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malina-33 · 8 months

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Single choice

Summary: It’s summer 2022, Nortern Italy, Miles and Alex are on vacation before The Car tour.

And they are happier than ever.

Word count: 3,5k

A/N: I missed the everyday cozy life of their relationship, so I wrote this :) Creative-crisis conversations presented as well, but they don’t take far away from the happy ending. Inspired by "Call me by your name", so for a better atmosphere, I advise you to include this playlist in the background.

Also, English is not my first language, so if you find grammar mistakes, feel free to point them out to me!

Enjoy these two sweeties💕

The wide shirt's hem fluttered in the warm wind, three buttons at the top were casually undone, and the sleeves were carelessly rolled up to the elbows. Alex, covering his eyes, lay on a soft sun lounger under the shade of the terrace's arches of their small villa in Portofino, stretching out his long legs. His chest rose and fell slowly in sleep, while his hands rested relaxed on the armrests. Silken curls played with the gusts of breeze, but surrendering, they fell onto his face and tickled his nose, causing the man to unconsciously wrinkle it like a child.

Miles couldn't take his eyes off this literally biblical scene. "Taking Al away to the Italian Riviera for two weeks before the tour started was my best decision" the man thought smugly. Only God knew when they would be able to spend such peaceful time alone again, without rushing anywhere and hiding from anyone. And now, leaning against a marble column with his hands folded on his chest, Kane smiled until wrinkles formed around his eyes, unable to believe what he was witnessing. These sprawling palm trees in their backyard, the deafening trills of southern birds, the sweet sea air, and a serene tanned Alex in a milky linen suit, quietly dozing off after lunch - all of this was now accessible only to him, Miles, and he savored every second of this vacation that sometimes seemed surreal, like a calm before the storm. But he persistently pushed away such thoughts, continuing to revel in his own paradise.

They had already spent 10 days here, the first 3 of which they didn't venture beyond their plot on the hill, which offered a breathtaking view of the coast and emerald water. They were lingering in bed for a long time under the biting rays of the sun, plucking mandarins straight from the tree, and listening to vinyl records of Celentano on the veranda in the evenings, intertwining in each other's arms, merging and becoming the one. Then, finally realizing that missing the opportunity to stroll through such picturesque streets would be a crime, they started going out in town under the mountain after the sunset, when the heat subsided and the cicadas began their twilight concert. Every time they ordered a new pasta dish in local restaurants, hoping to try them all, but that was Italy...

In the mornings, they descend to the pebble beach, where Alex could lie for hours, reading books, while Miles were snorkeling in the Ligurian Sea, growing tired of waiting for his lover and retaliating by playfully splashing him with cool droplets. They would play in the water like teenagers, dunking each other or taking turns piggybacking. When the sun would started to scorch their skin, they would go to the local deli for ready-made lasagna with eggplant, always getting a few types of cannoli, new bottle of wine, olives and fruits. They would then retreat to their villa for the rest of the day, either playing the guitar, the only one they brought from their stuffy LA studio, or playing board games (for which Miles constantly called Alex "nonno," while he calmly continued to roll the dice), or falling asleep under the shade of the leafy trees right on the grass.

Miles hadn't laughed so often and so loudly, and more importantly, so genuinely, since their last joint tour. He felt an immense universal joy that was bursting from his chest, causing his cheeks to ache from the ever-present smile on his face. He felt alive next to the dearest and only person who truly understood him, which Alex had been for the past 17 years.

"How have we put up with each other for so long, Milo?" Turner laughed, finishing his glass of semi-sweet red wine.

And Kane replied seriously, capturing his alcohol-glistening gaze: "I no longer know how to live without you, Al."

And it was the absolute truth. They often had conversations like this, but Alex never actually put up with Miles, he did love him. He only put up with being apart from him. And it was always important for both of them to hear this small confession, like a spark of a cricket in the foliage, but a heart-wrenching one, even after a year, or 10, or 20 years of their relationship.

Relationship? Friendship, love, presence by each other's side, support, musical inspirations, passionate desires, care, hurt, forgiveness, kisses, hugs backstage and on stage, touches all over their bodies, eloquent glances, and ending with a single word proposals. That's what their relationship was. And if Miles were offered to never be a musician but to love Alex, he would still agree without any hint of hesitation, somewhere deep inside bitterly realizing that if Alex were faced with such a choice, he would have to think about it.

But at this moment, Miles didn't want to think about it at all, he only wanted to listen to his lover's steady breathing and bask in the fading sunlight with him. Miles walked around the column and silently sat down on the edge of the lounge chair. He lightly ran his hand over Turner's knee, not wanting to disturb, and then traced chiseled fingers slightly higher, along his thigh. However, even these gentle movements made Alex squirm, furrowing his brow and rolling over to the other side.

"Shh, sleep, my dear, I didn't mean to wake you," Miles whispered, soothingly continuing to stroke the man's leg.

"But I'm already awake," mumbled Alex sleepily, opening his eyes and immediately squinting in the bright light.

"What a shame," Kane sang mockingly, secretly delighted by this fact because he had missed Alex during the silence at their villa and mindless wandering through the rooms while he slept in the fresh air, "Will you move over?".

Alex squeezed himself into the corner of the lounge chair, making space as much as the single bed allowed. Miles approached him with a cunning smile, lying on his side, unable to fit his broad shoulders on the mattress even if he was alone, and invitingly opened his palms. Turner simply snorted and muttered something about a smug cat, pressing his back against Miles' contrasting cool chest compared to the scorching heat outside, covering man's hand that rested peacefully on his waist with his own, and intertwining their legs.

"So, you woke me up just to sleep together all cramped up? I don't want to anymore," Alex slowly stroked Miles' wrists, who closed his eyes in pleasure.

"Mmm, I just got bored being alone, you've been sleeping forever!"

"Mi, maybe an hour and a half at most," Turner said in a lecturing tone, turning slightly to give Kane a disapproving look.

"Well, I call that forever. Anyway, since you're already awake, let's think about our plans for the evening," Kane quickly changed the subject, kissing Alex's back of the neck, "I saw a poster for a local concert in the neighboring town. We can rent a scooter to get there, it's just a few kilometers away."

Alex burst out laughing at the last words, turning in his lover's embrace and almost touching noses with him.

"Oh, Kane, you don't even have a driver's license! And the fact that I rode 100 meters on it in a clip means nothing."

"We'll figure it out somehow, it can't be more difficult than tuning a guitar for the first time."

"Well, since I have such an experienced and confident driver, I can't deny myself the pleasure," Turner teased, pouting his lips and furrowing his brows like a college girl.

"Gosh, how cheap that sounds, Al. Those are second-rate tricks from middle school. Did I teach you to flirt like that?" Miles rolled his eyes, hiding a smile in the corners of his mouth.

"No, I think we just fucked right away," Alex retorted, immediately receiving a playful jab in the ribs, "Hey! Am I lying?"

"Do I need to remind you who first put his knee between my legs in the dressing room, huh?" Miles smirked, tucking Alex's overgrown locks behind his ear and stroking his slightly stubbled cheek. He looked angelically peaceful now, despite his unholy words.

"And do you regret it?" Seeing the silent denial, he continued, "Well, neither do I. So you don't need to teach me how to flirt, maestro. If we want to find a free scooter before sunset, we need to start getting ready. I was also planning to take a shower," Alex casually mentioned, slyly avoiding eye contact and running his hand suggestively along Miles' waist.

"Well, that's better already, at least the hints are subtler, but you've lost your touch. I'll have to remind you."

"Oi, you better do it indeed" Turner whispered in his ear. Honestly, he was amused at how they, two grown adults, were behaving as soon as intimacy was mentioned - it was like they were back in 10th grade of the school.

Once he calmed down, he reluctantly slipped out of the warm embrace and gracefully got up from the sun lounger, stretching and rising on tiptoes to better loosen his stiff limbs. Miles settled himself more comfortably, royally occupying the vacant spot and propping his head on his hand, watching Turner's toned body with a hungry gaze. He could do this for hours, knowing every mole, wrinkle, and scar.

"What are you looking at? Trying to find gray hairs?" Unable to withstand his scrutinizing eyes, the frontman softly spoke. Now he had his hands in the pockets, exposing his face to the sun and wind, which cautiously peeked onto the veranda through massive columns. Somewhere far below, the sound of the waves and children's laughter could be heard. Idyllic.

"It's too early for you to worry about that. I just can't get enough of looking at you. Clearly, this lifestyle suits you well, even though I fattened you up a bit, considering you were all skin and bones when you arrived."

"Afraid of breaking me?"

"I am," Miles admitted, not completely sure if he interpreted the question correctly. Turner smiled disarmingingly, the way he only smiled at him, leaned in, still keeping his hands in pockets, and planted a chaste kiss on the man's forehead before disappearing through the door.

"Catch up, or I'll manage without you," Alex said over the shoulder, fully aware that he wouldn't be able to handle anything without Miles. Not in life, not in the shower.

***

Comparing guitar tuning and riding a scooter turned out to be inappropriate, as Miles pointed out rather immodestly, getting behind the wheel, because the second one was elementary. During their short ride along the coast, Alex couldn't stop capturing breathtaking views with his vintage Canon. The peach-colored waves gently licked the shore, competing with each other for ownership of every stone on the beach, while the numerous bushes along the road swayed in the wind.

The neighboring town turned out to be Santa-Margherita-Ligure, welcoming the men with the warm glow of lights strung between each café and the loud Italian laughter that didn't quiet down until late at night. Leaving their mean of transport on the waterfront, they headed towards the main square, where light jazz melodies could already be heard. Ordinary chairs stood right on the historical cobblestones, occupying almost all the space, and a small mobile stage had been set up in the center, where musicians were tuning their instruments.

Taking seats in the corner of the front row, the men waited for the performance to begin.

"Have you forgotten what it's like to be on the other side of the stage?" Miles whispered, his lips almost touching Alex's ear.

"Sometimes I even prefer it here," Turner sadly smiled, "no obligations, masks, rehearsed lines, or unjustified expectations. You just exist in the music without thinking about how to reproduce it. I miss that."

Kane anxiously studied Alex's face from the side, trying to understand if he was speaking in a state of creative melancholy inspired by the upcoming concert or if he was simply revealing his deep pain that had burdened him all this time.

"Hey, I didn't mean to put you into existential ponderings. We can talk about it if it really bothers you, but not now. I purposely brought you here to relax and spend these last days with an empty mind, not to reflect on one careless question"

Miles didn't condemn him, but rather tried to hide his own anxiety behind a feigned admonition. He gently squeezed Alex's hand, caressing his knuckles with his thumb, and warmly smiled, knowing that this was the only support he could offer in public.

"Sorry-sorry-sorry," Alex babbled, running his hands forcefully over his face and organizing his thoughts, "forget about those words, we'll come back to it another time. You can hit me if I utter another sad-philosophical phrase that upsets you tonight."

Miles only laughed at that, patting his friend's knee, and, unable to resist, left an unnoticed kiss on his cheek, indicating that he would never fulfill his request in their lifetime.

Lost in conversations, they hadn't noticed that all the chairs had been taken and the band on stage was counting down seconds until the performance began, tightly gripping their bows in their hands. The increasingly suspenseful sound of the violin filled the entire square, eliciting sudden shivers from the audience and instantly isolating them from the rest of the world. Alex's full attention was now focused on the five people on stage, the sound that seemed to exist right in his head, and the melting night air. Rarely could he simply enjoy the melody without trying to dissect it into notes or analyze the lyrics.

Miles usually smoothed out the crease between his eyebrows that arose from such contemplation with a kiss, and he was ready to do it now, but as his gaze slid across the side of the face, he unexpectedly saw a serene smile on partially open lips. Turner leaned back in his chair, holding his hands between his thighs and slightly covering his eyes, which indicated his complete absence in our reality and his presence in his own, understood only by him and undoubtedly bringing him pleasure.

The concert lasted only an hour, not abundant in a wide repertoire. Towards the end, young men and women, children, and even racy grandmothers and grandfathers stood up from their seats to dance right in the square, laughing loudly at their clumsiness. Alex and Miles only watched this scene with warm smiles, tapping their feet rhythmically on the stone pavement, not wanting to attract unnecessary attention to themselves. The clock on the tower, located on the western side of the square, as was customary in all ancient city planning laws, struck 10 o'clock exactly at the moment when the musicians, in the heat of the final chord, sharply raised their bows towards the pitch-black sky, ending the performance. The square drowned in applause and whistling, evoking familiar motives from men's careers.

The air intoxicated their heads, and not wanting to return back so early, they turned into the depths of the city. Turner continued to photograph the local architecture and Miles against its backdrop with mocking skill, not allowing the camera to hang peacefully on his chest for more than two minutes. And when tourists would disappear from their sight, Kane with the agility of a cheetah would press Alex against the nearest wall of another you-know-who-lived-in-this-house-you-lustful-bastard building, pulling him into a tempting kiss and, despite all protests about his indifference to history, smiled contentedly on his lips, feeling Alex pull him closer by the collar of his leopard-print shirt.

They would laugh drunkenly, without drinking a glass, immediately receiving Italian curses from open balconies in response. They would play tag on narrow streets, after which they breathed heavily, resting their elbows on thr knees and joking about their advanced age. They would eat mango ice cream, licking the sweet drips from each other's fingers, and would never stop thinking for a moment about how lucky they are to be loved here and now.

***

They returned to the villa at midnight, exhausted from their long walk, hastily discarding their sticky clothes as they collapsed onto the unmade bed. Alex, resting his chin on Miles' chest, looked at him with such devoted eyes that Miles' heart skipped a beat at the impossibility of resisting those bottomless depths. In the moonlight, his sharp features softened, Alex's fingers gently tracing along the line of his jaw, while a warm smile lingered beneath his closed eyelids, etching itself into Miles' memory with fiery strokes.

"Mi, are you asleep?" Alex asked in a barely audible voice, listening to the rhythm of Miles' heartbeat beneath his cheek.

"No," Miles replied just as softly, shifting slightly on the crisp sheets to find a more comfortable position.

"Do you remember what I told you today about not feeling freedom in music?" Alex continued, as if afraid to disturb his own thoughts, "well, I realized just now that I'm the one closing myself off from it. But you know when? When you're not here. I'm tired of pretending to be someone else without you, tired of feeling not myself without you. And today, there on the square, when you were holding my hand, it hit me that since we met, no one else has come this close to me. You were and still are the only person who truly knows me. Can you imagine?" His voice broke into a hoarse laughter that, truth be told, sounded hauntingly beautiful in the peaceful silence.

"No one really knows me except for you. And I've been afraid to show my true self to anyone but you. But today, for the first time in a long while, I was able to listen to music without thinking about anything else but your fingers on my hands. And I realized," he paused, unconsciously gripping Miles' shoulder tighter, "I realized that I can perform on stage, just thinking about your hands, and then I won't have to try to hide behind a fabricated image to entertain the audience. Damn it, at 36 years old, I've come to the realization that I can simply sing without pouring my own problems into the songs, but instead, just give people the sound. A sound that resonates in their minds, in their feet and hands, a sound that makes them feel alive. I can make at least one of their days truly happy, just like you make my life happy simply by being with me."

Throughout this entire time, Miles never removed his nimble fingers from Alex's head, combing through his hair and soothing him. He could listen to his voice forever, automatically arranging the words into lines for new songs. The sight of Alex — until it stole the air from his lungs, until it brought tears to his eyes, until his pulse faltered in his veins, until a volcano of warmth erupted in his chest. Until he feels alive again.

"Al, if you haven't realized in 20 years of performing what you do for the lives of everyone who attends your concerts, then I'm going to have to enlighten you now," Miles chuckled softly, continuing to massage his head, "everything you've done for the industry is your way of existing in this world. You don't know any other ways, and that's your strength, not weakness. Your music is literally you, it's not about trends or fan requests. It's about how you communicate with others. You have an incredible gift of conveying intangible values through your lyrics. I have no idea how the gears in your mind work, but damn it, you're exceptional. And I swear, anyone who has ever heard any of your songs has pondered the words, thought about what you wanted to say, and ultimately thought about themselves. Your music has meaning, it's not just a string of letters for the sake of rhyme. It's a dictionary of your life. And since the day we first met, I've been carefully studying all your meanings and embodiments, so my music is about you and for you. You are my only inspiration, and if all you need to write a new song is a notebook and an image in your mind, then all I need is you by my side."

Miles may have wanted to add something more, but unable to bear the weight of such declarations of love, Alex impatiently kissed him, exhaling loudly from the fulfillment of a desire that had been building throughout his entire speech. Kane, quickly finding another activity for his tongue besides talking, trailed it along Alex's lower lip, feeling every crack from the salty water.

Alex smiled like a child, whispering 'I lovelovelove you' into his man's lips, continuously running palms along his cheeks. They continued to gaze at each other for a long time, carrying on a quiet conversation interrupted by occasional kisses, shivers down the spine, and tearful thank yous for everything. Even the stars, cautiously peering through the open windows, blushed at their whispers under the thin blanket. Only with the first rays of sunlight, when words ran out and lips swelled from endless contact, men finally fall asleep in a tangle of intertwined arms and legs.

And if Alex were offered to never be a musician but to love Miles, he would without hesitation write a song about it. Because it would be meaningless to confront the person with a choice who made it 17 years ago.

---------------------------------------------------

A/N: I sincerely want to believe that this is how everything really happened for them. All in all, these two deserve a happy ending. I will be incredibly happy if you leave feedback after reading! Everything that was born in my head would very much like to find a response in you💔🥺

#alex turner #miles kane #milex #the car era #milex fic #milex fanfiction #alex turner fic #alex turner fanfiction #alex turner imagine #Milex oneshot #alex turner one shot #milex 2023 #alex turner fanfic #am7 era #milex au #tlsp2 #tlsp #last shadow puppets

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buckybleu · 2 years

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☼ portofino ☼

pairing: mafia!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

summary: You go on an Italian getaway in hopes it will help your writer's block. Maybe you go home with more than just a story.

A/N: It's been awhile huh? I've been very unmotivated to write the past few weeks, but in honor of my birthday today, I'm here with a gift for you! 🥳 This is a little introduction for a mini series I have planned. Happy reading! 🎂

reblogs/like/comments are greatly appreciated! ❤️

word count: 680

“So any progress? What has that wonderful mind of yours come up with now?” Your best friend's voice chimes through the speaker, you smile at her questions. The warm rays of Portofino kiss your skin, while the gentle splashes of cold water brush against your ankles.

“Other than my inked palms and the feverish scribbles in my journal, nothing really.” You adjust your sunglasses on your nose, admiring the coast. “But Italy is beautiful. The perfect place to fall in love if I do say so myself.”

“Better than Paris?” she jokingly scoffs, “We already lost one of our gals to a Parisian artist there. Is some Italian man going to steal you too?”

“In my dreams…it would be nice to be whisked away into the sunsets of Italy though.”

“You’re a hopeless romantic” she says. “No wonder you’re a romance novelist. Any cute guys there? A future husband possibly?”

You imagine the knowing smirk on her face, “Cute guys, yes. Any of them husband worthy? None that I know of. Hey, I gotta go, but I’ll call you later. Maybe I’ll meet my future husband tonight at dinner.”

She cheers through the phone, “Ciao bella. Spero che trovi un marito italiano!” (Bye beautiful. I hope you find an Italian husband!)

You slip your phone back into your bag and make your way towards the beach cafe. Children run past you, squealing in excitement as they rush behind the counter. A dirty blonde gently scolds the children, giving you an apologetic smile. Giving him an appreciative nod, you settle yourself in a seat by the large open patio.

The salty breeze of the Ligurian Sea flutters through your hair as your waiter arrives and notes your order. Your impromptu trip to Italy was what you needed. A break from the constants of home. The mundane view of your Brooklyn apartment was starting to wear you down. The block in your mind allowed little to no creativity. Any word or sentence you wrote would eventually be erased. Nothing was good enough when you read it a second time around.

Your fingers scale the pages of your notebook, flipping through to find any line that would stand out.

A firestarter.

The writing fire inside you was slowly dying. Huffing, you turn your gaze out towards the beach, watching people lounge on the golden sand, swimmers in the crystal water.

But among the sea of people, what catches your attention is the broad shouldered man in nothing but short red swim trunks. His neck and chest are decorated with tattoos, a sleeve adorns his right arm. And if you squint enough, you can see the ink that lines his fingers and hand.

As if he can read your mind, he lowers his sunglasses; his piercing baby blues land directly on you. Your heart skips a beat, the world around you suddenly goes quiet. He knows what effect he has on you…even if he’s at a distance. There’s something erotic in the way his eyes traces your figure.

Animalistic, feral even. It’s like he has found his prey, teeth ready to sink what he craves.

You will yourself to pull from his trance when the waiter brings your drink. You try to calm your rapid heartbeats. There’s a mental debate on whether you should take another glance at the mysterious man or not. One more look wouldn’t hurt? No harm no foul, right? If anything, he might inspire your next novel.

You pluck up the courage to find him among other beach goers, but he’s nowhere to be found. Maybe you were dreaming. Maybe your mind concocted up this imaginary man to help you with your writing.

“Fuck, the heat is getting to me” you rub your temples before going back to your journal. Taking a sip of your lemonade, you continuously flip through the pages of writing, unaware of the figure next to your table.

“Scusami, amore.” Your jaw nearly drops at the sight of the mysterious man next to you. His swim trunks are still wet, dripping with water. Opting for no shirt, his towel hangs around this neck, “I’m Bucky. Is this seat taken?”

You shake your head no, your thighs involuntarily clench together.

Bucky smirks, noticing how speechless he’s rendered you. He licks his lips as he takes the seat across from you, waving someone over.

“Steve! Can I get two glasses and my favorite bottle of wine for my girl and I?”

○•*•○※○•*•○※○•*•○※○

All mistakes and errors are mine!

main masterlist // bucky barnes masterlist

#mafia!bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mafia!bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n

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kantkid · 3 months

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things that remind me of her: a sea-storm in a summer day; the smell of jasmine, rich and almost rotting, on the Ligurian coast; the old boroughs of Genova; jeans overalls; margaritas; an old navigation compass i found at an estate sale; a corset; the tase of rosemary; pictures of students in sub fusc; the sound of girl laughter, silly and crystalline; white linen; old mirrors; tarot; an archetypal image of Artemis, or a painting - silvery light of moon, a huntress in the dark drawing her bow.

#i love her so much #i wish i could spend one more cloudy afternoon with her #in her fairy world of siren songs and hidden treasures #Gretrash #liebe

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salantami · 7 months

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Tellaro Italy is one of the last fishing villages lining the Ligurian coast before the beautiful region of Tuscany Italy.

Tellaro is a small fishing village, perched on a cliff on the east coast of the Gulf of La Spezia in Liguria, northern Italy

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alessia-photography · 9 months

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Notes on a Summer (2023) in Portovenere

Every year we return to this house on Via Olivo in Portovenere. We sit on the terrace, look out over the bay & the boats. Time stops. "Time that is moved by little fidget wheels / Is not my time" wrote the Australian poet Kenneth Slessor. Listen to the water, be water my friend.

It's good to be back.

We have been coming here for two weeks in August for over a decade now. Porto Venere, a one-way-in-and-one-way-out-village on the Ligurian coast, in the Gulf of La Spezia, also known as the Gulf of Poets.

This place 44°3'19"N, 9°50'15"W has become like a super fast charger for my family. It's more than that reliable cocktail of sun & sea, fresh mussels & lemon, multi-coloured houses, pebble beaches, deep-fried anchovies and pesto. It's the time to stop. To sleep. To swim in the sea. To discuss the future. My father paints, my mother reads. We cook, we laugh, we eat out on our terrace on Via Olivo; sometimes we eat out in town. We heal.

This notebook has been coming here since 2016, filled with local illustrations, our gentle exploration of this part of the world, our routines & rituals, what we eat, what we read, what we do, how we feel. It only has a few blank pages left, so this year is its last year here.

The ancient Portus Veneris is believed to date back to at least the middle of the 1st century BC. It has been said that the name refers to a temple to the goddess Venus which was sited on the promontory where the church of San Pietro now stands.

In Roman times the city was essentially a fishing community.

Via Cappellini, a narrow multi-coloured thoroughfare sometimes packed with the Cinque Terre tourists, sometimes not.

An antique vintage book market in the main square, the scent of basil, water in my ears, sleeping in the sun all afternoon then a bit of CNN news while my father cooks guanciale, adding chunks of bread which cook in the porky oil, fried jewels in the salad we eat on the terrace under an almost full Harvest moon. Waxing (very) gibbous.

The Monday morning market in Portovenere - buying peaches & green beans, a pair of flip flops & a roast chicken from rude Riccardo.

The pebble beach in front of the American bar.

The rocks, and their mermaids.

Biting into a deep-fried anchovy in Via Cappelini. It's hot and steamy, my lips are salty, the air smells faintly of shit & lemons, sweet & sharp. We are in Portovenere and I'm so happy. This basil mojito is heaven.

There is lots to do in Portovenere. Look it up in an Eyewitness Guide. I have done everything there is "to do" in Portovenere and I really don't go to Portovenere to do stuff. I go for my August Super Fast Charge which gets me to Boxing day when I fly to Venice for a fortnight with my family for our other Super Fast Charge of the year.

Essential Summer Super Fast Charge ingredients: sun, sea, salt, basil, anchovies, lemons, books, a camera & notebook, family love.

#portovenere #summer holiday #notesonasummer #liguria #italy #notebook #travel writing #and the views so nice #anchovies #il mare #sea #sun #salt #basil #books #beach #alessiaphotography

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pointreyesjournal · 1 year

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Portofino : ep197

I feel kissing on my neck and ear lobe to gently wake me up.

Cheyenne: Baby, wake up. I think we died at sea. The boat must have sank last night.

I’m really groggy trying to wake up, but I’m not buying her story. Me: I don’t feel dead honey, come back to bed.

Cheyenne: Look out the porthole, we died and went to heaven.

Me: Shy, we’re living in sin. If we died in a shipwreck, we’d wake up in hell.

Cheyenne: There’s no way that there is any place on earth that is actually this beautiful. I’m pretty sure we’re in heaven.

Me: That’s just Portofino honey.

…

Tucked into a tiny spit of land about 10 kilometers south of Genoa along the northernmost coast of the Ligurian sea, Portofino is one of the most scenic ports in the known universe. The actual port covers land equivalent to a few football fields (or over here, football pitches) and nearly every square meter is occupied with a yacht. Three sides of the port feature high walls, like an amphitheater, and the northern wall has a picturesque waterfront with buildings in Mediterranean hues of yellow, burnt orange and gold.

Our sailing yacht is huge, so we’re anchored just outside of the harbor in about 30 feet of warm crystal blue water.

I throw on shorts and a t-shirt and tell Cheyenne to put on her bikini under her exercise gear as I dart out the door.

“I’ll be right back”

I return a minute later and get some running shoes on, gather up Cheyenne and head for the deck. By the time we emerge from our suite, Filet has pulled together a tiny breakfast picnic for us and put it into a shopping bag. I tuck breakfast into a rucksack, then we hop in the dinghy and the captain whisks us off to shore.

Cheyenne: What are we doing?

Me: We’re going to hike up to the lighthouse before everyone else wakes up.

Cheyenne: This is breathtaking. I honestly didn’t know that places this beautiful actually existed in real life. I thought it was just in screensavers and photoshop.

Me: Remember Henrik’s Ferrari? The one called the California? When they discontinued it, do you know what they replaced it with?

Cheyenne: No. What?

Me: A model called a Portofino.

Cheyenne: Gawd … can you imagine driving Henrik’s Ferrari around here?

Me: Somebody at Ferrari obviously did.

Cheyenne: Wow. Apropos!

…

The land on the little peninsula above Portofino is ultra-premium A+++ real estate, but somehow it hasn’t been overdeveloped with mega-mansions. There is a rustic trail that ascends to a ridgeline. Each cobbled stair step is two steps deep, but only about one half step up. So it creates an odd cadence. Step forward, step up, step forward, step up. So you’re always stepping up with the same foot. We pass terraced gardens of grapes and olives, and an ancient castle called Castello Brown before reaching the lighthouse.

The Faro di Portofino is a bright white lighthouse that sits proudly on the rocks at the end of the peninsula. From their terrace bar, there are nearly 360 degrees of sweeping ocean views. It’s beauty that defies description. There’s a cocktail bar that opens for tourists at 10am, but we’re here well before they open, so we commandeer a table and enjoy our breakfast picnic of yogurt parfait, fresh fruit, and orange juice.

Me: You know what baby?

Cheyenne: What?

Me: You may have been right.

Cheyenne: Told ya’ …

We died and went to heaven.

#novel #first person narrative #portofino #ferrari #italy #mediterranean #ligurian sea #fino di portofino #love #sailing

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hsundholm · 12 hours

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Vernazza Village Blues by Henrik Sundholm Via Flickr: Blue hour evening in Vernazza, part of Cinque Terre on the Ligurian coast of Italy.

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searchingcassiopeia · 1 year

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The Intimacy of Sleep - 1601

Note: this is not the next chapter of TIOS since I’m only still up to the 13th century and this is going to be set in 1601, however I began writing this chapter ages ago and decided to finish it tonight and I wanted to share it somewhere. So here’s a treat: this is chapter uhhhhhhh 20 something of The Intimacy of Sleep! [AO3 link to previous chapters: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29837697/chapters/73415295 ]

Their host was a snorer. Of course, he snores, thought Yusuf as he buried his head into Nico’s shoulders, he’s obnoxious enough when he’s conscious, of course he has to be twice as irritating when he sleeps.

They were in London for the first time in about 80 years, marvelling at the explosion of culture and art in the great city and touring the bustling streets that were simultaneously familiar and foreign to them. So much could change in such a short time, and to Yusuf and Nicolò – now Josef and Nico – it still feels like only yesterday they were wearing chainmail and crossing blades in the Holy City. Both men were witness of massive changes to their religions and homelands and were now beginning to feel what Andromache and Quynh described as “immortal displacement”. After their adventure to the New World, Yusuf and Nicolò decided to take some time alone to revisit their history in a vain attempt at sentiment and gratitude. They were met only with disappointment and unfamiliarity. Yusuf returned to the Maghreb which was only just recovering after the Spanish-Ottoman truce ended years of war in the region. The Turkish influence made Tunis near-unrecognisable. The main streets, however, were still the same: full of markets and merchants and wares from all over the Mediterranean. Yusuf was overjoyed to find that the best stalls were still in the same location as where he and his family would trade. His Mosque was still standing, and men were still praying in it. Yusuf parted from Nicolò for a few hours to bath and pray – something he had been lax about for some time. He did not seek out his family home though, since the memories of his father’s outrage at his proclivities still haunted him even when he could no longer remember the man’s face or the sound of his voice. Nicolò pointed out the expansion of the universities and hospitals and they explored the new areas that felt more like Constantinople than Tunisia. Their attempt at finding the location of the shack they lived in 400 years prior was futile as the land had changed so much. They heard stories of nearly a century-long power struggle in the Mediterranean that they missed entirely while they were across the other side of the world. The shores no longer held the privacy of isolation as they did that time, as fortifications and new establishments dotted the coast. He even felt that when he spoke to the locals, they did not understand him fully as they often gave him strange looks as if his dialect was wrong. Disheartened, they set sail for Nico’s home in Genoa a few years earlier than planned.

The familiar walls and docks were a comfort to see, and the swell of the Ligurian sea as their boat sailed to shore was a gentle dance welcoming him home. St. George’s Cross proudly flew in the sky and Nicolò almost imagined he was sailing to port hundreds of years ago with that same cross painted over his armour. It had been near two centuries at least since he stepped foot in the city, and roughly four since he really considered it home. However, once he stepped off the gangway, he was met with the shrill of Spanish and an explosion of modern art and unfamiliar roads and buildings. He grasped for Yusuf and gripped his hand under their cloaks as he took in this strangeness. Not a single person he spoke to on the docks spoke Genoese, and even less spoke Sabir. They all spoke Spanish or some new Frankish dialect that sounded like gibberish to Nicolò. Though once they ventured further into the city, towards the old cathedrals and churches they found more people spoke the local language. They walked familiar paths and passed buildings and monuments they knew until he found the church that he lived in for most of his early life – the one that was built on the hills overlooking the shore – was now rubble. He had brought Yusuf here not long after their first time in Malta, giving him his vows at its helm. Nicolò’s heart felt like it was crumbling like the ruins he stood before, and suddenly the years felt too heavy on him. He did not remember his family. He was only a boy when he was sent to the church. This was where he grew up and became a man of faith, and now the only evidence of its existence was a mound of stone and the decaying grave markers in the overgrown cemetery where his body should have rightfully been laid hundreds of years ago. Neither man had the heart to go on with their trip down memory lane after that and had sworn to never inflict such heartache on themselves again.

Rather than cut their break short and return to their sisters, the men opted to visit England and investigate the new fashions and innovations of the Elizabethan era. English was still one of their least favourite languages to speak, though it was slightly more tolerable than Middle Dutch. It was hard to not notice the gossip about a new theatre that had been built in the centre of Londontown, and it did not take the pair long to locate it. It was an eyesore to behold, and the enormity of its walls felt more like a miniature wooden coliseum. The Globe it was called, and its founder was said to be putting on a play about Richard II that night. Intrigued, the couple purchased their tickets and made plans to come back after their supper to see if this writer lived up to his name.

The play was a bore, even though the audience did not agree. Truly, the English public were fascinated by anything. Yusuf whispered to Nicolò halfway through the first act, “I cannot tell if the audience is genuinely entertained, or so confused by these made-up words they are simply clapping to be polite.” They snuck out mid-way through act V, after distracting one another throughout all of act IV with whispered flirtations and brief touches while their row-neighbours were focussed on the stage.

The pair ended up in the alleyway behind the theatre, giggling like they were drunk on ale and embracing once the coast was clear. It was one of those rare occasions they let themselves be intimate in a public place, particularly these days with the religious purification movements. Though they could get away with being two single men travelling together, they knew they would risk imprisonment or worse if they were seen for being the couple they were. Both men were tired of this hatred towards them and others like them, just as they were tired of pretending to be escorts to Andromache and Quynh so the women would not face their own persecution for being unmarried and travelling together with infinite knowledge and strange tongues. However, tonight they let that all slip their minds as they kissed and touched each other in the dark. Nico pressed Josef against the wall of the theatre and trailed his hands down his body. Josef responded by hungrily kissing him, pulling his bottom lip with his teeth, and letting his stubble scratch at Nicolò’s chin. Nico smirked and pecked his mouth before sliding to his knees and pulling Yusuf’s drawstrings. He had him in his mouth and Josef saw stars. It took all of his self-control not to moan as Nico sucked and licked, and he was sure Nicolò was just as single-mindedly focussed. They were so much in their own little world that they did not notice that a man with a hideous frilled collar was standing not ten feet away from them watching. Yusuf came in Nicolò’s mouth with a gasp. He was pulled out of his euphoria, though, by Nico’s sudden cursing. He followed Nico’s gaze to the man that was blatantly staring at them, arms crossed as if he was waiting for them to carry on. Nicolò was slowly removing the knife he had hidden underneath his tunic, careful to make it look like he was innocently adjusting Yusuf’s clothing. He stayed Nico’s hand, however, because he recognised the man that observed them.

“I say, gentlemen, I can see why this would be far more entertaining that my little performance inside,” Shakespeare called to them, careful to keep his voice low enough no one heard them on the street. Nico rose slowly, as if he was still readying himself to attack should they need to.

Unable to help himself, Yusuf approached the man and sized him up. “Yes, this is more entertaining. As are many things like the drying of linen in the sun and watching the tides go out. I’m quite disappointed after hearing about you for so long,” he may have been exaggerating since they had not heard of Shakespeare until now. However, since the man was famous enough to own a theatre and supposedly have entertained great Lords and Ladies across this tiny island, Yusuf was confident in assuming the man had an ego. A small voice was telling him to not push it though, he did not know this man and he could very easily accuse them of sodomy and have them arrested. Yet there was something in the writer’s expression that looked more like curiosity rather than the usual fear or disgust they had come to expect of strangers who caught them in the act.

“Thou art indeed a foreign man then,” Shakespeare stood a little straighter as if he could stretch his spine a few inches longer to be able to meet Josef eye to eye, “And thine pale beauty over there is foreign too, I assume?”

Yusuf could not help but feel the rush of spite at those words. Before he could respond, however, Nicolò was at his side. “Sì, we are travellers from the Mediterranean. My friend and I heard of thy play as we arrived in this great city, though we also heard that thy poetry is nonpareil. My friend is a poet in all but publication. Perhaps he could learn from thee?”

Nicolò, you fiend. Yusuf smiled, though inside he wanted to throttle the man as he laughed and put his hand on Nicolò’s shoulder. Pale beauty. That’s the best you can come up with? Nonpareil my-

“Come Josef, the play is almost over, we should at least see the finale.”

An hour later they were in a tavern under the apartment their new acquaintance was residing in while he worked in the city. Shakespeare insisted they join him for drinks and offered to buy all the rounds. Nicolò had snuck up to the bar to tell the maiden to put their drinks in his account, since they had more of a fortune than this man could ever accrue in his lifetime and felt guilty letting him buy their drinks when they wanted nothing more than to be alone.

Yusuf was playing kind, though he was entertaining fantasies of knocking William Shakespeare unconscious and leaving. On Nico’s request he stayed civil, however, and translated some of his poems into English to make conversation and also show off a little.

“The moon is bright, but thou be my light in the night?” Shakespeare was reading Josef’s haste scribbling as he butchered poetry he had originally written in Persian. He felt it was losing its meaning being in this awful language.

“It is supposed to mean that he is what guides the author, because the heart is the true compass, not the moon, not the sun. Then I go on to compare them to the seasons. They are everchanging and evolving, and their moods pass just like the weather. The winds in May are just like our arguments, rough and unpredictable, but temporary. The heat of summer is the heat of passion and desire, lovely and calm at times but never the same each time. It is an eternal love, and eternal love requires variety and seasons.” Josef couldn’t help but to seek out Nicolò as he spoke these words. It was a natural reflex at this point to be looking at the love of his life whenever he recited his romances.

Shakespeare followed his gaze to Nico at the bar. Little did he know that Yusuf was not just speaking metaphorically. “So, thou art comparing him to a summer’s day? How he is life and life be not simple but complex and unpredictable, which at it’s heart makes thy love and desire so special and unique.”

Josef nodded, somewhat abashed at the review. It had been a long time since he had discussed poetry with another poet, even if he still held much disdain for the Englishman. Shakespeare reached into his pocket and procured a small leatherbound pad, “I tend to acquire inspiration wherever I go. I must admit I do wish to write a sonnet about thee and thine fair beauty over there, though I am not sure if I can capture it so eloquently and truthfully as thou hast written. I hath observed many relationships, some such as thee, forbidden and scandalous yet unforgiving and powerful, and all I find is that I do not understand that myself.”

“We do not act as if what we are is scandalous,” Yusuf interjected rather abruptly, “We have been by one another’s side for many ce- years, though we did not come together originally as friends or anything close to it. We – “, we killed each other, he almost said, “We were sworn enemies, fighting on opposing sides. We were the unlikeliest of lovers, and what we have now is the result of time and understanding and comfort in one another. We do not treat our love as a scandal; something to be gossiped about like an affair that is inevitably caught out and shamed. The only reason we do not parade ourselves about is simply because of the violence we would be subjected to by a world that fears pleasure and happyness and true love and all that is different from the norm. We are proud of who we are and what we do, but we are also happy to remain in our own world as well – free to cherish and rejoice our love in our own privacy. I can write as many odes and songs in his name as I please and paint his face until the world is covered in his hues. I will never tire of that, but I also would rather remain in the background not only where it is safe, but where we can continue with what we have with discretion.”

Shakespeare marvelled at this, and perhaps Josef was overdoing it somewhat. But it was refreshing to speak so earnestly about his love and passion for Nicolò to someone outside of his immortal family. Of course, they had come across a number of strangers in their time who had similar attitudes and accepted the men for who they were, and Yusuf was able to recite his most personal thoughts and songs about Nicolò in front of these people for as long as he liked. Times were changing now, however, and it was beginning to become hard finding others who were of a similar life simply because they were afraid of the consequences they would face should they be caught by the law.

Josef decided then that Shakespeare was not such a bad man. Certainly he was not exactly the most eloquent of poets – though Yusuf believed that it may also be the fault of the dreadful English language that limited the man’s ability to write good prose. Perhaps this was why he made up words.

After a long night of conversation and merriment, the unlikely trio retired to Shakespeare’s tiny apartment. Josef and Nico opted to sleep together on the floor, despite the protests of their host. They reassured him that they did not mind and had slept in much more uncomfortable terrain before. Shakespeare was not satisfied with this however, and had gone off to find some spare bedding or anything soft enough for his guests to sleep on.

Josef leaned against the windowsill and watched as Nicolò used the basin across the room to wash his body. He thought of Shakespeare’s words earlier.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Yusuf recited in English, wincing at how discordant and grating the words were. Nico snorted a laugh as he turned to face his partner.

“Ah, my love, do not do this to yourself. Your songs and verses are much more romantic and beautiful in your own language. Besides, in one hundred years’ time no one will remember William Shakespeare.”

Josef laughed at this. His laughter only became louder when Shakespeare himself had perfectly timed his entrance bearing a large straw mattress and a wolf’s fur carried over his shoulders. Nico chuckled as he pulled his pants on and proceeded to take the items from their host who was smiling as if he knew what it was they were so jolly about.

They slept soundly for the most part in their usual position, though Yusuf had much trouble falling asleep thanks to the irritating snores of the self-proclaimed wordsmith. Tomorrow, he thought to himself as he pressed his face into the warmth of his lover, tomorrow we shall return to Andromache and Quynh and tell them all about this fool.

Note: Shakespeare is estimated to be 5’7”. Marwan Kenzari is 6”. heheheh

Apologies if my Shakespearean is not accurate. I could never fully understand how to use it. I was channeling my dislike for Shakespearean and Tudor English into Joe. I 100% believe in the headcanon that Nicky and Joe’s look to each other when Merrick recited King Lear in TOG was because Nicky remembered how much Joe HATED William Shakespeare so I just ran with it. Yes, he absolutely fumes at how Shakespeare’s work is still fondly remembered to this day and yes it is also because he stole Joe’s ideas to write Sonnet 18 and then also proceeded to write poems about a “fair beauty”. Nile had to reevaluate her entire perspective on her Shakespeare 101 class she took in college after they told her this story in 2020.

Anyway, thanks for reading if you read this. I’ll most likely change some of it when I get up to publishing this chapter on AO3. I want to be more active with my fics again in the new year but uni is very full on so I can’t make any promises. I’m going to be working on the next few chapters now anyway and try to make it through to the 15th century at least within the next couple of weeks. This fic does have a lot of research involved though so we’ll see how it goes.

Happy holidays readers!

#the old guard #joe x nicky #nicky x joe #kaysanova #joenicky #fanfiction #tog fanfiction #tog #yusuf al kaysani #nicolo di genova #the intimacy of sleep

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