Archive of Our Own

The November 1st sunshine, filtered through dark curtains, is far too gentle to wake Jacopo up. He’s a confusing blend of hungover and cozy, mouth cotton-dry but still tasting faintly of pumpkin alcohol, head spinning but pleasantly dulled by the hot arm slung comfortably over his torso.

It’s the arm that wakes Jacopo up. He’s not alone in this bed. It’s not even his bed. It’s not his apartment either. The memories come flooding back on a hurricane wave.

Jacopo opens his eyes.

Last night was Halloween. He’s in Paolo’s guest room, up above the tattoo shop. There was apple bobbing, and drinking, and dancing, and piñatas in the shape of giant spiders, and did he mention drinking? Jacopo’s eyeballs are still wobbling. Details are filling in crucial gaps, like pieces of a broken vase delicately being glued back together.

He was dancing with someone last night. That guy in the Batman costume. They did more than just dance. They—they became extremely familiar with each other’s nether regions. Jacopo is accosted with flashes, reels of a broken film, and vaguely recalls Batman fucking him until the bedframe squeaked. Batman ducked between his legs licking the crown of his cock with a dexterous tongue. Batman’s hands tight on Jacopo’s hips and mouth hot on his ear.

Jacopo feels up his own chest, encountering a few sore spots along the way. Batman had some teeth on him, he remembers that too. When he gets to his jaw, he realizes his mask has been knocked off, possibly during sex, possibly during slumber. He doesn’t remember. The plastic skull sits upside down on the floor, unattended, next to pieces of a discarded costume. The calamitous fun of Halloween is over, replaced with a sobering November solemnity.

The arm around him stirs. It’s only then that Jacopo realizes he should really check and see who it is he’s in bed with, whose dick he sucked last night like it was a popsicle. Who was actually underneath all that pleather.

Jacopo rolls over to sneak a peek. What he sees almost has him monsooning out of bed.

Batman’s mask is gone too. The man who’s naked in bed next to him, nestled around Jacopo from behind, sticky thigh pressed to sticky thigh, is someone whose dark coal curls and smattered chest hair Jacopo would know blind.

At least—he thought he’d know it blind. The elevator cord of Jacopo’s heart snaps before going into freefall.

“M—Matteo?”

--

24 HOURS EARLIER

Jacopo plucks at the skeleton costume clinging to his thighs. He doesn’t know why he thought shopping for one online was a good idea; he can barely get lucky enough to buy shirts that fit without trying them on first, so why the fuck did he think a skin-tight Halloween ensemble would be any different? With the way this fabric is plastered to him, he’s starting to wonder if he inadvertently was shopping in the child section.

Matteo could pull it off. But Matteo could pull off wearing a burlap sack and make it haute couture. Jacopo doesn’t have quite the same effect in clothing, let alone things that pretend to be clothing but are really just overpriced sausage casings.

At least it comes with a mask. Half a skull, lightweight in plastic but convincingly painted into something gruesomely close to the real thing, with a single black strap to hold it in place behind his head. With the mask on, the ensemble doesn’t look half bad. It’s not subpar quality either. The bones aren’t drawn with cartoon-level goofiness; the design is realistic and detailed. Jacopo examines himself in the mirror, indulging himself in a few turns to check out different angles.

His phone rings on his bed while he’s stretching and pulling fabric into place. It’s Alessandro.

“You look good,” Alessandro says in lieu of a hello once Jacopo picks up.

Jacopo stops moving. “Huh?”

“Every year, always the same. Always whining about your costume being dumb, and you’re the hottest guy in the room.”

“I—um.”

“Just shut up and wear what you’re wearing now,” Alessandro says. There’s noise in the background like an intercom, like metal hangers screeching on a rack, like Alessandro is out there right now looking for a suitable costume. “Is Matteo coming?”

“He’s in Austria,” Jacopo says. He stops plucking at the fabric. “I don’t know.” It’s not a long flight. But it’s long enough when someone’s tired and overworked. Sometimes Matteo surprises him, doesn’t text Jacopo an itinerary but then is lounging on the couch, grinning, when Jacopo comes home later in the day. He can only hope he’ll be so lucky this time. “I’ll call him.”

“You do that,” Alessandro says. “Stop looking in the mirror.”

Jacopo hangs up. He thumbs his way over to his and Matteo’s WhatsApp chat, full of red hearts and congratulations about his success in Vienna. Above their conversation is Matteo’s status: Online.

Jacopo doesn’t waste time; he presses call. Matteo picks up on the second ring.

“Hey, Japo.”

“I miss you,” Jacopo blurts out. “Are you in Austria?”

In the background he can hear noise, and it only takes Jacopo a moment to identify it as airport chatter. If Jacopo strains his ears, he can hear German over a tinny intercom.

“On my way home,” Matteo says.

“Monaco?”

“No, I mean—Italy. Where you are.”

“Oh.” Those words are like a hug, the kind that smells of Matteo’s soapy shampoo and his bergamot aftershave. “I’m in Rome. Paolo’s party is tonight.”

“Shit. It’s Halloween.”

“Yeah.”

“Shit,” Matteo says again. He sounds rueful, maybe because of the festivities he’s missing out on, or maybe because of the people he’s missing out on. It’s always like this, save for Christmas and Jacopo’s birthday, right after the finish line of the ATP finals. Even last year, when Matteo had to retire injured, his oblique a painful end to his season, he was nothing but smiles at Jacopo’s party. “I’ll try to make it, Japo.”

Through the phone, Jacopo hears some Italian murmuring. Vincenzo bringing up the rear, probably. “I know you will. Just focus on coming home safely.”

“I’m not flying the plane, Jacopo.”

“Matteo.”

“Okay, okay.” There’s some shuffling, like Matteo is moving his duffel bag to the other shoulder. “What’s your costume look like?”

“You’ll get to see it if you come,” Jacopo says. He thinks he’ll slick his hair back with some gel. No trademark blond curls tonight. No loose hoodies and a messy mop of hair and worn white sneakers. No Jacopo. Tonight he’s a character. What’s the point of Halloween if not to fool some of his friends?

“I’ll try,” Matteo promises, earnest. “I’ll text you when I land.”

--

Two massive punch bowls sit on the table decked to the gills in Halloween gear: POISONED and UNPOISONED. The former is almost empty. Jacopo reaches for the ladle to scoop out a cup’s worth, gently nudging aside skull-shaped ice cubes.

“It will be a funny joke until all of us turn up dead tomorrow,” says the man Jacopo hands the ladle to when he’s finished. He may or may not be someone Jacopo knows; the full-body werewolf suit makes it hard to tell. “Although he is right. It is poison in a way, isn’t it?”

The werewolf helps himself to the punch regardless, scraping out the last of the bowl. “Where’s Paolo? Someone tell him the alcohol’s gone dry.”

He disappears into the throng of the costumed crowd and orange strobe lights and artificial cobwebs. Jacopo has to give Paolo props: his house doesn’t look anything like the bland bachelor pad it normally is, instead transformed into a Halloween masterpiece. Plastic skeletons hang from every outward-facing door and pumpkins are lined on every tabletop, jaggedly carved into grisly faces.

It’s an impressive party, and more fun than he had last year for Halloween when he was in Portugal losing to a player ranked three hundred spots below him. None of his friends even recognized him so far in his skeleton get-up, not until he wiggled the mask off and revealed himself, a Halloween magic trick. The only thing missing here is Matteo.

Jacopo fishes his phone out of his pocket and thumbs his way to his text messages. Miss you. Think you can you make it to the party? He presses send. As an afterthought, he adds The punch is really good and some orange heart emojis.

Marco materializes next to him, breathing hard and décolleté drenched. Jacopo doesn’t need to see the half-eaten apple in his hand to figure out the clues there.

“How was apple bobbing?” he asks anyway.

Marco takes a cheeky, crunchy bite. His scarecrow costume looks ten times more disturbing sopping wet. “I’m a champion,” he says, shaking drenched hair out of his face. “Think you can beat me?”

“I’m sure I can,” Jacopo says. “But I won’t.”

He intends to exit the evening unscathed. And more importantly, dry. He adjusts his mask. It’s a little stuffy under there, but he’s getting used to it. Side effects of an airborne pandemic, he supposes. He shifts it aside to take a sip of his poison.

“Holy shit,” Jacopo exclaims. “That’s strong. What is that, motor oil?”

It’s like someone took a match to Jacopo’s throat. Still, Marco helpfully tips the glass back to Jacopo’s lips. “Have some more. It’ll loosen you up.”

“Loosen me up?”

Marco gives him a look. “You need it,” he says. “Come on. I’ve been traveling with you for months. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it all.”

“You’ve seen some stuff,” Jacopo amends.

“All of it,” Marco insists. “You haven’t really let yourself have fun in ages. You just keep beating yourself up for not being at your best.” Jacopo opens his mouth, and Marco jumps on him like a snapper turtle. “Don’t fucking deny it. You need to unwind, kid.”

Jacopo closes his mouth again, crabby. He can’t deny that Marco’s been traveling with him for the majority of the year, has watched his numerous failures from the sidelines, has stood with him in countless hotel and gym elevators, has called Matteo over and over from the box to describe final points to him. But that doesn’t mean that Jacopo doesn’t know how to relax.

“In Ibiza—” he starts.

“That was months ago,” Marco cuts in. He tilts his head, considering. “Is Matteo coming?”

Jacopo knows what the subtext of that is: Jacopo has infinitely more fun when Matteo is around. He checks his phone for a message, but Matteo hasn’t seen his text. “I don’t know,” he says. “I hope so. He was still in Vienna this morning.”

“And today?”

“I don’t know,” he says again. He sighs this time. Sometimes the ache of missing Matteo is like a shackle around his vital organs, even with the frequent video calls, the constant text messaging, the daily updates. It’s not like tonight is anything important; it’s just Halloween. But it’s fun, and Jacopo wishes he could share all the fun things with Matteo.

“Come on,” Marco says, clearly sensing the incoming grumpiness. “Francesco brought scary movies. He’s camped out upstairs with half the party. Want to watch?”

“Nah,” Jacopo says with a shrug. He looks down at this cup, already empty. “I want some more to drink.”

“You and your wine.”

“It’s not even wine. It’s poison.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Marco claps him on the shoulder and takes off, presumably to cram himself into the theater that has emerged out of Paolo’s transformed bedroom. Jacopo does as promised and heads instead for the buffet to top off his glass. Paolo’s refilled the punch bowls to the brim and Jacopo’s second helping of poison packs an even bigger punch than the first, pleasantly swaying the room a little bit.

Maybe a bit too much, because as he shimmies his way past everybody, he bumps into someone who he swears wasn’t there a second ago. Or maybe someone equally tipsy bumps into Jacopo. When Jacopo turns to look, it turns out to be Batman.

Actually, it’s an incredibly attractive Batman. Broad shoulders. Firm chest. Torso for days.

“Sorry,” Jacopo says, although he’s not. He’s actually quite pleased. “Didn’t see you there.”

“It’s fine,” Batman says. His voice is pitched deep, an imitation of the inspiration of the costume. That voice sounds familiar, but he can’t place it. Hasn’t he found all his friends at the party already? That was Andrea in the plague doctor mask, and Flavio in the Frankenstein’s monster get-up, and Paolo in the terrifying clown outfit— “Strong stuff, huh?”

He’s lifting his cup, half-drunken. Jacopo nods. “Could knock you out.”

“Nice costume.”

“You too,” Jacopo says. “What’s Batman’s opinion on skeletons?”

“They’re hot,” Batman says, still in that coarse grumble. “I mean—when they look like that.”

They both laugh, but suddenly the airtight fabric feels inexplicably hot as well. Jacopo is burning up under that skull mask, flames trapped on his cheeks. He hasn’t flirted like this with anyone in ages, but maybe it’s the anonymity of the mask, the pleasant buzz of the alcohol punch, the fact that it’s Halloween night and Jacopo is coming to the end of a disappointing tennis season. He could go for a tension-relieving hook-up at a party.

And something about Batman’s eyes looks inviting. That warm brown looks like sinking into a cup of espresso.

“Paolo got a palm reader,” Batman says. He sounds almost hesitant under that big bad pleather mask. “D’you want to try?”

Somehow Jacopo missed that particular novelty in Paolo’s place. He nods, though, up for the gimmick. Batman grabs him by the wrist and leads him past the crowded kitchen, past the busy living room, down to the dining room where a curtained table sits in the corner. A bedsheet ghost is just leaving when Batman and Jacopo take their place on tiny stools perched in front. Behind the table is a middle-aged woman in heavy make-up. Outside of the caked eyeshadow, she doesn’t look as tacky as Jacopo was expecting.

“Welcome!” she says. When she extends her arms in greeting, bangles slip down to her wrists. “Sit, sit, sit. Hold out your palms.”

She has them both extend their dominant hands. Together is fine, she reassures them, as she smacks their palms side by side on the table to carefully examine. It almost feels a bit like a doctor’s appointment if not for the crushed velvet curtains.

She runs her finger down a crease in Jacopo’s palm. “Setbacks professionally?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for a response. “Beyond your control.”

Batman looks at him, curious. “Injuries,” Jacopo explains.

“Oh. Athlete?”

“Yeah.”

Batman nods, thoughtful. “Me too.”

The palm reader taps Jacopo’s hand again, distracting him from that particular nugget of information. “Not for long,” she says. “The setbacks are coming to an end. Fate lines are always transforming, and you have been too.” Her eyebrows wrinkle together. She ghosts her fingertip down a different line. “Your heart line is very long.” To clarify, she adds, “Love line.”

“Oh. What does that mean?”

“Very deep, very solid. You are very romantic. There’s a long and lasting union meant for you. See how far it stretches?” She waits until Jacopo peers closer at the riddle of his palm to take a look at Batman’s hand too. “Ah. Yours too. Both of yours. Soulmates.”

Jacopo jerks up. “Huh?”

She gives them both a decisive pat on the wrists. “You both have soulmates. Long, very long heart lines.”

Batman glances sidelong at Jacopo. “Any idea when we meet them?”

The palm reader smiles. She has a way about her, gently all-knowing, that reminds Jacopo of his mother. “It is someone you’ve had in your lives for ages now. You’ve just never looked at them that way before… and therein lies the twist of fate.” She traces a crease in their palms. “It’s coming soon.”

Jacopo feels his palms tingle, even the one she isn’t reading. He’s never been one to shun the spiritual, but surely the lines on his hand can’t say all that. Surely this is just Paolo’s aunt in a wig enriching his party with some bogus fortune-cookie-esque predictions. Who would that even be, the soulmate he’s met but never noticed?

She reads a few more things off their hands, revealing tidbits of their personalities, things that could be guesses but also feels oddly on-point. She nails down Jacopo’s strong sense of family, his weaning confidence in his abilities. With Batman she alludes to much fame and recognition in his world, a double-edged sword he must work to master, and curiously Jacopo examines him, wondering if his fame is large enough for Jacopo to know who he is outside of his disguise. He notices Batman squirming when he looks at him, clearly protective of the secret. Maybe Jacopo isn’t the only one who wants the relief of anonymity tonight.

“Think she says that to everyone?” Batman asks when they vacate the stools. “The soulmate thing.”

“Definitely,” Jacopo says, but in truth, he isn’t so sure. “I’m amazed she didn’t say something like keep an eye out for men in green shirts.” He laughs, but Batman has come to a brief stop. Maybe the confirmation of men caught him off guard. “So, fame and fortune, huh?”

“Oh.” The bits of his cheeks exposed by the mask turn bright pink. He ducks his head and touches his scalp, obviously a long-running nervous tic to ruffle his hair when anxious. It’s endearing. And… familiar. “Maybe one day. So what’s next?”

“Next?”

“Yeah. Night’s still young. What should we try next?”

Jacopo wasn’t expecting the eagerness to keep hanging out, but Batman is smiling, ready for more. A sweet little thrill of excitement dances up Jacopo’s body. He can see the night unfurling in front of them, a welcome distraction from his brother’s absence tonight.

So they keep going. There’s a serial killer trivia competition happening in the living room that they team up for. There’s pumpkin carving in the kitchen that they decide to tackle together, Jacopo tracing and Batman carving, both of them doing a laughably horrendous job. There's a game of skull cornhole (exactly the same, except the balls are tiny decorative skulls) that they triumph in, even after several more rounds of poison. Jacopo sees the proof of Batman’s athleticism here, how he laser-focuses on his target and strikes. It reminds Jacopo of Matteo, his easy and effortless grace on the court, the picturesque arches of his limbs as he moves, the way he licks his lips before he serves when he’s pulling himself into a bubble of concentration. When Jacopo cheers for him Batman gives him blinding grins and riant eyes, ones that make Jacopo feel like he’s cliff-diving.

Once they walk away as cornhole victors, Batman seizes Jacopo by the elbow.

“Wanna dance?” Batman asks, tilting his head to the temporary dance floor that used to be Paolo’s living room, and finally, Jacopo thinks. He likes a good game of jack-o-lantern pinata smacking, but there’s nothing Jacopo wants to do more right now than pull Batman closer into his personal space.

“Yeah,” Jacopo says through a swallow. “Yeah, yes.”

Jacopo would roll his eyes at his own over-brimming enthusiasm if not for the fact that Batman seems to be endeared by him, somehow, all ten bricks of his abdomen and nice bright teeth when he grins. He pushes into Jacopo’s space, tentative until Jacopo pushes in too, slotting their hips together and moving in instinctive circles. It doesn’t quite match the beat of The Addams Family theme song, but that doesn’t feel remotely important compared to the way they move together.

Around them people are laughing, clapping, bopping and grinding playfully along to the song’s silly noises. Batman ignores all that completely, entranced by the same spell that Jacopo has slipped under. A spell conceived only for them. He starts out swaying in time with Jacopo, then aligns their thighs tightly together, then starts bumping their hips in an uncoordinated cadence that still feels irrefutably good, and better still when Batman urges his thigh fully between Jacopo’s knees.

Jacopo’s ears are fuzz; he can’t follow the rhythm of the music, body clumsy against Batman’s sturdy frame, but Batman is like a metronome, creating a pulse that Jacopo can easily follow. His hands find Batman’s hips, starting at cautious but upgrading to bold when Batman rumbles, pleased, and dances into his touch. Already things are stirring in Jacopo’s pants, straining the unyielding fabric of his costume.

Batman smells good. Everybody on Halloween night smells of cheap plastic and even cheaper spandex, but Batman has a pleasant cologne about him, verbena and spice. Where the mask cuts off under his nose sits a smattering of dark stubble trailing down his throat. Jacopo tries to imagine what the rest of him looks like, and his mind’s eye supplies him with images: dark hair to match that strong jaw, sturdy build under the black clothes. He has an athlete’s body, well-constructed, imbibed with strength. Maybe he’s one of the guys on the ITF tour; it wouldn’t surprise Jacopo if Paolo had befriended more of the up-and-coming Italian players.

He also has a little pull to his smile that also looks redolent of someone Jacopo knows. His voice, robbed of its Batman shield already several times tonight, sounds like a voice Jacopo’s heard before. He just—seems familiar. Maybe they’ve practiced together before. Or maybe—

No. That palm reader’s fortune, as optimistic as it was, seems almost eerie the night of Halloween. But maybe there is such a thing, a preexisting bond sewn by the soul, an upcoming twist in his fate.

Or maybe Jacopo has had one too many drinks and is imagining things.

I’ll Put A Spell On You croons in the speakers, replacing the jolliness of the Addams Family. It’s easier to dance to the soulfully slow belting of Nina Simone, the sensual lilt to her voice encouraging closeness, encouraging hands, encouraging the dwindling space between them to dwindle further. They’re pressed together from chest to thighs before Jacopo can even register it, the heat of it all almost sticky, the scent of Batman’s sweat almost spicy. Jacopo takes their intimate proximity as permission to wind his arms around Batman’s neck, stopping along the way to run his hands up the stretch of Batman’s chest, the muscles of his shoulders, the expanse of his pecs. He’s impossibly firm underneath him, large and sturdy and god, Jacopo wants this man to pin him against a wall like a poster on a notice board.

Batman seems to be feeling the same vibe. He splays a hand wide on Jacopo’s back, right at the base, and pulls him in until Jacopo’s mask is bumping into his, nose to nose.

He ducks in close to Jacopo’s ear. “If you weren’t so full of bones, I would kiss you.”

Full of bones. Jacopo swallows. The joke is right on the tip of his tongue, but then Batman is swiping a thumb over Jacopo’s skull chin, playful and soft all at once. Jacopo would consider taking it off if he wasn’t concerned that his face would be a disappointment. Jacopo with the mask is mysterious and edgy; Jacopo without the mask is, well. “You want to?”

“Want to do a few things, actually.” Under the latex mask, Batman’s eyes are dark, inviting. Brown and hot. He leans in again, even closer this time, and a hint of tongue curls around Jacopo’s earlobe. “You know how good you look in that costume?”

Batman isn’t hiding the want in his voice, and instantly, all of that insecurity Jacopo was full of while looking in the mirror earlier zooms away. If Batman—who’s filling out that costume better than Christian Bale himself—appreciates the view, then who’s Jacopo to worry about how he looks vacuumed into a spandex skeleton outfit?

“You’re one to talk,” Jacopo rasps. That questionably strong liquor is coming in handy now as it helpfully shoves Jacopo toward bravery. “What do you look like under that?”

“Under?” Batman repeats. Jacopo’s green light is flashing in his eyes. “You want to find out?”

Jacopo does. He can’t think of what would take him apart and put him back together better than a sexy night out with Batman himself, dramatic black cape and all. If he squints, he might even be able to pretend that those eyes, that voice, that hair, belongs to—

“I know Paolo,” Jacopo tells him. “He’d let us use the guest room.”

Batman grins. The threatening Bruce Wayne impersonation is fully slipping away, making way for whoever resides underneath, and the bits Jacopo is picking up on in his haze of Halloween cocktails feels warm and recognizable, a native to Jacopo’s memory, like an old friend or a long waved-at neighbor. “I know him too,” Batman confesses. “He’ll say yes. But I’ll ask him anyway.” Batman seizes his wrist. “Meet me up there in five minutes?”

Jacopo nods eagerly enough to dislodge something, and then Batman is darting away into the crowd to gain permission to use Paolo’s dusty extra room as a fuck pad, leaving Jacopo to hope that what happens next goes well. He considers grabbing a refill of poison to ease his thumping nerves, then thinks the better of it when he considers that he’d very much like to be cognizant and capable of what occurs when clothes come off.

He hasn’t gotten laid in a while. He hasn’t had good sex in even longer. It’s been a wild year, what with the torpor of his injuries and the glacial recovery process and spending most of his free time with Matteo. That sort of sexual drought can make someone uneasy in their own abilities, especially when standing—naked—next to someone who looks like their body would inspire Michelangelo to sculpt life-sized statues, but Batman looked to be all but vibrating with excitement at the prospect of whisking Jacopo off. Jacopo lets that excitement bolster him.

He slips away from the throng of the party undetected, saving himself from being tugged into pin-the-tail-on-the-vampire-donkey, and hastens up the creaky stairs to Paolo’s bedrooms. He’s crashed here once or twice after a marathon movie night that went late, so he knows the way, knows which door to casually loiter in front of while waiting for Batman to appear.

Which he does, and faster than the promised five minutes. A cloaked figure cuts an exciting silhouette at the landing of the stairs, especially when he hurries toward Jacopo fast enough to billow his cape in a decidedly un-Batman-like way. Jacopo’s cock, already waking up when they were dancing, is starting to throb in his underwear just for the sight of Batman’s wide-set shoulders.

“Come here,” Jacopo says, urging, tugging Batman into him, and when he does, all but tumbling into Jacopo, they both giggle like teenagers sneaking away from camp. Jacopo is helplessly reminded of all those afternoons years ago when Matteo and him would slink away from tennis practice to take a bus into the heart of Rome together, ebullient in their mischief the entire time.

“Shhh, shh,” Batman is saying through giggles, and this sort of giddiness feels like it goes beyond alcohol and has wandered into the territory of something else entirely. Maybe it’s the silly joy of hooking up with someone in full costume. Impatience yanks at Jacopo, so he fumbles for the door knob.

There’s a moment of pause when the door shuts behind them, muffling the music and laughter of the party and separating them from that entire world to seclude them in this one. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been in here for a while, the bed crisply made. Jacopo knows just from looking at it that it’ll be an absolute mess tomorrow morning. For multiple reasons. A luminescent thrill curlicues up his spine at the thought.

Out of the Halloween party scene, Batman looks amusingly out of place. He’s wavering on the spot like he feels the incongruousness of the situation, and Jacopo knows he’s not faring much better in his own head-to-toe ensemble, but before more laughter can settle in, Batman erases the space between them to nothing, pulling Jacopo into his arms and nuzzling into his neck and then there’s a tongue on Jacopo’s jugular, licking reverent stripes on the exposed skin that’s visible there.

Already Jacopo is short of breath, clinging on to Batman’s slippery cape for dear life. Turns out that Batman is hard too, his erection an unavoidable presence against Jacopo’s hip.

“God,” Jacopo moans, arms winding around Batman’s strong neck. Already he likes this spot, the way he can anchor himself around this strong man. With the shred of lucidity he has left, he shuffles out of his shoes and kicks them across the room. “Keep doing that.”

“This?” Batman asks, right as he starts adding the gentle scrape of his teeth down Jacopo’s pulse point into the equation.

Jacopo nods. He cups his hand around the nape of Batman’s neck, stroking the hair that sticks out where the Batman mask cuts off. It’s soft hair, curly, gentle locks in Jacopo’s grasp, a length like Matteo’s hair. It reminds Jacopo of naps with Matteo, curled up on a couch after a long practice session, both snoring on each other after a few minutes of hair stroking.

Fuck. Why is he thinking about Matteo so much right now? He blinks, and for a moment, that’s Matteo’s mop of dark hair ducked between Jacopo’s chin and his shoulder, and that’s Matteo’s hands hot and broad on Jacopo’s back. Jacopo blinks again, trying to clear his brain.

“Masks on?” Batman rumbles into his neck. “Or masks off?”

Just the allure of kissing him has Jacopo leaning towards the latter. It’s silly, downright weird that he’s still wearing the mask, no doubt knocked askew by now by Batman’s enthusiastic nuzzling, but isn’t that part of the spirit of Halloween? Fucking a stranger filling out all the right parts of a Batman costume while never exchanging so much as a name?

Although Jacopo really isn’t so sure that Batman is a stranger. If he stopped to process stimuli for a moment, he knows pieces would click into place, and it’ll be clear that Bruce Wayne is actually Gianluca the barista that Jacopo’s been buying coffee from for a year now, or Lorenzo the loud upstairs neighbor, or Serafino the receptionist at the gym he and Matteo exercise at.

But it’s not Gianluca, or any of them. And Jacopo wouldn’t dream of pressing pause right now so he can figure it out. Batman is back to laving attention on Jacopo’s neck, leaving behind lingering kisses. Jacopo wants to feel that mouth on his own, and he’s so close to considering wiggling off his mask, but if he takes it off and Batman changes his mind…

“On,” Jacopo decides. “I don’t want to waste the opportunity to have sex with Batman.”

For his part, Batman doesn’t seem to mind. He gets his hands—such godly broad hands—around Jacopo’s waist and just squeezes, just holds him, and Jacopo is powerless not to push infinitely closer, arms tight around Batman’s sturdy shoulders. Batman is making these noises of satiation like just getting to drag his teeth and tongue along Jacopo’s neck is enough to rev his engine, just the taste of Jacopo enough to roll him in flame.

“You’re so hot,” Batman praises, and Jacopo burns for the fervor in his voice. “You like that? I do. Fuck. I can’t get enough of you.”

They wind up against the wall. The alcohol is blurring things, distorting time and touch, and maybe that’s why Jacopo keeps thinking of things unrelated like if Matteo’s made it home yet, which his brain is dipping into liquor and twisting into thoughts like: Matteo’s hands are big like this too. Jacopo relieves himself of the jumbled guilt for now; Marco told him to have fun, and that’s what he’s going to do, dammit.

He grinds forward into Batman’s hard-on, slotted deliciously between Jacopo’s thighs, his legs warm-barrelled invitations. Jacopo wants to wrap himself around that waist, wants to feel Batman’s hefty arms holding him up by the ass as their cocks rub together through their pants. It’s like so many times from Jacopo’s past, just some urgent need to come to orgasm even through layers of fabric, and Jacopo feels both that desperation and the desire to be slowly undone. His heart is racing, impatiently eager, but the alcohol in his bloodstream has slowed everything down to a sensual crawl. Together the two impulses shouldn’t work, but they are. All of it is working.

The cape is the first thing to be shed. Jacopo unknots it where it’s tied on Batman’s chest, tossing it aside, and that first piece of clothing to be removed unlocks a gate. Batman growls something like filth into Jacopo’s neck, and then Jacopo’s being hauled up by the thighs just like he wants and Batman is depositing them both on the bed together. It creaks under their combined weights, Batman warm and heavy on top of him.

“So hot,” Batman says again, still attached to Jacopo’s neck by the mouth. The skin is starting to throb under his tongue, no doubt sure to be a portrait of bruises tomorrow.

Jacopo wants to tell him that he’s the hot one, but all his throat can produce is a ragged moan. He scrambles for Batman’s shirt, yanking at uncooperative elastic, until Batman gets the hint and all but rips it off his own head, hands immediately grabbing for Jacopo’s shirt when he’s done. Both shirts get deposited somewhere off to the side; wild boars can come and scuttle off with them for all Jacopo cares.

“You’ve got a body under that skeleton,” Batman rumbles appreciatively, and before Jacopo can repay the compliment, Batman’s back to sucking bruises to the surface of Jacopo’s skin, this time dipping southward to his sternum. He seems intent to either find Jacopo’s most favored spots or leave one hell of a souvenir behind.

Jacopo’s arms loop around his shoulders. “You like that,” he observes, eyes closing at the sensations.

“You’re fucking delicious,” Batman says, and when he draws Jacopo’s nipple into his mouth, hot tongue swirling, Jacopo’s back bows off the bed. Batman is on him with an ardor that he’s never experienced with a partner before, like it’s his mission to taste every square inch of skin, to touch every trembling muscle. He turns his attention to his other nipple, biting down on sensitive pebbled flesh, and Jacopo can’t do anything but whimper and dig his nails into Batman’s shoulders.

It feels so disorientingly good to be underneath him, to feel the weight of his heat bracketed around Jacopo from above. Jacopo thinks of his last hook-up, the meaningless handjob exchanged with Alessandro in a club bathroom, how long ago that was, and how much longer it’s been since someone’s pressed him into a mattress with dominant intent, turned him over and had him gasping into a pillow as bliss wracked him. He doesn’t even want to do the math. Eons. Until now. Jacopo knows it.

“I want to fuck you,” Batman says, and the deep rumble indicative of his character is back now, just unintentional this time around. “God, I want to. If you want that too.”

Uncanny. It’s almost like Batman read that straight off his eyes like an open picture book. He nods, jerky, and pulls Batman between the open bracket of his legs. “Yeah. I do, I do. Just—you’ll have to…”

He trails off, wondering if the handiwork of preparation is going to spoil the positively electric mood, but Batman fills in his gaps quickly. “Open you up? I want to do that too.”

God. Jacopo is in danger of fireworking all over the room just from Batman’s fervency alone, his white-hot fire of readiness. He groans without meaning to, every nerve ending in his body concentrated inside of himself right where he wants Batman to finger him ruthlessly.

Through the wall, a few people are shrieking, followed by delighted giggling. That’ll be Francesco’s horror movies, then. Jacopo wonders if his own noise will be dismissed as a symptom of watching Halloween films.

“I’m loud,” Jacopo admits, breathless. “I mean—I get loud.” More so when he’s drunk.

Batman, for his part, looks thrilled. “Okay. You can be.”

“And if someone knocks on the door?”

“I’ll tell them to go away,” Batman says, and the last bit is spoken in that coarse Batman grumble once again. I know that voice, Jacopo thinks, but once again it gets lost in the blurriness of the entire evening, blending confusingly with a million other sights and sounds and smells that he’s trying and failing to sort and organize. “Tell me when you like something.”

Batman pitches downward for another nibble on Jacopo’s neck before Jacopo can vocalize aloud that yes, he will. He tries to make that clear anyway in other ways, namely by hitching a thigh over Batman’s hip and moaning aloud when Batman rubs their growing cocks against each other, imprisoned unfairly by their costumes.

Too many clothes. Jacopo remembers how long he stretched and struggled with those excruciatingly tight pants, and he can only hope they’ll come off faster than they went on. If anyone can do it, however, it’s a man confident enough to don the outfit of a superhero.

Batman definitely doesn’t lack the willpower. His hands get to work on Jacopo’s pants, wrenching the waistband down with unabated determination, and a blink later, Jacopo’s doing his best to kick both them and his briefs off his ankles.

“Socks on?” Batman asks, lingering around Jacopo’s shins.

Socks on, masks on. Why not. He nods. All Jacopo really needs exposed right now are the parts of him weeping for Batman’s mouth. It’s a thought that must be transmuted telepathically to Batman’s brain, because the next thing he asks is:

“Can I suck you off first?”

Jacopo blanks for a moment. How is tonight even real? “Yeah. Yes. Please.”

Batman doesn’t dilly dally. He ropes his arms underneath Jacopo’s thighs and stuffs a pillow below his ass, maneuvering him into the position he wants, which is one where Jacopo’s cock is easily nudging Batman’s mouth. When Batman leans in to tenderly drag the bristles of his stubble down Jacopo’s cock as he takes in the scent of him, Jacopo nearly comes right there like someone’s slapped it out of him. The curve of that upper lip, the swell of that lower lip—Jacopo might lose control just seeing himself nestled there.

Batman’s technique is too hungry for that, though. He all but dives in, tongue a thirsty wet pressure all around the head of Jacopo’s cock. It’s almost too much too fast. It shouldn’t be this easy for a stranger to unlock him, to find the keys to Jacopo’s unraveling, but there’s a strange sense of wonder in that too that has Jacopo marveling. Is it the alcohol, is it the magic of Halloween night, or is it something else entirely?

Batman must be feeling it too. He’s downright sloppy in his passion, hands kneading the sensitive meat of Jacopo’s thighs, mouth sucking more and more of Jacopo in. Each swipe of his tongue leaves Jacopo frayed, chest heaving, sweat gathering on the small of his back. He moans, just as promised, and again when Batman doubles down on his efforts. It’s blissfully circular: the louder Jacopo is, the harder Batman tries to make him loud, trying out different things as if experimenting. There’s a woozying balance here of what feels like rabidly eager inexperience, the curiosity of a newcomer, and the touch of someone who’s traversed the maps of Jacopo’s body many, many times already, a familiarity of touch woven into his every move.

He’s about to lose himself in the sensations. Jacopo wants to push up into it, wants to be lodged in Batman’s tight throat, but he also doesn’t want to come yet, not until Batman has eased him open and slid inside him.

Batman, luckily, seems to be reading his mind on that too. He keeps suckling Jacopo’s cock as his finger finds Jacopo’s opening, petting it, feeling its give as he experimentally pushes a dry thumb around the rim.

Jacopo shudders. “Do you—do you have something?”

He finds the energy to look down between his legs. Batman—once he lets Jacopo’s cock slip from his swollen lips, looks stricken, even from behind the cover of his mask.

“I—hold on.”

For all his pockets and superhero compartments, Batman’s costume isn’t stocked with lube. He scrambles straightaway for Paolo’s bedside drawer, which reveals stray batteries, a mangled old iPhone charger, an old box of condoms, and—

“Fuck yes,” Jacopo breathes when he sees the lube. He needs to give Paolo a massive gift card. After.

Batman seizes it with lightning-fast hands, and Jacopo spreads his legs to let him know just how ready he is for him to keep going. When his finger, newly slick, pushes against Jacopo’s hole, Jacopo bears down into it, pushing into the burn of the stretch.

“Good?” Batman asks.

“So good,” Jacopo confirms. “Keep going.”

He hasn’t had anyone do this for him in a while. It’s different from when it’s his own fingers; this angle allows so much more depth, so much more agility. Batman’s fingers crook and turn how Jacopo’s can’t, like he’s an instrument he’s playing, every stretch and press a further step in dismantling Jacopo’s restraint. Jacopo props himself up on his elbows to watch even though there’s not much to see, not outside of the flush on Batman’s bare chest and the swell of his pink lower lip, bitten in concentration as he fingers Jacopo deeper. Jacopo feels his knuckle slip inside and groans at that momentary tightness, the way his body sucks him in once he’s pushed through the resistance.

“Another?” Batman asks, one hand curling around Jacopo’s hip.

“Another,” Jacopo says. He knows he’ll need a second one, maybe even a third, just from looking at Batman’s impressive build. That bulky chest, those big hands. If they’re any indication…

Batman squeezes out more lube and rubs two fingertips against Jacopo’s hole, twisting, turning, as if looking for the best way to push inside. Jacopo tries to entice him, flexing the rosebud muscle, wiggling his hips on the bed until he can see a swallow work its way down Batman’s throat. All evening long Jacopo has felt like a champagne bubble in Batman’s presence, fizzing and floating, and it looks like it might even be mutual.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jacopo encourages, rutting into his touch. Finally, Batman slides in two fingers tightly side-by-side, slickening up Jacopo’s passage with lube, rubbing and stretching and stroking Jacopo open with so much thorough effort that for a moment it doesn’t feel like a faceless hook-up anymore.

“This is—I love this,” Batman says, hoarse.

Jacopo isn’t in the best position for full conversations, but he tries his best. “This?”

“Doing this to you,” he explains. “Getting you open for me. You’re so—fuck. You’re so tight around my fingers. How am I gonna fit?”

Jacopo laughs. “You will,” he reassures. “It’ll be even tighter, though.”

For emphasis he tightens his ass around the intrusion of Batman’s knuckles, and is rewarded with the broken hitch of Batman’s breath. Jacopo isn’t sure he’s patient enough to wait for the process of a third finger. Batman’s fingers are thicker than Jacopo’s and it’s giving him the tease of fullness, especially as Batman starts transitioning from careful exploring to establishing a rhythm.

“Is this okay?” Batman asks. He sounds lost in his own wonderment, like watching Jacopo’s hole take his fingers is the most rapturous sight.

“Better than okay,” Jacopo says. He can’t even describe how good it feels; this is the part that he knows not all men understand, how euphoric it feels to be penetrated like this, to ride the high of that wholeness. If things were different, if the mood was tweaked, he’d want to come like this, just being slowly undone with a few dexterous fingers.

But that’s not what tonight is about. Tonight is the chaos of Halloween, the delight of too much to drink, the almost frantic desire to fuck and be fucked that Jacopo knows Batman is feeling too. He rocks his hips, lifting them, wordlessly making his restlessness clear, and in the process—

“Oh fuck,” Jacopo whines.

Batman, for his part, seems to have figured out that he’s just hit a magic button. He repeats himself, driving his fingers back in just right, and now Jacopo really is about to come, which he can’t do, not yet.

“You want me inside?” Batman asks. “Fuck, tell me you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” Jacopo says, and that’s all it takes for Batman to ease his fingers free and wrangle the rest of his own clothing off.

Jacopo watches him do it, feeling increasingly glazed over the eyes. He realizes that he still hasn’t seen Batman’s cock, which feels like a felony. “Take them off,” he orders, tugging on the edge of Batman’s waistband, and Batman sits up on his haunches to wriggle them urgently down. What he reveals as he yanks his underwear away has Jacopo salivating like one of Pavlov’s dogs.

He’s big. Thick, veiny, smeared with precome at the head, bobbing in front of Jacopo like an invitation. He wants to touch, to taste, to memorize every angle. Jacopo scrambles to sit up, determined to swerve into an appetizer before they settle in for the main course. He grabs hold of Batman’s hipbones, a point of leverage, and tips his mask up just enough to suckle his cock into his mouth.

The reaction is instantaneos. Batman’s entire body seems to uncoil, hunching over Jacopo, hands curling immediately into the slickened neatness of Jacopo’s hairstyle. His unleashed response is as satisfying as the rest of it: his taste on Jacopo’s tongue, his musk under his nose, the way he seems to get harder and thicker the longer Jacopo sucks him. The fingers tightly threaded in Jacopo’s hair play with the strap of his mask, fiddling with the way it’s already precariously secured around Jacopo’s head. One little slip of the thumb and it’d come off, revealing the man behind the skull. Jacopo still yearns for that first kiss, that tongue-heavy, searingly hot first press of mouths, but he’s not ruining the illusion now. He sucks Batman down to the root twice more, taking him until his throat flutters, and pulls off right as Batman’s abdomen starts undulating

“If you keep doing that—” Batman warns.

Jacopo gives him a placating stroke and slips his mask back into place. Normally he’d enjoy taking his time with a blowjob, nibbling gingerly on an inner thigh, dragging kisses down a hipbone, and with a cock like this in front of him, he’d enjoy just a handjob, but he can’t focus on any of those details right now. He has another goal in mind.

He kisses the sticky head of Batman’s cock one last time and lies back again, settling on the sheets. “Not yet.” He opens his legs, suggestive. “Not until you’re in me.”

He can’t wait for Batman to get it back up again if he makes him come now, as tempting as the prospect of swallowing it all down is. Jacopo already feels like he’s sitting on the edge of a powder keg, every cell alive and electrified, and if he isn’t fucked in the next thirty seconds, he’s going to implode.

“Okay,” Batman says, breathless. His eyes are locked on Jacopo’s like he’s never seen anything like him before, and for a suspended moment, Jacopo feels like he can place those eyes.

The tickle of recognition is gone a lightning flash later. There are other things to focus on, namely the fact that Batman is lifting Jacopo’s knees and getting into place, slathering lube on his cock once he rolls the condom on. Too much, maybe, but Jacopo’s heart burns all the same for the care. His hands find the soft underside of Jacopo’s knees, thumbs rubbing the skin there.

“So hot,” Batman is murmuring, robbed of his breath. “I can’t believe I was lucky enough to snatch you up tonight.”

“Wasn’t looking at anyone else,” Jacopo admits. He shifts his hips, lifting them a bit for a better entrance angle. Batman looks down, stuttering to a stop, almost as if entranced by the sight of Jacopo’s glossy, waiting hole, but remembers what he was in the middle of a moment later.

When he pushes in, it’s a bit too fast, too clumsy, the pressure almost overwhelming inside of Jacopo. Jacopo hisses, jolting, and instantly Batman is grabbing his thighs, halting. “Sorry, sorry,” he gasps. “Slipped. God, you feel good.”

He rearranges his knees, and it makes both of them laugh. Jacopo thought the stranger aspect would make this curt, stiff, void of fun, but the alcohol makes it easier, or maybe it’s the comfortable camaraderie between the two of them, the bond established by having their palms read together. He doesn’t care if Batman is too tipsy, too quick, too uncoordinated—all of it feels good, satisfying cravings that have gone unhandled for too long.

And it shouldn’t feel this good while they’re drunk, shouldn’t be this easy to become two halves of the same complete rhythm, but it only takes another thrust, this one more measured, and Jacopo is undone, levee of his control snapping. It’s the fullness, the heat, the unrelenting stretch, the push deep inside that has Jacopo clenching down in time with Batman’s every rock of the hips. Batman reaches for the headboard, shaking as he arches over Jacopo, and the creak of the bed in his hands as they move together is almost comical.

“You said loud,” Batman says, voice rough. “I want you louder.”

It’s not a hard wish to fulfill. “Fuck,” Jacopo groans. Already he’s sweaty all over, hair plastered to his forehead, and they’ve barely started. Not that he thinks either of them will last very long, not when Batman’s mouth was sucking him into another dimension earlier, stopping just a few moments shy of blast off. “You’re so good at this.”

“Yeah?” Batman says. “Tell me.”

“Just feels so—yes.” He has to interrupt himself when Batman tilts his hips and the angle shifts. “Like that. Fuck yeah. You’re big.”

“Too big?”

Jacopo laughs. “Just right,” he says. “Need me to stroke your ego?”

“Don’t need you to stroke anything,” Batman says, and now it’s his turn to laugh. “Just keep doing—that.”

Jacopo bears down again on Batman’s thrust inward. It’s almost dizzying, the push and pull from full to empty, creating a whorl of spiraling pleasure. “This?”

Batman stutters on a curse. “Yeah, that.”

“Your wish is my command.”

So they take turns driving each other insane. Jacopo randomly makes Batman’s rhythm falter and Batman keeps shifting his hips until he’s nudging the spot that makes Jacopo convulse, both of them learning each other’s physical language, running towards fluency. Batman tweaks a nipple in one hand while the other wraps around Jacopo’s dripping cock, his stomach a mess of precome, and now he’s speaking in dialects, in colloquial jokes.

“You’re so good at this,” Jacopo says. His voice is losing steam, turning rusty at the edges. A guttural keen slips out with Batman’s next thrust. He looks like a statue above him, steadied on his knees, his chest shiny with exertion, his hips pistoning in and out. “Do this often, huh? Pick up a guy on the dancefloor?”

“Ha. You—you have no idea,” Batman says. He moves one hand to Jacopo’s thigh, nudging it upward, and instantly Jacopo gets the hint to hike both his legs around Batman’s waist and tug him crucially closer by the ankles. “And you? Pick up a lot of guys at parties?”

“Only Batmans,” Jacopo says, aiming for smarmy, but the tone of it gets lost in his neck-curving sigh as Batman snaps in harder. He fucks like a tidal wave, slowly and steadily rolling in, and then there’s the unexpectedly exhilarating force, drenching them both.

It’s making Jacopo lose coherence, actually. He hopes Batman understands his fragmented expletives, because soon he’s reduced to just that, panted Italian swears and moans. He curls his hands around Batman’s strained biceps, feeling the muscle flex as he moves, and searches for words again.

“Want me on top?” Jacopo offers, speech slurring. It’s too amazing, all of it too amazing.

“God,” Batman says. “I won’t last. I’m—I’m not lasting.”

“Me neither,” Jacopo admits. “Come on, give it to me.”

So he does. Batman’s grip on Jacopo’s thigh is almost cruel, the other hand stripping Jacopo’s cock with unrestrained passion, his cock spearing Jacopo fast and hard. The onslaught on his prostate feels like Jacopo is being hammered for answers from military officials, and he’s ready to talk, he’s ready to spill every last detail. It feels so good that it’s unreal; he’s not sure anymore if this is even reality, if he isn’t dreaming about being fucked by a hot a stranger while he’s actually passed out on a bathtub after having too much to drink. This is a fantasy, a haze, a mirage of orgasmic ascension, and all Jacopo can do is hang on as everything builds in him like nuclear energy.

Batman’s speech has been reduced to grunts, throaty and deep, and he sounds like Matteo out on the court, slamming balls across the net with deadly force. It shouldn’t, but that’s what punts Jacopo over the edge, those steady uhn uhn uhns of Batman’s groans, loud and erotic. Jacopo comes like he’s erupting, like he’s awash in a storm, seizing with pleasure and splattering all over Batman’s fist, with a cock deep inside him just as he likes it.

The pleasure circles Jacopo like wind, only slowly letting him breathe again. On his mouth is a name begging to be groaned, nearly slipping from his throat. “Ma—” He digs his teeth down onto his tongue, biting away the panic at what he was about to say. “Madonna santa. Fuck.”

He’s distracted from the anvil’s heaviness of what he was about to say by Batman coming too, and coming hard, moan cutting off into a reedy whine, rhythm staggering, hands taut on Jacopo’s arms. “Fuck yes, fuck yeah, you’re making me come. Your hole, fuck.”

When he pulses inside him, he feels thicker than any cock Jacopo’s ever taken, and Jacopo could cry out at the sensation. He’s sensitive from his orgasm but still finds the strength to grip, to clutch his hole greedily around the cock inside him.

“God,” Batman breathes. “So good, so good.” Jacopo strokes his back in a way he hopes translates into me too and I know.

Now that he’s come, the idea of moving feels impossible, and Batman seems to echo the sentiment, even with the mess between them. He all but collapses on top of Jacopo, shining with the same sudoriferous sheen, shaking with the same exertion of exploded pleasure. The orgasm has drained him like he’s just had a deep tissue massage, and he doesn’t want to reach for his clothes, certainly doesn’t want to start laundering Paolo’s come-splattered sheets. He doesn’t even want to leave the weighted warmth of Batman curled on top of him.

“Are you okay?” Batman asks into the hot cavern of Jacopo’s neck.

“Yeah.” Jacopo wriggles, overheated and breathing hard but definitely okay. “You?”

“I think I saw dead relatives,” Batman says.

Jacopo smiles, delighted. He squeezes Batman’s shoulders as Batman presses lazy kisses to Jacopo’s neck, gently sliding out of him and leaving an emptiness behind that Jacopo already mourns. He could’ve stayed like this, cozy in Batman’s arms, snug on his softened cock, but then again, maybe it’s for the better to not get too comfortable.

Jacopo touches Batman’s sweaty back, stroking the damp line of his spine. “We can’t stay.”

“Just for a bit,” Batman murmurs. “Paolo won’t be mad.” He shifts so he’s scooted next to Jacopo instead of pancaked on top of him. “Come here. I don’t want to crush you.”

Jacopo makes a noise, something of soft agreement, and lets himself be pulled into the warmth of Batman’s chest. Maybe before the night ends, Jacopo can ask for his number. It feels like a shame for this sort of phenomenal sex to be a one-off. Jacopo still feels as if he’s floating somewhere up above, stuck in the stratosphere of his lingering orgasm.

He’ll ask. After they doze for a few minutes, Jacopo thinks as he closes his eyes and pillows his cheek on Batman’s chest, Jacopo will ask him.

--

BACK TO NOW

Matteo. Matteo is the one standing there, scrambled to his feet, struggling back into his underwear. Matteo is the one who was curled up in bed next to Jacopo a moment ago, haphazardly naked, surrounded by Batman’s crumpled pile of clothing, hair a drunken mess. Matteo is the one who Jacopo was moaning and writhing and coming for. Matteo, his brother, was the unbelievably sexy Batman who made Jacopo’s entire body feel like he was standing in a fiery thunderstorm.

His mouth, desert dry before, officially enters clinical dehydration.

“Matteo?” Jacopo asks, faint. Even to his own ears, his voice doesn’t sound like his own, small and shaky. He doesn’t know where his briefs are so he just clutches the sheet to his hips, trembling. “You—me—last night?”

Matteo doesn’t say a word. He looks catatonic, shellshocked to be confronted with the fact that he fucked his brother last night at an unknown hour of the morning. Jacopo goes spiraling deeper into hell.

“Did we—do you think—do you remember anything?” Jacopo asks. He already knows the answer. There’s nothing Jacopo doesn’t remember, every detail starting to flash high-definition in front of his eyes, but maybe Matteo has been spared by his own memory.

Matteo remains speechless, and for a terrifying moment Jacopo expects to not be able to milk a single word out of him for twenty-four hours, but then Matteo snaps into words.

“We did,” he says. “I think—no. I know we did. I remember.”

Jacopo’s heart wobbles on an unsecure suspension bridge.

“Jacopo,” Matteo says, urgent, the big brother even in a moment like this. The morning after fucking the daylights out of his little brother. “We—we. Are you okay?”

His gaze darts downwards, then quickly back up to Jacopo’s eyes. Suddenly Jacopo realizes what it is he’s referring to.

“I’m fine,” Jacopo blurts out, because he is. Embarrassingly so. He’s sore as a pleasantly lingering reminder, a souvenir from being well-filled and well-fucked last night, and that’s the extent of his pain. Matteo looks paralyzed like he may’ve never—

May’ve never fucked a guy before. Jacopo’s world briefly flickers into black and white like a glitching video tape.

“Are you okay?” Jacopo asks in turn, because Matteo looks ashen around the edges like wet pages of a book.

“I—yeah. We—yeah. Jacopo, I’m—I’m sorry.”

The suspension bridge has snapped, and now Jacopo’s heart is plunging to the waters below waiting to see if there is or isn’t a parachute popping out to save him.

“You’re sorry,” Jacopo repeats. He knows he should be happy with this. Matteo’s not angry. Matteo’s not refusing to speak to him. Matteo’s sorry.

Matteo’s also shaking where he stands.

“Matty, it’s okay,” Jacopo assures him, hoping the nickname soothes. “I’m okay. It’s—all of it is fine. I’m not upset. I get it if you are, though.”

“I’m not upset!” Matteo responds, abruptly loud. He looks close to dissolving into panic, an animal forced to choose between fight or flight. “God, Jacopo, I don’t know what to even say here.”

He’s not even looking Jacopo in the eye; he’s looking at Jacopo’s chest, harrowed, eyes finding a dozen mouth-shaped hickeys. Being reminded of them sets Jacopo aflame anew. Something about knowing Matteo was the one to make them leaves him shattered, ten million conflicting emotions deluging him all at once.

More and more, Jacopo is wondering how he didn’t notice sooner. Was he really too drunk to recognize Matteo's wide-set shoulders, the shape of his skinny calves, the familiar curve of his brilliant smile? All of the pieces were right there, hidden by the flimsiest of disguises.

“Matteo,” Jacopo says, not knowing what words to say either but knowing words are necessary right now. He’s worried that at any moment Matteo will take off to get some air and not come back, avoid home, avoid Jacopo’s calls, avoid Jacopo’s texts, until the discomfort between them has stabilized like the shaky armistice of a dust cloud settling on the ground, all too easily kicked up into a storm again. “I’m not upset either. I’m just surprised. I didn’t think—”

He stops talking. He can’t say the things the morning are bringing out in him, the revelations that are spinning him and would spin Matteo just as hard. The truth is, he was thinking, and he was thinking of Matteo. Even when Batman was just a hot guy in a well-fitting costume, he was thinking of Matteo. Jacopo’s gut swoops. Trick or treat, and it seems he wound up with the trick.

But Matteo still doesn’t seem to be listening to Jacopo’s fluff words. He’s still staring, fixated, at Jacopo’s bare chest, at his neck, at his own signature stamped all over Jacopo’s body.

“I can’t believe I did that to you,” he says.

Jacopo’s willing to suffer humiliation for Matteo’s sake if it means Matteo doesn’t agonize over the delusion that he forced himself on his little brother. “Matteo, you didn’t do anything,” he says firmly. “I wanted it. All of it.”

But Matteo’s shaking his head like he doesn’t believe it, can’t believe it. “Jacopo—”

“It doesn’t matter that it was you.” Suddenly Jacopo wonders if this is why he was so staunch about keeping their masks on last night, some internal alarm sirening at him not to take them off. What would’ve happened if they had? Right after Jacopo suckled and moaned on his cock? Or when they were in the middle of fucking, Matteo thrusting into him with long and sturdy strokes? When would’ve been the right time to look his brother in his frozen, traumatized face? “I’m not upset,” he says again.

Matteo drags a hand through his ruined curls, yanking with white fingers. His eyes are wild. “Fuck, Jacopo, don’t you—how can you not be?”

“Because I—” Don’t regret it, Jacopo thinks but doesn’t say. He can’t say it. His stomach is already swooping like a plane in distress, wings on fire. The chaos of this morning has him dangerously close to admitting things he shouldn’t be saying. Things like all night, I only had you on my mind. “I’m just not. Matteo, please.” His voice is cracking, emotion spilling in. “Please come here.”

He almost expects reluctance, hemming and hawing, but Matteo moves instantly. He rounds the bed, apology written all over his face, and Jacopo doesn’t need to ask for the hug; Matteo pulls him flush to his chest, hand tight on the back of his neck. Apparently it’s fight or flight or hug.

“I’m sorry,” he says into Jacopo’s hair. “I should’ve known it was you. All night, I kept thinking—”

“Me too,” Jacopo admits. It’s easier to say it now that Matteo’s holding him. “You reminded me of—of you.”

“And you—Jacopo, you still—?”

Maybe it’s Jacopo’s turn to beg for forgiveness. He can’t say the words aloud, though, because that would be admitting guilt, admitting to something he doesn’t know he can ever step back from. Matteo’s arms are around him now, but would they still be after Jacopo tells him a shameful truth? He pushes his face into Matteo’s bare neck, still smelling of sweat, of sex, of Matteo. He’s a walking memory of what they did last night.

But Matteo wants an answer. “Jacopo,” he says, gently nudging. “You still wanted it?”

Jacopo takes in a rattling breath. “I told you I wasn’t upset.” He remembers how recognition kept tugging on him, how Matteo’s face kept materializing behind his eyes, how Matteo’s name was right there on his lips. All night long, and they never kissed. Jacopo feels hollow. “I didn’t know it was you. But I kept—I kept thinking.”

“Of me?”

God, it’s like Matteo really wants to push him into a claustrophobic corner. Jacopo tries to wrangle himself free, worming away from Matteo’s arms like an animal looking for an escape route, but Matteo holds on, tighter than before.

“Jacopo,” he says. He lets go but only for his hands to find Jacopo’s cheeks, shaky, like Jacopo is his grounding stone. “Jacopo, you know I was thinking of you too, right?”

“W—what?”

“Yeah. Everything reminded me of you.” He grins a little wryly. “Now I know why.”

That grin is a good sign. Even faint, even crooked, it means he isn’t about to leave a Matteo-shaped hole in the wall as he goes running scared. One of his hands is nervously toying with Jacopo’s hair, the strands a mess from yesterday’s gel, curls fighting to return. The other hand is sliding down to thumb over Jacopo’s neck, dipping in right where the soreness of a hickey blooms sharply to life. Jacopo makes a noise, hybridized between a hiss and a whine, and it makes Matteo gently scrape his fingernail over the discoloration, feeling for sensitivity.

The mood feels like it’s taken a turn. The terror has been drained from the room, leaving space for something softer, something in which they can delicately explore what happened last night without fear of disaster.

“You looked so hot in your outfit,” Matteo breathes. “I couldn’t look away from you.”

The compliment zaps Jacopo. Well. If they’re sharing secrets.

“I almost said your name,” Jacopo admits. “When I was coming. I had to bite it back.”

Matteo’s eyes have gone dark. “God, Japo, I’ve never seen anything so hot. Never heard anything so hot either.” His left hand strokes Jacopo’s back, and his right hand brushes over the mottled marks in the curve of his neck, and if Jacopo’s fingers weren’t occupied holding that sheet in place, he’d be clutching him back. “I can’t believe that was you.”

“You were hot,” Jacopo says. He feels like they’re on the court, like how they’re always bashfully praising each other’s tennis. Matteo is the better player followed by Jacopo is so talented, proceeded by private little shared smiles. “Had you ever, you know. Done that before?”

“With a guy?” Matteo’s smile turns shy. “Was it that obvious?”

“What? No! Matty, it was—you were good. Really good. Natural at everything you do, apparently.” He can’t believe they’re talking about this, like this. “It wasn’t obvious I enjoyed myself?”

“It was,” Matteo says. “Is this weird? That we’re—that we’re both feeling that?”

Jacopo is too busy feeling buoyed by joy. He doesn’t even know where it’s coming from, but it’s abundant. Relief at Matteo not being mad. Buzz from Matteo being aroused, from the evidence bumping into Jacopo’s leg. Abruptly he remembers last night’s palm reader, the predictions she had about their love lives, the soulmates waiting in the wings. Someone you’ve known for ages now. Jacopo’s stomach flops a funny little somersault.

“Maybe,” Jacopo admits. “Or maybe it’s the opposite.”

“And there’s nothing weird about it at all?”

“Yeah,” Jacopo says. “Nothing has to change.”

“Nothing?” Matteo asks. “Do you want nothing to change?”

Jacopo doesn’t want to be coy about this. This isn’t Batman, some stranger he needs to impress. This isn’t anyone but Matteo, and Matteo deserves honesty, even if that honesty scares the fuck out of Jacopo. There was I’m scared I’ll never play again when he hurt his back. There was is it okay if I don’t like girls like you do? And now it’s I know it was just a drunken night at a Halloween party, but nothing has ever felt so right.

“I don’t want to go back,” Jacopo confesses. He expects the bottom to drop out under his world, but Matteo is holding him fast, a steady foundation of security. “I know we could. I know we should. But I don’t want to. Do you?”

He looks up at Matteo. The apprehension he expects to see isn’t there. Instead—

Matteo swoops so fast Jacopo doesn’t have a chance to prepare, and then Matteo’s mouth is on his, finally, finally kissing him. His mouth is soft, a contrast to his rugged stubble, both of which are welcome reminders as to exactly who Jacopo is kissing.

Kissing. He’s kissing Matteo. Jacopo’s brain catches up with the fact, and without missing another beat he winds his arms around Matteo’s shoulders—his new favorite place to put them, an upgrade of the casual brotherly arm slung over him—and kisses him back. It feels just as satisfying as everything else they did last night was. Soft and appraising and incredible because it’s Matteo.

“God,” Matteo says when he pulls away, rubbing their foreheads together. “I wanted to do that for ages.”

“All of last night?”

Matteo makes a little noise. “Ages,” he says, and that makes Jacopo feel like fifty years have been added to his life, but before he can ask more questions, Matteo leans in for kiss number two, which is somehow even better than kiss number one, smoother because they both anticipate it. Already it’s transforming into something more, from a newcomer’s exploration to an adventure, the deep kiss of a lover and a friend wrapped into one.

And a brother. Jacopo’s body is singing. It goes operatic when he touches the bare skin of Matteo’s waist.

--

They don’t leave the room. Not for a while, at least. Paolo—wisely—doesn’t come knocking, leaving Matteo and Jacopo to take advantage of doing this in the daylight, maskless, and completely sober. They talk for a bit, revealing more secrets that have long been kept dormant, and then Jacopo presses Matteo into the mattress and kisses him until it feels like they invented it, like no one could possibly be feeling what they’re feeling or doing what they’re doing.

Then they do more than kissing. Jacopo is pretty sure they could write the book on that too. It feels infinitely better when they can gasp each other’s names aloud, reach for each other’s cheeks and ask for more kisses, leave mirrored hickeys on each other in all sorts of secret places.

It isn’t until Paolo texts Matteo to check for signs of life that they decide they’d be better off relocating back home. After a mandatory walk of shame in last night’s costumes. The begrudging task of shimmying back into their Halloween outfits is the most arduous task of the entire day.

“Wait a minute,” Jacopo says after he’s answered Marco’s cheeky found anyone to bone last night? text message. He stuffs his phone back into his mega tight pants pocket. “Why didn’t you tell me you could make it to the party? You said you’d text me!”

“I wanted to surprise you!” Matteo says. He scrubs a hand over his jaw. It feels like an act of treason to watch Matteo put clothes back on his body. “Looks like it worked.”

“Nice surprise,” Jacopo says, which is both a joke and a sincere statement. “Next year, if you’re not playing, we should actually plan for this.”

“You mean, celebrate together?” Matteo seems to consider it. “Hm. Matching costumes?”

Jacopo chuckles. “Like when we were kids?”

“Not quite like when we were kids.”

Matteo shoots him a look that has Jacopo ready to tear his clothes right back off again. Jacopo can picture it perfectly—both of them hidden under the cloak of their costumes, free to pinch each other’s asses all night long. Jacopo’s mouth could water at such a prospect.

But that’s a whole year away. They have other things to focus on first, like getting home, eating the remains of their mother’s pumpkin cookies, picking up where they left off, and wisely spending that preciously small window of time before training for the ATP finals starts. Jacopo, after all, still has about a hundred hickeys to repay.