#hws gresic

Instead, Omar and Timothea had the kind heart of their father and the steadfastness of their mother, but most of all, their parents' stoic pragmatism.

They weren’t here. They were safe at home in Athens with their parents.

Maria had left with Marco and Lorenzo a day before Herakles had arrived. “Gone east for the weekend,” Michele had said. He had bought a bouquet of flowers and now arranged it into a vase. Herakles had been reclining on the living room’s couch, with his arm on the armest and his cheek rested against his fist. “Near Syracuse, a fun weekend for Mamma to get out for a while and for the boys to fool around on the beaches. I’d wish I could say to see some culture as well, but ah.” He had laughed and thrown his head back, before he tended to the flowers again . “I don’t think that the archaeological park in Syracuse will be of much interest to them or the castle on Ortygia, unless they can get up to shenanigans unsafe to them and the historical grounds.” He had clicked his tongue and raised his eyebrows. “No, no no, I can’t put that stress on Mamma.” He had fidgeted with the flowers but glanced up at Herakles. “After the Turks tried to set foot here, in the 1570s, the Spaniards re-fortified the castle on Ortygia, you know. The opposite of what you’re doing.”

Michele had grinned at him for a second before he gave a ringing, impish laugh. Herakles had chuckled at first, but upon hearing Michele’s rascally joy, it grew into laughter as well.

“If somebody threatens me with a good time …” Herakles had answered.

He was here. Not in Athens, not in Ankara.

As they stood among the fields, Michele said: “I love to be outside around here at night. Just to stare at Monreale, how it’s lit up and tucked away against the mountains.” The walls around Michele’s garden were too high to see a lot of the surrounding area.

“I know that King Gugghiermu built the monastery and the cathedral, and all the other things, just to get the bishop out of town, but do you think he ever regretted it?” The moon was bright enough and the light pollution bad enough that they hadn’t needed any lamps for their night walk.

Michele didn’t take his eyes off the warm, orange spot of light couched into the hills. “I mean, Palermo’s beautiful, but … so is Monreale. It must sting to have such beauty tower over you.”

They trekked the last hundred metres back to Michele’s house in silence. 

“Do you think that’s why your ancestors built the fence around the garden so high?” Herakles asked and Michele looked at him, his eyebrows quirked in bewilderment at ‘ancestors’. “Because they couldn’t bear the beauty either, soaring to heights they could never reach.”

“That sounds like Luigi, yes,” Michele replied and opened the front door. He hit the light switch for the atrium. He hit it again.

Still no lights.

An exasperated sigh in the darkness. “Alright - You don’t happen to have a lighter on you?” he asked Herakles, who patted down his pockets.

“I don’t.”

“Moonlight it is then.” Slowly, yet with purpose, Michele walked into the atrium. Herakles ambled behind him, while he opened cabinets and rummaged through them. He mumbled something in Sicilian to himself and pulled a long and heavy object out of the cabinet.

A metallic click. A circle of light appeared half on the wall, half on the cabinet.

“Here, take that one,” Michele said and handed the flashlight to Herakles. “And shine into the cabinet, please.”

Herakles did so.

Michele took a closer look inside and rummaged around it some more. He straightened himself and opened a drawer. Herakles shone inside of it.

Michele mumbled a few more things in Sicilian, then something that sounded like “There you are” and turned a smaller flashlight in the palm of his hand. He turned it on.

“Alright now – Minchia -“

“Sorry.” Herakles lowered the flashlight after Michele had turned and stared straight into it.

Michele’s eyes were squeezed shut and he blinked a few times before he caught himself with a shake of his head.

“Now we’ve got to find the fuse box and hope that that’ll solve our problem.”

“Perhaps it’s a blackout,” Herakles suggested while Michele looked around.

He turned to him with a cocked eyebrow.  “Curious blackout though that would only affect my house, since we still saw the neighbours with their lights on, wouldn’t it be?”

“Point taken. Where’s the fuse box? In the cellar?”

“No, that one’s only for vegetables and wine,” Michele replied. “And … well … clandestine operations.”

“I think we made out there once,” Herakles said.

“I can hardly remember that, unless you mean stolen kisses while we were fetching something for Mamma cooking dinner. “Michele made his way around the atrium’s freestanding staircase.

“I think I meant that.” Herakles followed him. “A basement full of alcohol also hardly sounds like a place to hide from Athanasios.”

"No, not quite … It’s a good place to hide from me, though,” Michele said and looked briefly over his shoulder with a bright smile. “You wouldn’t believe how many spaces there are in this house to hide from me!”

Herakles snorted. “It’s a bit of a labyrinth, isn’t it?” Michele chuckled. He followed him around the corner and down the hallway. At its end, it split into two crammed corridors.  Michele shone a light into both sides. “Should I get you a thread, my hero?” Herakles asked and slipped his arm around Michele’s waist to tuck him against his body.

Michele jumped at the contact, but then looked up at him with a cocked eyebrow and a pouting smirk.

“Get me the fuse box, Casanova.” He quickly ran his hand over Herakles’ and gently pushed his arm away the next moment. “Before that, we should check the backdoor. I’ve checked everything before we left, but better safe than sorry.”

“Wouldn’t want to run into any minotaurs in here.”

“Yes, or any hit men or dumb teenagers, who thought this would be a funny prank,” Michele said and walked back towards the atrium. “Well, teenagers aside from my own rascals.” He stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder at Herakles. “Actually, you can wait for me here while I’ll check the backdoor.”

Herakles nodded and Michele returned into the atrium. He disappeared behind the stairs and Herakles heard a door open and close. He listened into the dark.

There was the constant background noise of the city far away. Silence, otherwise. Michele’s steps were muffled. Something rattled, but he couldn’t discern what would make such sounds.

He looked behind him. There was no movement in the dark; where the hallway split, the last specks of light that made it through the atrium’s glass ceiling was swallowed. There was only pitch blackness outside the circle of his flashlight.

A door opened and he turned around. Michele closed it behind himself and walked back over to him. “The backdoor is completely undisturbed, as are all the windows, so I think we’re safe from roaming monsters.”

“Good to know.”

“Yes, I would even call it vital information. Now, onto the fuse box…” Herakles let Michele pass him, before he followed him into the left corridor.

There were no paintings or other decorative objects on the walls. There was barely space to walk anyways.

Michele lit up the end of the corridor and turned towards a door. He reached for the handle but paused before he pressed it.

He looked at Herakles over his shoulder, who was met with a relaxed smirk. “But perhaps there is a scuro in here. Or a grecu livanti. Scuri like abandoned houses.“ He opened the door, the handle creaked and the hinges wailed. 

“What’s a scuro?”

“It’s a – “

“And the other thing. I thought I was the only Greek traipsing around here.“ Herakles stepped into the room after Michele.

Michele laughed to himself. “It’s named after the east winds, which we call the grecu or livanti. The creature that’s called grecu livanti travels with the winds and that is the reason why it can show up so quickly at the doorsteps of naughty kids.” Michele hunched his shoulders, curled his hand into a claw and wiggled his fingers. “And grab them!” The claw snapped into a fist. Herakes chuckled. “If it doesn’t gobble them up on the spot, it will stuff the kids down its pants to take them home and eat them later.”

Michele grinned at Herakles. “... charming.”

The grin dimmed back to a smirk. “Wonderful, the idea that one might run into such a fella in the dark, isn’t it?” Michele briefly took a look around the room, before he walked towards a box, mounted against the wall in a corner.

It was some sort of storeroom. A few wooden crates and half-empty shelves. Either a generator or an old AC unit. Herakles wasn’t sure.

“The boys would have their fun with this,” Michele said and he looked at him.

“ … fixing the fuse box?”

“They would have fun traipsing around in the dark.” Michele turned his head and the light in his hand as he examined the box’ handle and where the door met the frame.

Herakles stepped closer and lowered his light. “Unafraid of grecu livanti?”

“Oh, far from it!” Michele pulled at the fuse box’ handle, but it did nothing except for making the aged metal moan. “Oh, actually, there is a … My god, it’s so embarrassing.”

Michele pulled again, with the same result as before.

“Do you want me to open it for you?” Herakles asked softly.

“No, no …” Michele switched the lamp from one hand to the other and pulled. The door didn’t even budge this time. “But you can hold the lamp, if you would be so kind?”

“Of course.” Herakles took Michele’s lamp. He turned his own off and put it on top of the nearest crate. He stood aside from Michele now.

Michele now pulled with both hands. “You see.” There was a strain from the physical effort, but he tried to talk as if there was no effort at all. “This must have happened a while ago. Marco and Lorenzo weren’t on their-” He took one hand of the handle to gesture and the other one now pulled with short, hard jerks. “-best behaviour. And in a fit of …” Michele stopped and breathed for a few moments. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I honestly don’t know. But I had gotten the idea that maybe a bogeyman would strike some fear into their hearts.” The pulls became weaker and weaker. Michele sighed. “Now mind you, the boys fear very little.” He let go of the handle and turned to Herakles. Herakles wondered if him leaning against the door with his upper arm was intentional. “Much less than is good for them, and ghosts are most certainly not on the list. I, however, thought I’d give it a shot. Alessia, do you remember her? You ever met her? Girl, around sixteen. Loud, cheeky, got short brown hair, nearly as tall as I am.”

“I might remember someone like that.”

“Anyways.” Michele learned harder against the box.

“I don’t think it’s going to help with the power if the door caves in and crashes the fuses.”

“Well, it’s not doing me any favours with the power this way either, being closed.” Michele had said it with a smile, but released his weight.

“If anything, you might have gotten the door stuck even more.”

“Bullshit.” Michele pulled with both hands again and Herakles pouted. “Anyways, where was I? I asked Alessia if she wanted to do me a favour and she did.” He stopped and sighed. Herakles could see him stare ahead at the fuse box, but his look was lost in space. “So … Honestly, please don’t ask what’s gotten into me, but I asked Alessia to come to the house and play a grecu livanti one night. Which made the boys believe in ghosts for a few hours, who knows, really, but they also believed themselves to be excellent ghost hunters and did not resign to their fate. All I did was frighten them into more mischievous action. So much for boogeyman to keep the kids in in line.” Michele sighed and rubbed one hand over the back of the other. Herakles was glad that the banging and clanging had stopped, for it had started to give him a headache. Michele picked at his skin. “That’s the story behind the crack in the wall upstairs, by the way. And I think that Alessia, who’s now … who’s now … She and the boys will probably spend more time together in the future, and I don’t think she’s ever going to let them hear the end of it. At least someone had fun. I don’t know what I was thinking, it all seemed like a terrible and silly mistake in the same night and I apologised profusely to the two for playing such a terrible prank on them. Frighten the children with man-eating monsters! What a cruel thing to do, especially in this day and age, don’t you think?”

Michele hadn’t looked up at Herakles once. Only at his hand, at which he had picked all throughout his monologue.

Herakles stepped closer to Michele and gently laid it over the hand that picked at the skin.

“It sure makes for a remarkable story despite it all, don’t you think?” He asked. “I am sure that, give it a few years, Marco and Lorenzo will think of it as a silly childhood adventure and not a breach of trust.” Michele glanced at him. “You’re so hard on yourself, Michele. Trying to be a parent in your teens, I think it’s perhaps not that unusual to go a bit mad with the task.”

“Parent … well …” Michele buzzed.

“Older brother.” Herakles put his head on Michele’s shoulder. “Will you let me try to open the box?”

“Give me one last shot,” Michele said. Herakles rubbed his face against Michele’s cheek and neck, before he straightened up and took a step back.

Michele grabbed the handle. He took a deep breath, shifted his stance and yanked one last time.

The box flew open, with such a force that Michele stumbled back. Herakles stepped behind him and let Michele bump into him.

It was quiet for a moment. Herakles had put an arm around Michele, who slouched in his hold.

“… careful there.”

Michele snapped out of his daze.

“Hah! Eureka! Told you!” He got onto his feet and pushed up his sleeves. “Now, shine inside, be so kind.” He pulled the box’ door wide open.

“Of course.” Herakles stood right behind Michele to light the box’ interior.

The fuses were extremely old, of plastic that had gone yellow with age and dust. Some of them were labelled - a few with neatly etched plates drilled into the box, but most with paper labels. Herakles couldn’t read a single one.

“Everything seems to be fine here …” Michele said. He gingerly touched a few of them, turned one or two with an audible click, but nothing happened. Herakles looked at the room’s door over his shoulder, but stared straight into the pitch black hole.

“Curious,” he said.

“Indeed.” Michele stared ahead for a while. He turned his head to Herakles. “There’s another one upstairs.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” He carefully and slowly closed the door, until it hit the frame and wouldn’t budge any further. He sighed and increased the pressure, but it would only move millimetre by millimetre and with the ugly scratch of metal on metal. “Ciaccatu,” he cursed under his breath. “Couldn’t even build a fucking box that fit. Surely, better to have it all out in the open, better than whatever shoddy electric works Luigi added to the house, but Giovanni couldn’t even bother with a proper box!” He banged his hand against the fuse box’ door. The noise rang in Herakles’ ears still. Michele sighed into the silence. “Let’s leave it at that.”

“I’m sure you want your flashlight back.” 

“I do.” Herakles handed Michele the flashlight and then took a step to the side, until he realized the problem. “Can you shine over here? I put my flashlight-” Michele had already turned.

“Of course.”

Herakles picked up his own, wiped off the dust and turned it on.

“Alright,” Michele said. “Let’s go.” He walked out of the room with Herakles behind him. He closed the door on the way out.

It was a claustrophobic feeling to walk down the small corridor. When they turned into the bigger hallway, Herakles took a moment to shine a light onto the objects on the wall.

An old clock that no longer ticked. A painting in a heavy, detailed frame that showed a shipwreck. A Sicilian marionette of a knight.

The moon had shifted. Herakles saw the polished metal of the rail and post gleamed in the pale moonlight, but everything else was engulfed by darkness.

“You’d think that this stupid glass ceiling would serve at least some kind of purpose,” Michele said as they walked towards the front of the stairs. “Or all these giant windows. But no! If the moon isn’t visible or at the wrong angle, it’s useless, all useless! It only all makes this house a living nightmare in summer and winter alike! Giovanni had the right idea when he bricked up one of these hideous things instead of fixing it - Nothing about this is practical!” He grabbed the handrail and began to climb the stairs.

The balcony at the top was marginally lit by the moonlight overhead. Beyond the landing was another yawning mouth of blackness.

“But I am sure he didn’t even install a lamp in that room,” Michele ranted about his grandfather. Herakles began to climb the stairs behind him. He didn’t care! He cared as little as his father had, just in a different way! Nobody cared about this house and how could you! How could anyone live in here, in this … in this monument to hubris!” Michele stopped in the middle of the stairs and looked at the glass ceiling. Herakles stopped as well. “It was supposed to be it all! Spanish Baroque, an actual Roman villa – well, if only this damned hole had a single use like it had in a Roman villa! But they didn’t care for history! Cared nothing for it like the fucking fascists who locked them up – Neo-classical! Neo-classical it was supposed to be too! Neo-classical my ass, have you seen the things they built in Palermo? You’ve seen the tribunale! How fuckugly! I’d rather they throw me straight into jail than try me in this affront to everything! ” Michele made it to the landing of the balcony and looked from left to right. His heavy breath echoed off the high walls and stone floors.

Herakles came to a stop beside him. “We technically don’t have to fix the light, if you don’t want to.” Michele looked at him for a moment, mouth still open to breathe through it. “We’re not gonna freeze nor die of heatstroke without the AC and I don’t know about you, but I don’t need light for the things I do at night.” He smiled. “Though some types of sleeping are more fun with it, I’ll say.” The smile thinned. Michele scanned the atrium. “But you don’t have to see even as much as the shades around the house, if you don’t want to, Michele. They’re not real.”

Michele looked at him, with furrowed brows but eyes open and alert. “If those shades aren’t real, I’m terrified of what real things they’re supposed to represent.” He turned to the left. “And I am not meeting them in the dark.”

“So we’re not going to bed?” Herakles asked and intonated it like a neutral question.

“No, we’re not. There could be something wrong with the wiring or the fuses and I want to make sure …” His voice had begun to waver. When he spoke again, the desperation in his tone wanted to rise above a whisper, but his vocal cords couldn’t manage it. “I really hope nothing happened in … that room.”

That room was to the right of the staircase. Michele walked ahead into the hallway to the left and Herakles followed him in silence. There were two large photo prints of places in Sicily, but a painting was hung prominently where the hallway split into two. It was romantic and showed the Acropolis of Athens against the backdrop of a vast landscape, devoid of any people.

Herakles noticed how the circle of light from Michele’s flashlight shook slightly.

He dared to ask the question. “Have you opened it since?”

"No." Michele turned the right corner.

Herakles wondered what the state the office of Michele’s father was in when Michele had decided to lock the door and hide the key. He wondered if he had hidden it at all or gone as far as destroying it or throwing it out to sea. He hadn’t asked any follow up questions two or three years ago. Michele had told him about it on a late summer night, when the world had been at its most quiet. Herakles had not really cared to know more than what he had told him. Michele wanted to close the door on the past. Herakles would be the last person to deny him that.

Michele cursed and Herakles’ attention snapped back to him. He had stopped in front of a door on the right side and now muttered angrily under his breath.

“Hm?” Herakles asked: “What’s the matter?”

“I have to get the key, wait here for me for a second.” Michele walked past him and disappeared around the corner.

Herakles listened to Michele’s steps down the stairs. He heard a cabinet drawer open, then close, followed by steps that receded further.

He looked around. At the far end of the corridor opposite to the one he was in, he could see a tall window. Barely any light fell inside, but when he lowered his lamp, he could see Palermo’s lights twinkle in the distance.

Herakles thusly had to assume that the window faced the front, although perhaps he was mistaking one of the towns further inland with Palermo. Despite the many nights he had spent at the house, without the warm glow of the dim lamps mounted against the wall, everything looked the same.

It took him until Michele’s return, key in hand, that he vaguely recognized his position in the house. Michele opened the door, which revealed a guest room.

Or rather, a room that could function as such. The official guestroom had become Maria’s room, now that she had moved back in with her son. Marco and Lorenzo had taken over another guest room. He knew that Michele had offered them their own rooms more than once, but they had rather shared. They were around 14 now and Herakles wondered if puberty would make the offer more appealing. He knew that as much as Timothea and Omar loved each other, a shared room would lead to a disaster.

This room had a bed with a rug, oriental but more likely to be from a North-African region, a nightstand and two closets.

Herakles had only ever slept in the one now occupied by Maria, which was a far nicer guest room than this one.

He lingered on this thought for a while as its implications occurred to him. He knew that Michele went on dates and even had met a girlfriend once, but tried to think back to the last time Michele had made him sleep in the guest room or refused to sleep in Herakles’ bed on a visit to Athens. Although it would lead to perhaps a platonic cuddle at most, Herakles’ respected Michele’s commitment to faithfulness during his brief romances. He understood that if the twins found them in the same bed, it would raise questions – Marco and Lorenzo were older than the time Michele had told them Herakles was sleeping in his room because of a sleepover. It had been a fun night in the end as they had watched movies with the two and talked until 2 am, when Michele and Herakles could barely keep their eyes open. It reminded him of the time when, years ago, Sadık had come to meet him in secret at the Simonides’ house, so that Athanasios wouldn’t catch wind of it. The two of them had barely stripped down to their underpants when there had been a knock on the door of the guest room. Sex had to be postponed for the next hour as they had entertained Omar and Timothea. Omar had shown them the Pokémon game on his Gameboy as he sat in Sadık’s lap, while Timothea and her perfectionism only managed to braid one and a half braids into Herakles’ hair, before Natasa and Ibrahim told the twins to “leave the boys alone” and had put them to bed. Herakles had left the finished braid alone, because Sadık had said he had looked cute with it.

“Have you ever considered open relationships, Michele?”

A loud creak went through the room. “Huh?” Michele asked into the dark. “Oh, so you finally got your head out of the clouds. Would you be so kind and help me with the door again?”

Herakles shone his light at him and realized that Michele struggled with the fuse box again. This one looked more modern than the one downstairs.

“Sure.” Herakles ambled over. “You want me to open it?”

“No, I think I’ve got this one.” Michele had put his lamp onto the nightstand and Herakles continued to use his own this them. He stood behind Michele, in case he had to catch him, and shone onto the box over his shoulder.

Herakles said: “I’m just saying, I’m sure you could find someone who’s open to an open relationship.” Herakles smiled. “It’s a mighty lot of fun, if you ask me.”

Michele snorted before he laughed. A welcome sound to Herakles’ ears in between his laboured grunts and the bangs of the door when he pulled on it. “I’m sure it suits you just fine, my friend.” The pulls continued. “But those things, they need time and commitment … why not just play pretend with love, if it’s fleeting anyways?” He stopped his efforts with the box and shook his arms. He swallowed. “Now, I’m glad that you got lucky in love, but I … I am starting to believe that ‘true love’ isn’t in the cards for me … But I am happy to take the scraps of love I find along the way.”

Herakles put his head on Michele’s left shoulder. He kissed his cheek. “You can always come back to me, if you need it.”

Michele trembled. He had trembled this entire time. “I know, Erculi,” he said. “I know.”

Herakles switched his lamp to the other hand and yanked the fuse box open. 

“… thank you,” Michele said.

“Thought you could use the help.” Herakles touched his cheek to Michele’s, before he straightened up.

Michele looked through the fuse box. Herakles still couldn’t read any of the paper labels, but at least these fuses looked 30 years old and not from the 30s. Michele’s fingers shook as he flipped the switches.

“Michele, I can take a look for you, too …”

“Hm? No, no … you don’t even know what is where … it’s fine …” There was an erratic quality to his eyes. He turned a knob, but nothing changed. “I don’t … I don’t know …” His hand rested on the knob. It was limp. Herakles started to notice his own breath as well. “Is there another one I don’t remember …?  Everything was fine before we left, there’s … there’s no nothing left but that room ...”

A creak went through the house and Michele whirled around, eyes wide open.

Silence.

“Old houses sound like that,” Herakles said. “Probably nothing – “

“I think I saw someone in the corridor,” Michele said. With his look fixed onto the door, he reached for his lamp behind him. He missed it a few times before he turned around and picked it up. Herakles shone his light into the open door.

“Are you sure?” he asked him.

“I saw, I saw something move …” Michele walked towards the door and Herakles followed him with a worried frown on his forehead.

“I think you might be – “

“There!” They stood in the corridor. “There again, there …”

A panel of lights hushed across the wall.

In time with the sound of a car as it made its way through the bumpy streets around the fields. 

Herakles looked to the tall window. “I think what you saw was just the headlights of the car.”

Michele stared into the dark.

The lights in the atrium flickered on and he jumped. His lamp dropped to the floor with a loud clunk.

“The electricity seems to be back,” Herakles said, but kept his flashlight on and picked up Michele’s.

“Yes …, yes, apparently it’s back,” Michele said as he looked around. He took a deep breath.

“Your lamp?”

“Oh?” He took it from Herakles. “Yes, thank you.” He switched it off, so Herakles did the same. Michele had pressed his eyes shut when he said: “I think there’s ghosts around every corner.”

“They’re only shades, though. They may pass through you, but they can’t cause you any harm.”

Michele clicked his tongue and shook his head. He looked at Herakles. “Some may only pass through you, but pray to God that none of them stick. And some of these ghosts are bodily and if they come back, they bring nothing but rot and illness with them. Turnati . Bodies who’ve crossed over but won’t stay dead.”

Herakles wondered if Michele spoke in a literal or metaphorical sense. He realized that the ghosts were real regardless. “ … I’ll send you a charm as soon as I am back in Greece. I’m sure it’ll keep some of these ghosts at bay.”

Michele’s look was turned towards to atrium. A stare tired enough for a millennia of pain. A haunted man.

“I need to sit down,” he said.  “I need a glass of wine.” He turned to Herakles. “Care to sit on the porch with me? I can’t bear another wall.”

Can’t bear the garden wall. Can’t bear Monreale.

Can bear the quiet night. Can bear to stare out at Monte Pellegrino and hope that someone would take the plague from him. Can bear to look out at the sea – Swallowing everything and giving nothing back. Can bear to look at the city, walls so beautiful and yet so bloody.

“We’ll open one of the bottles from crete that I brought, if you like.” Herakles was reminded of his remark about his own father earlier and was glad they hadn’t put the bottles down into the wine cellar yet. A ghost in a bottle was the last thing he needed right now. 

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good…” Michele stared ahead, where the hallway to the right of the staircase split into two. The light of the atrium couldn’t reach it. He walked towards the staircase and Herakles followed him.

~*~

Gugghiermu is the Sicilian version of William. Michele is referring to King William II of Sicily.

"Minchia" - "Shit". Literally translates to "Penis".

"Ciaccatu" - Something broken.

Tribunale is the Italian word for court. The tribunale in Palermo is an example of "Stripped Classicism", a neo-Classical style widely employed by fascist regimes of Italy & Germany. "The fascists who locked them up" is a reference to Cesare Mori. To insert historical nuance that the text lacks - Cesare Mori often butted heads with the fascist regime and thus had lost his job briefly after Mussolini had come to power. He was re-established as prefect of Sicily by the fascist regime later in the 20s. His fight against the Mafia was arguably extremely effective, but also ensured by very harsh measures, so he continues to be a controversial figure. The association expressed in the text is best explained by the fact that the fascists bragged about how it was them who destroyed the mafia. It's a bold-faced lie and soon after WWII, the mafia proliferated again and is active to this day.

“Taddarita,” Michele told Herakles with a content smile.

Herakles smiled back. “Nychterida.”

“Oh, I think that’s the same word,” Michele said and lifted the small coffee cup to his lips.

“It’s not,” Herakles said. “After you butchered it.”

Michele chuckled about it. He still hadn’t taken a sip. Herakles had made them Greek coffee and Michele was careful with it. He dreaded the thought of reaching the bottom and ending up with a mouthful of coffee grounds. “We didn’t butcher them, we’ve made them our own. But we’ve kept them, regardless.” He finally drank some before he glanced back to Herakles with eyes half lidded. “Carusu,” he said.

“Agori”, Herakles replied.

They had drifted off and talked about history and linguistics again. A safe topic. No business. No nightmares. Michele had tried his best to get rid of the bags under his eyes before he came to Greece but he had no idea if he succeeded. Herakles hadn’t said a word about it and he was grateful for it.

He just wanted to go back to the days when he learnt Ancient Greek at the liceo classico and Herakles did the same at his lykio. When they had found another shared passion to fill the time of the rare afternoons spent together in Palermo or Athens.

“Modern Greek is still Greek” Herakles said. “The words we kept, we didn’t change.”

“Even if we changed them to suit our tongues, we haven’t replaced them,” Michele answered. “After the Phoenicians and the Romans came. And the Arabs and the Germans, the French and the Spaniards. None of them could take the words from us.” His voice was low and he wondered if it even left his mouth or just stuck as vibrations to his lips.

Herakles gave away nothing as he looked into Michele’s eyes. His form was mostly in the shadows, with only the dim light of the moon, the city and a dingy lamp in the corner of the room.

Almost nothing. His tongue darted out and licked delicately over his upper lip.

Michele watched him intently. “Liccu,” he said.

“Lihoudis,” Herakles replied.

They said nothing for a while, broke eye contact and Herakles took a sip of his coffee.

“There’s an Italian version of Herakles, too,” Michele said and Herakles lazily raised an eyebrow. “I could call you Erculi.” His accent was heavy when the name rolled off his tongue.

Herakles' thumb rubbed over the edge of his cup. His lips were slightly parted and Michele didn’t miss the attentive spark in his eyes.

He tried to distract himself by taking another sip of coffee.

“Mihalis,” Herakles said and Michele swallowed coffee grounds and sugar.

His hairs stood on end. He wanted to take Herakles’ hand and call him Erculi and babble sweet nothings in Sicilian at him. He wanted to be reminded of the touches they had shared when they had been kids, behind the safety of a schoolbook and the wild growth of a garden or sometimes tucked away in the corner of a dock wall.

Now they weren’t kids anymore, however, freed from their parents' watchful eye. He could do all that.

Herakles chuckled and despite the hour, it was a joyful little sound. Michele had put the coffee cup down and thought to get a glass of water to wash the coffee out of his mouth. He didn’t dare look at Herakles.

“You know who also changed my name?” Herakles asked and Michele glanced at him.

“Who?” The grounds stuck to his tongue and the walls of his mouth, but he wouldn’t say anything. Not unless Herakles said something first.

“Natasa. She calls me Iraklis, because she thinks Herakles is pretty pretentious in this day and age.” He chuckled again, his eyes on the table instead of Michele, and a faint smile on his face. “Maybe that’s also the reason why we Greeks changed all the words you Sicilians kept.”

Michele chuckled to himself. He got up to fetch a glass of water.

“She's been a big help in navigating this Shark Tank. Calls me Ira for short,” Herakles said and Michele nearly choked on the water. One last chuckle left Herakles, more of an amused sigh.

“Oh,” Michele said, as steady as his voice could manage.

“Interesting.”

Herakles looked at him from the corner of his eyes. “Yeah?”

In Italian, Ira means wrath.

They weren’t kids anymore, Michele thought. He wanted to sleep.

So he put his glass of water down, walked over to Herakles and peered inside his coffee cup. Empty, but so carefully drunk that he didn’t inhale the grounds.

“Iri means to go in Sicilian,” Michele said. Herakles had turned towards him. “I think I want to go to bed.”

Up close, he saw the dark circles underneath Herakles’ eyes. There was a cut on his thumb that hadn’t yet fully healed. Scratch marks peaked out underneath his hair and shirt.

And Michele didn’t care one bit for any of it, because it didn’t change that Herakles was so beautiful it knocked the breath out of Michele’s lungs.

Herakles scooted back with his chair, a dull sound on the old tiles, and welcomed Michele onto his lap. His hands steadied him as he sat down and one found its way into Michele’s hair as he kissed him. He liked the warm and heavy weight against his head and his own thumb brushed over Herakles’ cheek. Herakles’ lips were soft and warm and when his tongue darted out into the other’s mouth or it willingly met Herakles’ in his own, there was a faint taste of sugar and coffee.

Herakles broke their kiss and pulled back. When Michele opened his eyes, they went wide upon meeting Herakles’ stare. The pleading in his eyes scared him.

“Mihalis,” Herakles then whispered and Michele was ready to keel over.

“Erculi,” he got out, voice on the verge of tears and held onto Herakles for dear life as they kissed again.

~*~

"Taddarita/Nychterida [νυχτερίδα]" = Bat

"Carusu/Agori [αγόρι]" = Boy (In Greek, it can also be used to mean "Boyfriend". Since the Italian ragazzo works the same way, I assume the Sicilian carusu can also refer to a boyfriend. Do with that information what you will.)