The Italian Word for Kisses

“Who’re you calling Juliet?!”

Luca was the most beautiful boy in the world. Tav had always known that, long before he ever fell in love with him. Other boys were handsome, or good-looking, or striking, but Luca was beautiful. How could he not be? His father was so clean-cut and strikingly handsome he could have been torn from the recruitment posters for the Royal Air Force during the war, and his mother was an Italian beauty from a picturesque Tuscan village.

“Oi! Luca! Luca! Oh, for fuck’s sake. Juliet!”

Luca had the best of both worlds—smooth pale skin that never so much as thought about spots, springy dark curls, huge brown eyes, and a smile that spread slowly and brilliantly like the rising sun over a still ocean. He was tall like his father, slim like his mother, and the kind of beautiful that could only come from two already good-looking people and a whole lot of luck. He was breathtaking. Tav hadn’t waited five minutes between falling in love and making a move, because Luca Giovanni Jensen was not the kind of boy to stay on the market for more than…well, the same five minutes.

In short, Tav had landed the most beautiful boy in the entire universe—

“Who’re you calling Juliet?!”

―Mostly.

Tav grinned. “You,” he shouted up to the window, and the glare deepened. “C’mon, Luca! It’s a beautiful morning!”

“For what?”

“For a run!”

Luca shouted something in Italian and slammed the window closed. Tav just laughed. He did this every other Saturday, or thereabouts—stole Luca early in the morning for a quick run, before either of their families were really up and around. Once it had been about stealing time together. And it still felt like it, even though the secret was long since out.

As the kitchen light came on, Tav grinned to himself. Sometimes—way deep down, when he could forget how upsetting and stressful the secret-keeping and sneaking-around had all been—he missed their secret moments. There had been something exciting about it.

But then this—going to the back door as Luca opened it, and not saying hello, but cupping that grumpy, affronted face in both hands and planting a kiss on one warm, sleep-flushed cheek—this was way better than keeping secrets.

“Fuck off.”

Again, mostly.

But Luca’s grumpy phases never lasted long, and before long he had been coaxed out of the kitchen, over the garden gate, and into the road. Dawn was only just breaking in the cold depths of November, the sky a steely grey streaked with pale blue fingers of an encroaching morning. The wind—and it was always windy in Sheffield—was like a slap in the face, and Tav loved it.

“C’mon, Luca!”

He broke into a sprint by the time they hit the end of the road. They lived just off the edge of Endcliffe Park, and turned left to follow the river up into the foothills of the Peak District. It was lonely this early in the morning; the river gurgled and hissed, and Tav loved to try timing his footsteps with the rush of water. Luca, earphones in, listened to nothing but the steady thuda-thuda-thuda of the bass, and as the river started to narrow into a stream and the houses began to fall away behind them, Tav fell into time with that instead.

This was where it had all begun. Out here, in the lonely quiet of the early morning, before dog-walkers and joggers could disturb it. When it was so silent they could have been the heroes on The Walking Dead. When it was just them.

It had been just them then, too, that first run up the valley following the brook. They had run to compete back then—they’d been fourteen and still in fierce competition to beat each other at any sport going—and Luca had tired first. Tav had been too dizzy with excitement at his secret, and he meant to talk. But Luca had grinned at him, flushed and raking in air, and said, “Alright, already, you win. Arse.”

Tav had kissed him. He had never said the speech he’d prepared. He’d just kissed him.

“Tree,” Tav said, and nudged Luca in the ribs. Luca laughed, caught his wrist, and twisted in mid-stride to kiss him. It missed, landing clumsily on his chin instead, and Luca’s chuckle was too loud in the wilderness. “Hey! That doesn’t count!”

“Make me!” Luca challenged, and bolted.

“Fuck!”

The run turned into a sprint. Luca was on the school swimming team. Tav did long distance racing, last year right up to county level. And both went to football club. Luca shot through the trees, practically bouncing off the dips and curves in the path, and Tav lengthened his stride and dropped his breathing. He would win in the long-term. He just had to keep Luca in sight long enough. Luca was fit, but Tav had the endurance—and, frankly, the willpower. He always got a kiss when they came out running. It was their thing. He’d started it, and fuck Luca if he thought he was going to get away with finishing it.