We went for a short voyage to the middle of the lake the other day. After borrowing our neighbor's boat we carried it all the way to the water. Marcel was rowing, while I sat on the floor in front of him with my sketchbook resting on my knees. 

"There," I pointed at the horizon in the direction of Ponte Tibetano, "take us there. I want to draw the panorama from below the bridge, and then from over the sunken village."

"I read they used to pump the water out of the lake.” He said out of nowhere when we were nearing our first stop.

“It's been twenty-something years since they did it,” I replied, sharpening the pencil, and throwing the shavings overboard. “God knows when they'll do it again.”

“Next time they drain it,” Marcel started slowly, as if he was wondering what words to use, “I think I’ll come to see the place.”

“Is that so?” I asked, outlining the landscape on paper. Was it a prelude to the invitation? “What if they don't drain it in a decade? Or longer?”

“Doesn't matter. I'll make sure not to miss it.” 

After what I had learned the day before, it was good seeing him looking so far ahead. The last thing I wanted was his dark thoughts spiraling him out of control straight into destruction.

“Would you like me to join you there?” I asked, half-jokingly. 

“Oh, I’d love to.” He smiled at me.

“Where will you wait for me?”

“The church,” he gave me a pat answer, as if he had thought it through. “I'll be by the entrance to the church at noon.”

“The first day after they drain it?” I proposed.

“Deal.” He nodded joyfully. 

I started imagining the moment we would meet in a year, in five years, in a decade, each spread of time pulling us further apart. An nineteen year old me would be just a shadow of the past, a base version upon which the adult Victor will be built. Will my future self even remember the promise he made? Will the future Marcel remember? 

How long does it take to become strangers again? A month? A year? When will the butterflies die out? When will the scent of grass become just the smell of summer, and not the smell of his skin burning next to mine?

I raised my head, detailing the chiaroscuro between his pale body and the darkness of the wood around him. I noticed his sight was focused on me. There was hunger in his eyes. I was glad we weren't standing, cause having him look at me that way would make my legs weak.

"Marcel?" I asked precariously. "What is it?"

"Am I sick and twisted, if I'd like to make you come right now?" 

My insides squeezed in a painful spasm of desire. His directness could turn me on in an instant. Just like those daring "do you like what you see" moments. I looked around nervously. There was no other boat on the lake, the shores were far away, and the dam was high above us in the distance. Chances were slim someone would notice. 

"Am I sick and twisted if I say I'd like you to?" I replied with my heart beating fast, as if it was getting ready to jump out of my chest. 

His foot moved forward to touch the hardening place between my legs, and I pushed my hips towards it, boldly pressing against his toes. 

"It seems we both are," he encapsulated, before leaning in my direction and whipping the sketchbook from my palms.

My tools hit the wooden floor after I rushed to meet Marcel's soft lips. The hands were impatient, the tongues were wild, the fingers thirsty. Next thing I remember I was lying on the planks at the bottom of the boat, the moisture of his mouth embracing my cock.

"May I?" He asked looking up at me with his wet palm placed in-between my buttocks. 

I nodded sharply, and soon his fingers buried in me for the first time. While touching places no other had ever touched, he opened the doors to unfulfilled urges I had been too shy to articulate or even think about before. All of a sudden what was muffled, tentative, questionable became obvious to me. For the first time I fully understood my needs. And there wasn't an ounce of shame in me.

I wanted more than just the fingers. I wanted his skin, his warmth, his breath, I wanted to absorb his whole existence, so we would become one. I was sobbing beneath him, unable to vocalize my desires.

"Don't stop," I was crying, when his lips were wandering around my chest, and my hand was clumsily stroking our shafts. "Don't stop."

I loved his fingers diving deep within my flesh. I loved the feeling of sweat between our bodies, and the puffiness of our cocks burning in my grip. We were moving in sync until we lost our breaths, until all we could do was weep, until la petite mort caught us in its tight hold trembling, shaking, flushed with fever, and satisfied like never before. 

"Are you alright?" He asked with a worried voice when we were resting with our backs pressed against the wood afterwards.

I was. I was better than ever in fact. As if some heavenly illumination came upon me. As if God's finger touched my soul, making me finally understand everything. Understand myself. Know myself.

“I was a blind man, Marcel,” I gasped out, looking up to the sky. “But you made me sighted.” 

“If I messed you up, I swear…” He shook his head. 

“I am fine,” I looked at him all excited and grasped his hand. “We are fine. This is good.” 

“Okay,” he sighed, relaxing a little. “Alright.” He leaned to kiss my forehead. “I just had a flashback and panicked. Sorry.”

“No need to be…”

I didn't push, and he dropped the subject, but his forehead stayed wrinkled for the rest of the day. His eyes lost some of the vigorous joy. His demons were showing up again… Demons of the past, demons of the present, demons of the world outside of our little Italian province. A world I had no access to. Would they catch up with him when he leaves? Most probably…

“What is it that you don't want to tell me?” I whispered, gently stroking his dark brown hair when he was asleep that night. “What else are you hiding behind this facade of yours?”

Carelessness is the privilege of youth, I remembered his words. Your “carelessness” is nothing but a lie…”