new beginnings,” he toasted, looking squarely at Aldo.
Aldo’s lips pressed thin. He clinked only out of politeness.
Raymond, ever the peacemaker and yet secretly the greatest menace, leaned forward with a bright smile. “So, Goffredo, Aldo was just telling us about your coffee earlier.”
Aldo nearly choked. “Raymond.”
But Goffredo’s grin widened, beard catching in the candlelight. “Ah, yes. The terrible cornetti, the excellent espresso. We discussed… important matters.”
Giulio snorted. “Important matters. You mean his flat.”
Goffredo raised his brows, delighted. “Oh, you’ve all heard already?”
“Of course we’ve heard,” Giulio said dryly. “Bellini’s rent has grown teeth. He needs a flatmate before it devours him.” He swirled his wine with surgical precision, then arched a brow at Aldo. “And now here you are, a solution conveniently wrapped in Venetian thunder.”
Thomas, quiet until then, folded his hands neatly, his pale blue eyes fixed on Goffredo. “And what makes you interested in this arrangement, Professor Tedesco? Surely a man of your… presence has options.”
Goffredo leaned back in his chair, utterly unbothered by the scrutiny. “Options, yes. But not good ones. Temporary rooms, soulless flats. I prefer something lived-in. Something with roots. And Bellini’s flat—” he turned his gaze on Aldo, warm and mischievous—“already feels like it might be worth the trouble.”
Aldo’s jaw tightened. “You have not even seen it yet.”
“No,” Goffredo admitted, smirk deepening. “But I’ve seen you.”
Raymond nearly spit out his wine, covering it with a cough. Thomas’s lips curved faintly, as though filing the remark away for later. Giulio rolled his eyes. “Saints preserve us.”
Thomas tilted his head. “And you think the two of you could live together peacefully?”
Goffredo chuckled, a low thunder. “Peacefully? No. But balanced, perhaps. He makes the rules, I break them. Keeps life interesting.”
Giulio arched a brow at Aldo. “How long before you strangle him?”
“Three days,” Aldo muttered into his glass.
“Generous,” Giulio said, smirking.
Raymond, feigning innocence, leaned on his elbows. “But think of it, Aldo—you’ll have company. Someone to share the burdens. Someone who might even cook.”
“I cook,” Aldo retorted.
“Yes,” Raymond said softly, “but you do not laugh while you cook.”
And to Aldo’s horror, Goffredo barked a laugh loud enough to turn a few heads from nearby tables. “Then it is decided. I’ll cook, I’ll laugh, and I’ll steal his food. Balance.”
“Rule number three,” Aldo muttered. “No stealing food. It will be written.”
Giulio smirked into his wine. “Write what you like, Bellini. He’ll break it.”
Before Aldo could marshal another argument, the waiter appeared with a paper bag heavy with bistecca and bread. “Professore Tedesco, your order is ready.”
Goffredo rose, lifting the bag in one hand and his glass in the other. “Grazie. Gentlemen.” His eyes lingered on Aldo. “Until tomorrow evening, bello. Don’t forget your keys.”
And with a wink, he was gone, leaving behind a swirl of peach vape and the echo of his laughter.
The table sat in silence for a beat.
Thomas finally cleared his throat, voice mild as ever. “He’s… quite a presence.”
“Presence?” Giulio scoffed. “He’s a natural disaster.”
Raymond only smiled into his glass. “Perhaps exactly what Aldo needs.”
Aldo, staring into his Chianti, muttered, “I am doomed.”
The following afternoon, Aldo returned home earlier than usual, a stack of essays under his arm, the tension of the day pressing against his temples. The flat, familiar in its quiet dignity, seemed suddenly vulnerable—as if the walls themselves knew they were about to be inspected.
He tidied more than necessary: straightened books on shelves, aligned the chairs at the dining table, folded the blanket over the couch. He even watered the balcony plants, muttering at the basil for looking too wilted.
When the doorbell rang, his pulse betrayed him.
Aldo opened it to find Goffredo Tedesco filling the doorway, coat open, scarf loosened, that storm-bred grin already in place. He carried nothing but a battered notebook and the scent of peach vape that clung stubbornly to him.
“So,” Goffredo said, voice low and amused. “Show me what I might be calling home.”
Aldo led him in, every step measured.
“This is the sitting room,” he said crisply, gesturing at the bookshelves that lined the wall. “No smoking.”
Goffredo glanced at the shelves, eyes catching on a few titles, then turned back with a smirk. “No smoking . Noted. But vaping?”
“On the balcony only,” Aldo snapped.
“Ah, already making the rules,” Goffredo teased. “I feel safer already.”
They moved through the kitchen—bright, orderly, copper pans polished. Goffredo opened a cupboard without asking, whistled low at the neat rows of spices.
“You alphabetize them,” he observed.
“I organize them,” Aldo corrected sharply.
“By alphabet. Bell pepper before basil,” Goffredo said, grinning. “You’re adorable.”
Aldo shut the cupboard firmly. “Rule number two,” he muttered. “No flirting.”
Goffredo only chuckled.
The tour wound through the dining room, the bathroom, finally into the small study that doubled as a guest room.
“This would be yours,” Aldo said, gesturing at the space. “Modest, but functional.”
Goffredo stepped inside, surveyed the desk, the wardrobe, the narrow bed. He set his notebook down on the desk, ran a hand along the windowsill, then turned back.
“I’ve lived in worse,” he said. “And it has a window. I like windows.”
“You like to shout through them, more like,” Aldo muttered under his breath.
Goffredo heard. He laughed, warm and loud, the sound filling the little room as if it belonged there.
They ended on the balcony, where the street below bustled with evening life: children kicking a ball, neighbors hanging laundry, a Vespa rattling past.
Goffredo leaned on the railing, inhaled deep, exhaled peach-scented vapor into the open air. “Good view,” he said. “Good air. Basil looks thirsty.”
“I watered it,” Aldo replied curtly.
“Then it’s dramatic,” Goffredo said with a shrug. “I like it. Fits here.”
Aldo folded his arms. “So? Do you find it acceptable?”
Goffredo turned, leaning his elbows on the rail, gaze fixed on him. “It’s more than acceptable. It feels like a place people live. That matters.” He paused, grin softening into something almost sincere. “I’d be glad to share it—with you.”
Aldo’s throat went dry. He looked away, down at the children’s football bouncing against the curb.
“Think carefully, Professor Tedesco,” he said quietly. “I value order. I value boundaries. Living with me will not be easy.”
Goffredo chuckled, low and thunderous. “Living with me won’t be easy either. But maybe that’s the point.”
The words hung there, heavy and unshakable.
Aldo inhaled, steadying himself. “Very well. If we do this… there will be rules.”
“Write them down,” Goffredo said, pushing off the railing with a grin. “Put them on the fridge. I’ll sign. Then I’ll break them.”
Aldo pressed his lips into a thin line, already regretting.
And yet, as he closed the door behind them, the flat didn’t feel smaller with Goffredo in it. It felt louder, warmer—already shifting beneath his feet.
Aldo thought the tour complete when they stepped back from the balcony. He was ready to usher Goffredo to the door, ready to salvage what remained of his peace. But Goffredo lingered in the corridor, eyes flicking toward the one door Aldo had not opened.
“And that one?” Goffredo asked, voice low and teasing.
Aldo’s jaw tensed. “That is my room. Private.”
Goffredo tilted his head, silver-streaked hair catching the last of the afternoon sun. “You’ve shown me every other corner of this place. If we’re to live together, don’t you think I should see the whole map?”
“It is not a museum,” Aldo said sharply. “It is my bedroom.”
“Exactly,” Goffredo said, softer now, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. “The heart of the house. If I’m to share your walls, I should at least know where the thunder ends and the silence begins.”
Aldo considered him for a long beat. Logic told him to refuse. Dignity told him to escort this man to the door. And yet, perhaps from some deep instinct that this arrangement was already decided, Aldo’s hand found the doorknob.
He opened it.
The room was not extravagant, but it was distinctly Aldo: a neatly made bed with crisp white linens, books stacked in careful towers by the bedside, a wardrobe of pressed shirts, a crucifix above the headboard. The evening light poured through the half-drawn curtains, warm and quiet.
Goffredo stepped in with surprising restraint. He did not sprawl or touch, not here. He stood at the threshold, gaze sweeping over the space. Then he nodded once, solemnly.
“Orderly. Grounded. Just like you,” he said. Then, with a smirk: “Though I imagine it looks different when you’re not hosting a Venetian storm in the corridor.”
Aldo’s lips twitched despite himself. “It will remain private. You will keep to your room, and I will keep to mine.”
Goffredo chuckled, deep and warm, as he stepped back into the hall. “Of course, bello. Two rooms, one flat. Boundaries.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “And rules. Don’t forget the rules.”
Aldo shut the bedroom door with care, but his pulse was not as steady as he wished.
By the time Goffredo finally left, promising to return with his things in a few days, Aldo stood alone in the quiet flat. The furniture was the same, the rooms unchanged, yet the air felt different — as though Goffredo’s laughter still lingered in the walls, his grin still pressed against the doorframes.
Aldo set his essays on the desk, exhaled, and whispered to himself, half in dread, half in resignation:
“Dio mio. What have I done?”
Three days later, late afternoon, Aldo heard the honk first. Short, bright, irreverent — like everything else about the man.
When he leaned out over the balcony, he nearly groaned aloud.
There it was, parked with absolutely no concern for parallel lines: a little red convertible Mini Cooper, shining like a cherry dropped in the middle of the cobblestone street. Behind the wheel sat Goffredo Tedesco, one arm draped over the side, silver hair tousled by the wind, grin wide enough to scandalize half of Florence.
The car overflowed with life: boxes crammed in the backseat, a battered record player strapped down with questionable bungee cords, vinyls stacked in milk crates, one very large suitcase, and a small army of paper bags that clearly contained snacks.
And, of course, his vape tucked between his fingers, peach-scented cloud drifting upward toward Aldo’s balcony.
“Bellini!” he bellowed. “I’ve arrived with my sins and my saints! Come help!”
Aldo muttered a prayer for patience under his breath and went down.
The two of them wrestled the boxes up the narrow stairs, Goffredo narrating each one like an emcee.
“This one is books — theology, poetry, some questionable philosophy. Careful, it bites.”
“This one, more books. You’ll find I believe in fortifying walls with knowledge.”
“This—ah, my records. Treat them gently, they’ve survived more lovers than I have.”
Aldo, face flushed from exertion, snapped, “You could have hired movers.”
“And miss watching you carry my chaos up three flights? Never.”
By the time the last suitcase thumped onto the sitting room floor, Aldo’s tidy flat looked as though it had inhaled a storm. Books spilled from boxes, vinyls leaned precariously, and Goffredo was already sprawling across the couch like it had been waiting for him all his life.
Aldo, however, had prepared.
From the kitchen counter, he produced a freshly printed document, pages crisp and neatly stapled. He laid it on the coffee table between them like a priest laying down scripture.
“The Flatmate Agreement,” he announced.
Goffredo leaned up on his elbows, eyes gleaming. “Oh, magnificent. Read me my commandments.”
Aldo cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and began:
- No smoking.
— “Fine, fine. I vape,” Goffredo interrupted. “On the balcony. Where Nigel lives.”
Aldo blinked. “Nigel?”
Goffredo gestured toward the basil plant perched proudly on the balcony rail. “Your basil. I’ve named him Nigel. He looks like a Nigel. You must water him with respect.”
Aldo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Rule One, amended: no smoking; vaping only on the balcony, away from… Nigel.”
“Excellent,” Goffredo said, smirking.
- No flirting.
— Goffredo’s grin widened. “Define flirting.”
— “Any unnecessary compliments, pet names, or suggestive remarks.”
— “Then you should know, everything I say will be unnecessary and suggestive.”
Aldo glared. “Rule Two: no flirting. Non-negotiable.”
- No stealing food.
— Goffredo pressed a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “Bellini, you wound me. I would never steal. I merely… redistribute.”
“Rule Three,” Aldo said firmly, “absolutely no stealing food. Ever.”
By the end, the Agreement sat signed at the bottom in two very different handwritings: Aldo’s neat, precise script, and Goffredo’s sprawling scrawl that took up half the page.
Aldo pinned it to the fridge with the lemon-shaped magnet.
Goffredo stood back, arms crossed, surveying it with mock solemnity. “History will remember this moment.”
Aldo sighed. “History will remember me for my lectures, not this nonsense.”
“On the contrary,” Goffredo said, slinging an arm casually around his shoulders, peach-vape sweetness clinging to the air. “It’ll remember you for putting up with me. Which, frankly, is a miracle.”
And to his horror, Aldo felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward.
Once the Agreement was posted to the fridge, Aldo assumed there might be a pause. A moment of silence to adjust.
Instead, Goffredo seized the first box under his arm and disappeared into his bedroom.
Aldo followed reluctantly, lingering in the doorway.
It had once been the second master bedroom of the flat — large, high-ceilinged, with enough space for both a wide bed and a generous desk beneath tall windows that overlooked the street. White walls stood bare, save for faint shadows where old frames had once hung, and the wardrobe loomed empty, its polished wood echoing with absence. It was the kind of room that waited — patient, untouched, belonging to no one.
By the time Goffredo finished with it, it was already beginning to breathe.
Books spilled from boxes in uneven stacks — onto the desk, the chair, even the floor. Heavy theology tomes sat cheek-by-jowl with battered novels, dog-eared poetry, and slim volumes of history. His suitcase lay open across the bed, shirts and dark trousers folded with none of Aldo’s meticulous precision. A carved wooden rosary tumbled loose atop the pile, half-hidden beneath a wool scarf that smelled faintly of incense and sea air.
But at the center of it all, like a heart laid reverently on an altar, he set down a battered record player.
He plugged it in, balanced the speakers on the desk, and without hesitation drew out a vinyl sleeve worn soft from years of use: Perry Como . He slid the record free with surprising care, set it on the turntable, and lowered the needle.
The first warm crackle filled the room, followed by the smooth velvet of Como’s voice:
“And I love you so…”
The notes seeped into the flat, drifting down the hallway, curling into the sitting room, sliding under Aldo’s skin before he had time to build his defenses.
Goffredo hummed under his breath as he unpacked, swaying slightly, placing books in uneven stacks, lifting framed photographs out of paper—family, colleagues, one of Venice’s canals at dawn. He propped them casually against the wall, as if roots could be planted simply by leaning against plaster.
The room, though still half in boxes, was already taking on a pulse. The desk bore the first signs of his presence: books spread open at odd angles, an ashtray perched in the corner, the speakers vibrating softly with Perry Como’s croon. Across the room, the wardrobe door stood ajar with a dark coat hanging from it, pockets bulging with forgotten receipts. The bed had been claimed instantly, suitcase spilled wide across the white linens, a black wool sweater tossed onto the pillow like a flag staked into new territory. And the tall window, left cracked, let in the cool Florentine air, blending with the sweet haze of peach vape and the dusty perfume of vinyl.
It was chaos. It was loud. It was so very Goffredo.
Aldo stood there longer than he intended, watching.
At one point, Goffredo looked up from a box of vinyls, catching Aldo’s gaze in the doorway.
“You don’t like Perry Como?” he asked, a grin tugging at his beard.
Aldo adjusted his glasses, voice too steady. “I prefer silence.”
Goffredo gestured to the record player, to the music that filled the room like warm smoke. “This is silence. Just louder.”
Aldo didn’t answer. He only turned away, muttering something about correcting essays.
But even from his study, he could hear the song’s refrain drifting down the hall, soft and insistent:
“…and yes, I know how lonely life can be…”
And Aldo, though he would never admit it, did not find the sound entirely unwelcome.
Aldo, against all better judgment, stepped inside. “You’ll never finish at this pace,” he muttered. “Those books should at least be in order before you clutter the rest of the room with frames.”
Goffredo leaned back on his heels, grin widening. “Ah, here we go. The librarian in you couldn’t resist.”
“It’s called efficiency,” Aldo retorted, already crouching by an open box. He lifted a thick volume, brushed the dust off the spine. “ St. Augustine, Confessions. This edition is years out of print. Where did you even find it?”
“Venice,” Goffredo said, pulling another frame from paper and setting it against the wall. “A little shop by the canals. The owner wanted it gone; I wanted it kept. Balance.”
Aldo hummed under his breath, fingers trailing the margin notes scrawled in a younger hand. Then he set it carefully on the desk and pulled the next book.
Before long, the piles grew into neat rows, Aldo muttering titles under his breath as he alphabetized: Aquinas beside Augustine, Dante tucked between two dog-eared volumes of Donne, a stray Camus sandwiched stubbornly among Italian philosophers.
“You’re alphabetizing,” Goffredo observed with mock solemnity, balancing on a chair to hang a photograph of Venice at dawn.
“Of course I am. Otherwise it’s chaos.”
“Chaos has charm,” Goffredo said, hammering the nail with the heel of his palm. “Besides, if you alphabetize them, you’ll know where to steal from me.”
Aldo shot him a dry look over the rim of his glasses. “I do not steal.”
“Then borrow,” Goffredo corrected, climbing down with the photo hung crooked. “Which is worse, because it implies intent.”
Aldo sighed, reached up, and straightened the frame without a word.
By the time they were through, the room had transformed again: books lined in crisp order across the desk and shelves, frames hung in slightly imperfect symmetry, a rosary looped over the bedpost, and records stacked neatly by the player.
It was still Goffredo’s chaos, but softened—shaped by Aldo’s quiet hand.
Goffredo looked around, hands on his hips, then at Aldo. “You know, bello , this feels dangerously like cooperation.”
Aldo didn’t look up from adjusting a stack of poetry. “Call it survival.”
“Mm.” Goffredo grinned, dropping into the chair with a satisfied sigh. “Then here’s to survival.”
Perry Como crooned in agreement, the needle circling steady and low.
The record needle slid across, the first song fading into another. The warm crackle of vinyl gave way to the soft, velvet sadness of Perry Como singing “For The Good Times.”
“Don’t look so sad… I know it’s over…”
The song wrapped itself around the room like an embrace. Low, aching, tender in its resignation.
By then, the boxes had dwindled to half their number, the floor cleared in patches of order. Aldo and Goffredo worked in quiet rhythm: Aldo stacking books into alphabetical order on the shelves, Goffredo unwrapping frames and placing them on the desk, the wardrobe, the narrow mantle above the bed.
Aldo reached into the next box, expecting shirts, or papers, or—he hardly knew what. Instead, his hand closed around another spine. He drew it out, frowning faintly.
“You brought… more books,” he said.
“Of course,” Goffredo replied from the desk, where he was leaning a photograph against the wall. “What else would I bring?”
Aldo peered into the box. All of them. Every single one. Volumes in Italian, Latin, English. Poetry and history. Hardcovers scarred with age, slim paperbacks with cracked spines. Every crate, it seemed, was filled to the brim with words.
“You brought only books,” Aldo corrected, adjusting his glasses.
“And vinyl,” Goffredo said, gesturing lazily at the turntable. “Priorities.”
Aldo stared at the stacks already overtaking the shelves, the desk, the floor. “There is not enough space for all of these.”
“Then we’ll make space,” Goffredo said simply, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world.
As Aldo returned to the next box, his hand brushed against something wrapped in paper. He opened it carefully and found a framed photograph: a family portrait, sun-faded, with a young Goffredo in the center. Black hair thick and unruly, grin wide, eyes already storm-bright. Around him stood his Venetian parents, siblings crowded in like a tide.
Aldo blinked, startled by the youth in the image.
“You were… handsome,” he said before he could stop himself.
“I still am,” Goffredo called from across the room, smirking.
Aldo set the frame down with more care than he intended.
Another photo followed: a candid shot of Goffredo with Raymond, younger, both laughing at something out of frame. Raymond’s arm was thrown across his shoulder, Goffredo’s head tilted back mid-laugh. The warmth of it was startling—alive, unguarded.
And another still: Goffredo with Giulio. They stood side by side, both younger but already carved by the sharpness of their characters—Giulio severe, Goffredo grinning with a cigarette caught between his fingers.
Aldo stared a moment longer than he meant to, then set that frame down too.
Together, they found places for the photographs: family on the mantle, Raymond on the desk, Giulio on the shelf by the window. The room absorbed them quickly, the white walls softening with memory.
By the time the last box was opened, the transformation was undeniable. The once-empty master bedroom was no longer anonymous. It was lived in. Alive.
Books in precise rows where Aldo’s hand had touched them. Vinyls stacked carelessly beside the player where Goffredo had tossed them. Photographs leaning against the wall, some crooked, some straightened by Aldo’s quiet adjustments.
The song kept spinning, Como’s voice steady, melancholy:
“Hear the whisper of the raindrops, blowing soft against the window…”
Aldo stepped back, arms folded, surveying the space. He had expected clutter, disorder, maybe even disdain. He had not expected… this. A life, unpacked in little fragments, pressed into his flat until the walls seemed to stretch to hold it.
He did not say so aloud, but the thought crept in, unwelcome and undeniable:
It already feels like home.
By the time the last frame was leaned against the wall and the final book tucked into place, the light outside had begun to dim. Florence’s evening bells drifted through the open window, low and solemn.
Aldo, ever the host despite himself, retreated to the kitchen. He told himself it was nothing more than practicality: a simple dinner, something to mark the arrival, to keep the storm at bay while it settled into its new room. He filled a pot with water, set it to boil, and began chopping garlic with precise, efficient strokes.
The basil on the balcony—Nigel, absurdly christened—offered a few fresh leaves for the sauce. Aldo plucked them with the same dignity with which one might receive an unwelcome nickname: resigned but not entirely unwilling.
Tomatoes simmered, garlic softened, olive oil hissed low in the pan. The flat began to smell of warmth, of comfort, of something Aldo rarely admitted aloud: care.
The scrape of footsteps behind him made him glance over his shoulder.
There was Goffredo, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair still tousled from unpacking, filling the doorway with his broad-shouldered ease. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, the faint haze of peach vape curling after him.
“Well, well,” he said, voice low and amused. “I thought I smelled heaven.”
“It’s just pasta,” Aldo replied, turning back to stir the sauce.
“ Just pasta,” Goffredo repeated, stepping closer. He peered over Aldo’s shoulder with the curiosity of a cat. “You didn’t tell me dinner was included in the Agreement.”
“It is not,” Aldo said sharply. “This is an act of courtesy. A welcome. Nothing more.”
“Ah,” Goffredo murmured, lips curving. “So I am your neighbor, not your flatmate? Good to know.”
Before Aldo could retort, Goffredo reached forward, dipped a large finger straight into the pot, and stole a taste of the sauce.
Aldo froze.
“Rule number three,” he snapped. “No stealing food.”
Goffredo licked his finger, closed his eyes, and groaned low in approval. “Saints above, Bellini. If breaking rules tastes like this, I’ll be a criminal forever.”
Aldo’s glare should have been enough to cow a lesser man, but Goffredo only grinned, leaning casually against the counter as if he’d been standing in that kitchen his whole life.
In the end, Aldo served two plates, muttering under his breath about good neighbors and small mercies. They sat at the little dining table by the window just as the record player clicked softly into the next album. Andy Williams’ voice rose, rich and soaring, carrying through the flat:
“To dream the impossible dream…”
The sound mingled with the clink of their forks, the laughter of neighbors in the street below, the faint rattle of glasses from the osteria across the piazza.
It was quiet between them, strangely so, though every silence seemed to hum like a wire drawn too tight.
And though Aldo told himself it was nothing—just a meal, just courtesy—he could not help but notice the way Goffredo’s shoulders eased, the way his storm seemed to soften into something almost tender as he ate what Aldo had placed before him.
On the balcony, the basil plant—Nigel—swayed gently in the night air, as if bearing witness.
The plates were scraped clean, the basil leaves that had flavored the sauce now nothing but green smudges on the cutting board. Aldo, ever the man of order, insisted on tidying. He rinsed the dishes, lined them neatly in the rack, wiped the counters with brisk efficiency. Goffredo, half-heartedly drying a glass, kept humming along with Andy Williams as though he were the one orchestrating the evening.
“…two drifters, off to see the world…”
Wine breathed in the decanter on the table, the second half of the bottle waiting in their glasses. Goffredo filled his to the brim, Aldo’s only halfway, ignoring the scowl he earned for it.
And then—before Aldo could retreat into the safety of his study, before he could declare the evening finished—Goffredo caught him by the wrist.
“Dance with me,” he said, grinning, voice all velvet thunder.
Aldo blinked. “Absolutely not.”
But Goffredo only drew him closer, eyes glinting. “It’s my favorite song.”
Aldo frowned. “Moon River?”
“Mm.” Goffredo’s grin softened into something almost boyish. “My parents used to dance to it every time they went out on their little dinner dates. Right there in the kitchen, coats still on, my mother’s heels clicking on the tile. Then they’d leave me and my eleven siblings to burn the house down while they enjoyed their evening.” He laughed, shaking his head. “The song stuck. Every time I hear it, I think—why not dance, even if it’s inconvenient?”
Before Aldo could muster a retort, Goffredo spun him, slow and unrelenting, into the small space between the kitchen table and the balcony door. His hand pressed firmly against Aldo’s back, guiding him with far too much ease for someone who claimed to be a historian.
“Goffredo—this is ridiculous,” Aldo hissed, glasses slipping down his nose as he tried to pull away.
“Ridiculous?” Goffredo laughed, low and booming, the sound vibrating through the room as Williams crooned “…there’s such a lot of world to see…” He held Aldo steady, swaying them in time with the music.
Aldo scowled fiercely, his mouth set in tight refusal, but his body betrayed him: his steps followed, reluctant but precise, like a man arguing with himself in two languages.
Goffredo leaned down, close enough for Aldo to catch the mix of wine and peach vape on his breath. “See? You can’t get away.”
“I am trying,” Aldo muttered, wriggling in a way that was entirely ineffective.
“Trying and failing, bello,” Goffredo teased, laughter softening into something warmer, steadier. “Moon River’s got you now.”
The song carried them through a turn, Aldo’s hand still caught in Goffredo’s broad palm, their movements half-dance, half-struggle. By the final lines—
“…we’re after the same rainbow’s end…”
—Aldo’s scowl had faltered into something that looked suspiciously like defeat. Or maybe, just maybe, the smallest flicker of enjoyment.
On the balcony, Nigel swayed again in the night breeze, as though the basil plant were laughing too.
The final notes of Andy Williams lingered like smoke in the air, the turntable humming softly before the needle clicked into silence. Goffredo slowed them to a stop, his hand still steady on Aldo’s back, eyes bright with amusement.
Aldo pulled away at once, sharp enough to nearly trip on the rug. He straightened his glasses, tugged at his cuffs, and cleared his throat with the exaggerated dignity of a man trying to erase what had just happened.
“Well,” he said briskly, “that was unnecessary.”
Goffredo’s grin was wide, shameless. “Unnecessary, yes. But not unpleasant.”
Aldo shot him a look that might have felled a lesser man. “I am not here to indulge your sentimentalities, Professor Tedesco.”
“Mm,” Goffredo mused, pouring himself the last of the wine. “Funny, because you were keeping very good time.”
Aldo’s ears betrayed him, flushing pink. He gathered the empty plates as though the act might shield him, marched them into the sink, and muttered, “That’s enough.”
Goffredo chuckled low in his throat, leaving the remark to settle between them.
It was Goffredo, sprawling back into his chair with the air of a man who already lived there, who broke the silence.
“One practical matter, Bellini.”
Aldo, stacking cutlery with surgical precision, did not look up. “Yes?”
“There’s only one bathroom.”
“Yes,” Aldo said, cautious.
“And one shower,” Goffredo continued, swirling his glass. “How do you propose we manage that? Do we arm-wrestle for it in the mornings?”
Aldo turned, lips pressed thin. “Absolutely not.”
“Then what? First come, first served?”
“No,” Aldo snapped, already heading to his desk for paper and pen. “I’ll draft a schedule. Our lectures at the university differ by day. It will be arranged fairly, according to our timetables.”
Goffredo’s grin widened. “Of course. Very Bellini of you.”
“Until then,” Aldo said crisply, “you may have it first tonight. I will not quibble over one evening.”
“Ah, magnanimous,” Goffredo teased, lifting his glass in salute. “Aldo Bellini, patron saint of plumbing.”
Aldo ignored him, setting his notes down with deliberate care.
But later, as Goffredo disappeared into the bathroom with a towel slung over his shoulder and the faint tune of Moon River still humming in his throat, Aldo sat alone in the kitchen, flushed and restless, telling himself that he had not enjoyed the dance.
Not one bit.
Nigel, from the balcony, seemed unconvinced.
The flat grew quiet after dinner, the wine glasses emptied, the record player spinning into silence. Aldo retreated to his room with the solemn dignity of a man who had already decided this had been too much for one day. He undressed with care, folded his clothes neatly over the chair, and sat for a moment on the edge of his bed, glasses set aside, fingers pressed to his temple.
The basil on the balcony swayed in the night air. The walls, which had always held nothing but silence, now seemed to breathe with someone else’s presence.
Then, faintly, it began.
Water running. Pipes humming. And over it, a voice.
Goffredo’s.
Low, gravelly, but unexpectedly tender, carrying through plaster and paint, warm as velvet even muffled by the bathroom door. He was singing.
“The night is like a lovely tune…”
Margaret Whiting’s “My Foolish Heart” rose and fell, each line laced with a strange ache that threaded into the quiet.
Aldo sat very still, listening despite himself.
“Beware, my foolish heart…”
He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. It was absurd, it was inconvenient, it was already too much. And yet the sound seeped into him, softening something he hadn’t known was tense.
When the song trailed off, swallowed by running water, Aldo lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.
“Dio mio,” he murmured into the dark, half-prayer, half-surrender. “What have I invited in?”
The pipes quieted. The flat settled. And somewhere down the hall, the storm of Goffredo Tedesco kept singing to himself, unaware that Aldo Maria Bellini was lying awake, listening.