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“Thanks for saying that, bro.” Thomas lightly slapped Damiano on the back of the shoulder as he walked by him, like Damiano was supposed to know what he was talking about. They had just finished an interview with an Argentinian channel, it was short, but there were still quite a few things Damiano had said.
“What did I say?”
“That I’m the most fa— that I’m the most fachero in Måneskin.” Thomas reached to toy with the cross that hung under his pearls. Or maybe they were Damiano’s pearls, it was hard to keep track of what was whose. “And not as a joke, I mean.”
“Why would I joke about that?”
“Most people would expect you to, I think,” Thomas said in a small voice, his eyes shifted around the room. Ethan stepped past the two of them, glancing at them with a concerned pout, but continued urgently towards the bathroom, unaware that Victoria was already locked in. Thomas shrugged and twisted the cross between his middle finger and thumb. The chain twisted, too. “It’s not a big deal, I guess, just thought I—”
“Thomas,” Damiano cut him off, and gently tugged on his arm, guiding him to the small couch. Thomas fell into the cushion, his expression completely different, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. Amused that Damiano was concerned, ready to laugh it off. “Don’t do that, dickhead.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Thomas laughed. Damiano hadn’t meant to say it out loud, so he wasn’t prepared to argue with that.
“Don’t act like I secretly think you’re ugly or something.”
“I’m not,” Thomas argued, smiling wider, hungrier. “I don’t— I don’t think that. Just…”
“Just? What fucking caveat do yo—”
“You don’t think I’m the most good-looking,” Thomas stated, wrapping one arm around himself like he did when he was about to curl up and go to sleep, loose and lazy, but self-soothing, and looked Damiano in the eye. Daring him. “And that’s fine, I don’t have to be the most attractive member, I’m fine with being…” With his free hand he just gestured to himself generally. “This.”
Damiano glanced at the direction of the bathroom before leaning forward and lightly stroking Thomas’s cheek. Thomas’s whole body seemed to soften, his face gentle. Damiano put his other hand to the other side of his face. Thomas blinked slowly, mouth open slightly. This boy was made to be touched.
“Who's more beautiful?” Damiano breathed, and leaned and kissed his brow. Then he kissed his eyelid. “Whose eyes?” Thomas’s eyes were soft and a mossy hazel color, they changed every day, with the lights and the surroundings, his eyes were mirrors to the world. He kissed the other eyelid. “Whose nose?” He kissed the tip of his nose, and felt Thomas’s smile against his hands. His nose was elegant, thin with interesting angles and curves, like a tree branch that stood out even against the green. He kissed his cheek, “Whose cheeks?” and kissed the other. Freckled, quick to turn pink, with the most perfect curve towards his chin, like they were found in a sketchbook and put on a man. “Whose chin?” Damiano kissed his chin, set further back than his nose in profile, a delicate slope back up to support his pink, pouty lips. Small petals of an opening bud, parted, almost begging to be looked at, touched. “And whose mouth?”
Thomas leaned forward slightly and met Damiano’s lips. “Your mouth is.”