The warm hues of luxurious gold that distinguish the style of the Palazzo Cordusio blur around them as Milo is whisked away by Thomas who wastes no time getting back to his suite. They step into the elevator, mirrors from ground to ceiling reflecting their dishevelled silhouettes. They start to move down. 

Thomas sighs again when he sees the damage done to his suit. Then he leans back against the railing. An awkward skip in conversation ensues and the silence leaves Milo alone with their thoughts. They wonder whether Thomas is purposefully not speaking to them. The thought wounds them but they mournfully decide it may as well be for the best. 

Thomas seems able to read their thoughts and ends the pause in conversation. He looks at Milo’s reflection in the mirror, then speaks: ‘I’m not mad at you, you know. Genuinely.” His vulnerable voice coaxes Milo to look up. 

Thomas smiles softly when he catches their attention. “I should not have fallen out against you. This is an outfit I adore and I am hurt that it may be ruined forever but I won’t hold it against you. It was an accident, and even if it were not I would be inclined to forgive you.” Milo’s heart skips a beat at the suggestion that dropping the drink may not have been an accident. Can Thomas tell?

“I’m sorry,” they say again for lack of a better response. They lean back against the railing like Thomas with their arms crossed behind their back. “I hope you can forgive me. I know the piece matters greatly to you. It may be one of a kind but I’ll gladly pay you back for any damages incurred.” 

“You won’t be able to pay for it,” Thomas simply responds. “But I don’t expect you to.” There is a hint of arrogance in his tone. It is a side of him Milo does not quite like. Then his demeanour softens once more and the change leaves Milo weak in the knees. “You’re paying me more than enough by keeping me company. Besides, I’m a designer, I’m used to mishaps. So don’t lose sleep over it, okay?” 

They arrive on the 2nd floor and Thomas takes them to his suite. It is a room suited to a wealthy bachelor like himself; it features a cosy midcentury living room separated from the bed and bathroom by a freestanding wall. The walls and floor are all made from wood, lending a pleasant warmth to an otherwise formal space. Thomas gestures for them to sit down on the grey couch. Milo caresses the surprisingly smooth furniture. 

Thomas unbuttons his suit jacket and drapes it over his arm. He can’t help but boast when he sees Milo admire the suite. 

“This suite comes with wallcoverings by Rubelli, a high-end Venetian supplier of textiles,” he explains. “However, the furniture is provided by Molteni, another high-end brand.” 

He flushes when Milo looks at him with a strange expression. He adds bashfully: “Sorry, textile nerd here. You have to be when you’re in my profession. I sometimes forget that it may not be an interesting topic to other people.

“Give me a second.” He disappears into the bedroom, leaving Milo to wait idly for his return. They feel dreadfully uncomfortable and start to regret their decision to have come up here at all. The mental visual of Thomas in various states of undress on the other side of the wall is certainly not helping and they shift around on the couch to mask their discomfort. 

When Thomas returns, he is no longer in his soiled suit but in a warm, sleeveless sweater vest with a short-sleeved shirt underneath. A pair of wide linen pants complete the look. In his hands is his neatly folded suit. He looks much more comfortable in this outfit but Milo cannot be convinced that this look costs less than what most humans earn in a month. 

“I hate to leave you alone here but I need to drop this off at the front desk as soon as possible. It’ll greatly improve the chance that the shirt can be salvaged. Will you be okay? It won’t take long,” he promises. There is a great deal of gallantry in his speech, his attitude night and day compared to his public outburst. It fully and finally persuades Milo that they have been forgiven. 

“Of course, it is my fault after all,” they relent, nervously toying with the corner of a cushion. “Do what you must.” 

While Thomas delivers his suit to the front desk for dry cleaning, Milo ventures through the room, taking a quick look inside the marble-clad bathroom. They even dare gawk at the marvellous outfits in Thomas’ closet which -when added up- must have cost about the same as a small apartment. They quickly close the door and rearrange themselves on the couch, scared to be caught or to ruin more of Thomas’ clothes. 

Their affluent friend returns with a bottle of red wine and two glasses, but there is no trace of his suit. “Don’t worry,” he says when he spots Milo’s alarm. “It’ll take a while to remove those stains but the suit is in good hands. No bourbon or whiskey at the front desk, unfortunately. Do you drink wine?” 

Milo had not taken Thomas’ previous promise of more alcohol in earnest but their mouth waters at the memory of the rich, tangy, red wines they had savoured in the past. Oh, their virtue be damned! Can they fall further from grace after all the major and minor fuck-ups they allowed to happen today? A little wine won’t hurt. If anything, it will soften the blow of all that had gone wrong. 

“Yes, I adore it! And, I must say, I like red far better than white wine!” They respond chipperly. 

“Then you’re in luck. You’re wining and dining with the elite,” he snickers, “so let me spoil you a little.” His low voice incites a shiver that travels through Milo’s entire body. “I got us a bottle of Château Troplong Mondot from the region of Bordeaux. 2014. I think it’ll do nicely.” 

Before Milo can protest, Thomas has popped the cork and filled both glasses. Perhaps he put in more red wine than is strictly necessary for a wine-tasting, but who is Milo to complain? 

Thomas places the bottle on the table and raises his glass. He swirls it around and takes a sniff to revel in the aroma of the Bordeaux. Milo soon follows suit, mimicking his actions. The pleasure of indulging in something that is not strictly allowed is starting to wear off but even they can appreciate a complex wine like this one. Its profile is earthy, rich and powerful, and their mouth waters in anticipation of its dryness. 

“Cheers!” Thomas lifts his glass, acknowledging Milo’s responding “Cheers!” with a curt nod. He gives himself a moment to enjoy the wine and peel away its layered taste, expecting Milo to do the same. He makes himself comfortable on the couch and cherishes the flavour before finally turning to Milo. 

“I think I’ve told you plenty about my life, Milo, but you’ve been skirting around your own story all evening,” he begins. His eyes offer a challenge. He seems beyond interested in whether Milo will take the bait. “I’ve supplied the wine; now it’s your turn to entertain.” 

Milo disengages and turns their attention to the dark liquid in their glass. They swirl it around aimlessly with a gentle flick of the wrist. “I don’t know what to tell you, my story is not all that interesting, especially compared to yours.” Thomas moves closer. His gaze traces the movement of Milo’s slender fingers as they caress the stem of the glass before it snaps back up to their face.

“I insist.” His voice is very persuasive and Milo buckles under the request. Previous attempts at forcing Thomas away have not worked so they decide to play along for the time being. 

“Oh, you’re a gentleman alright! If you insist…” Their tone is shy but their mouth is upturned in a dangerous smirk that draws out the dimples in their cheeks. Those dimples could ensnare monarchs and fell empires. That is, if Milo chose to use their charms in that manner. 

“I’ve told you before about my reasons for coming here. I’ve known the friends that will be visiting in a few days since high school. We’re in a band together. Nothing professional, but I’ve played with them since I was 14 and we occasionally do gigs at the local pubs of my hometown,” they explain warmly. “We’re called ‘The Bloody Mondays’ but I bet you won’t be able to find us online. I play bass, then there’s Max on piano, Kate on guitar, Samuel drums and Victoria is our lead singer.” 

“It sounds like you care a lot about them,” Thomas responds. He takes another sip of his drink and licks away the stray drop of wine stuck to his lower lip. 

The visual temporarily stuns Milo and their cheeks start to flush. They barely recover in time to answer: “Of course I do, I’ve known them for half of my life! Sometimes I believe they understand me better than my own family does.” 

“D’you have any siblings?” Thomas interjects excitedly. “I’ve never had any myself.” 

“Yeah,” Milo sighs. They’re relieved Thomas does not venture much outside of the usual questions that can be answered by their alibi. “I’ve got a sister, her name’s Donna. My mom was OBSESSED with Mamma Mia when it first came out so that’s where she’s got her name from.” They laugh. “She’s much younger than me. She’s 14 now so we don’t have much in common.” 

“You say you’ve known your friends since high school but you don’t peg me as employed. Are you a student?” Thomas ponders. 

Milo can almost see the calculations happening inside his head as Thomas desperately tries to calculate their age and, therefore, if any of his actions that evening have accidentally been inappropriate. Milo can’t help but smile for their true age (being a matchmaker) far outnumbers Thomas’. They appreciate his effort nonetheless. 

They let him struggle for a little while and then respond: “No worries, Thomas, I’m 24. I’m currently doing a major in physics and astronomy at UCLA.” 

“Physics at UCLA huh? Then you’re not far from my home turf.” Thomas’ eyebrows shoot up in surprise. UCLA’s programs are notoriously difficult to get into and Milo secretly delights in having impressed Thomas.

“Yeah, I know, rockstar and physicist are quite far removed from each other but I’m really enjoying the program.” They smile tentatively, toying with their glass. “Maybe I’ll do a PhD in nuclear physics or quantum theory later. I don’t know yet.” 

“That’s impressive. What are you currently working on?” Thomas asks as he tops up their glasses. “Can’t promise I’ll understand anything you say but I’d love to hear more.” 

“No worries, I’d love to tell you,” Milo warmly responds. 

As Milo dives deeper into their alibi, they start to envision what this life would be like: their rowdy, queer, college friends ready to raise the town on a night out, their quaint middle-class family with Italian roots supporting both Milo’s love of punk rock and nuclear physics… Of course, there are hardships too; jealous exes, sleepless nights slaving away at impossible deadlines… But, as is the case with a Manhattan, the bitters in life make the sweetness worthwhile.