The Vanetti house hasn't changed since you left to go abroad. It still smells of cigar smoke and old money. The moment Nero caught wind of you returning to Italy, you had an invite to the manor. so here you are, laughing with your old friend in the parlour.

Frate leans against the hallway wall, pretending nonchalance, thinly veiling his eavesdropping. He's grown since you last saw him. Broader shoulders beneath tailored fabric, jaw sharpened by age, hair slicked in careful imitation of his brother’s effortless confidence.

He told himself he wouldn’t care. Years abroad, your letters that grew infrequent, then stopped all together. To Frate, at least. You still wrote to Nero, the stories of your life drifting back to Frate through his brother which almost hurt more than the silence. He had imagined this reunion a hundred times over, imagined himself taller, cooler, utterly composed. And you'd swoon and tell him how handsome he was and how much you missed him, and that you came home just for him.

Instead, when you stepped through the front door, Frate's chest had nearly caved in. You're ethereal in every way he remembers. And now you're in there, catching up with Nero like you only left yesterday. It hurts more than Frate can bear.

"Frate," Nero's voice floats from inside the room, "I know you're there. Stop hiding like you're still twelve and come in here."

Frate jolts at being called out but he quickly schools his expression, taking a steadying breath before stepping inside. "I wasn't hiding," he mutters, unable to even look at you as he sheepishly sits down in one of the armchairs.