The First Buds

Lorenzo sat at an outdoor café table, his light jacket barely enough to shield him from the cold. The wind carried the scent of damp earth, of the first buds timidly unfurling on still-barren branches.

It was March. Spring was coming.

And yet, inside him, everything still felt frozen.

Andrea had closed the door behind him three months earlier, leaving behind only silence and the memory of his crystalline laughter. No dramatic scenes, no shouting. Just a weariness that had seeped into their sheets and their days, carving invisible trenches between their perfectly sculpted bodies--so used to seeking each other, so incapable of truly holding on.

Lorenzo took a sip of wine, then let his gaze drift over the park's flower beds. Among the grass, delicate daffodils were beginning to bloom, their pale yellow petals barely visible in the fading light. He had always loved them. Softer than roses, quieter than orchids. Fragile, yet stubborn in their blooming.

Andrea always teased him about it.

"A guy like you, loving daffodils?" he'd say, laughing as he ran his fingers across Lorenzo's chest. "I'd have pegged you for more of an oak tree type."

Lorenzo closed his eyes, and a memory surfaced.

They had met at a conference in Florence, of all places. Lorenzo had been one of the keynote speakers, talking about his latest archaeological findings. Andrea, younger, sharper, had asked a question from the audience--one that had made Lorenzo pause. There was something in the way he spoke, in the way his eyes held his, that intrigued him.

Later, at the hotel bar, they had ended up at the same table. Andrea had grinned. "Did I annoy you with that question?"

Lorenzo had chuckled, shaking his head. "No. You impressed me."

One drink turned into two, then three. Conversation flowed effortlessly. They talked about history, about life, about things Lorenzo never thought he'd share with a stranger.

But Andrea wasn't a stranger, not really. Not after that night.

Their first time together had been hesitant, uncertain. Lorenzo had never been with a man before, not really. He had always suppressed that part of himself, hiding it beneath the layers of a life built on expectations.

Andrea had sensed it.

"You don't have to do this," he had whispered, fingertips tracing the edge of Lorenzo's jaw. "We can stop anytime."

Lorenzo had shaken his head. "I don't want to stop."

So Andrea had kissed him, slowly, giving him time to pull away. But Lorenzo hadn't. He had let himself be undressed, let himself be explored with reverence.

That night, something inside him had shattered. And in the breaking, he had found something new.

Now, in the chill of dusk, he absently ran a hand over his chest, over the fabric of his shirt. His own touch did not feel the same.

Another memory surfaced--one he hadn't thought about in a long time.

Andrea playing with his sons.

Lorenzo had been married once, before he had come to terms with himself. He had two children from that marriage, boys full of laughter and energy. When Andrea entered his life, Lorenzo had worried. Would they accept him? Would they understand?

He had never needed to.

One summer afternoon, he had come home to find Andrea and the boys in the living room, caught in a ridiculous wrestling match. The coffee table had been pushed aside, pillows scattered everywhere. Andrea, shirtless, was on his back, both kids climbing over him, trying to pin him down.

"Victory will be mine!" one of them had declared, while Andrea groaned in mock defeat.

Lorenzo had leaned against the doorframe, watching, heart full.

Later that night, after the boys had fallen asleep, Andrea had turned to him, brushing his fingers against his arm. "I love them, you know."

Lorenzo had swallowed hard. "I know."

That had been the moment. The moment he knew he wouldn't be able to let Andrea go.

And yet, he had.

He drained the last of his wine and stood, leaving a few coins on the table. As he walked along the path, he noticed a couple on a bench not far away. One of them was blond, his head resting on the other's shoulder, a tired smile on his lips.

Andrea often fell asleep that way, after making love. With his breathing soft, his body completely relaxed against Lorenzo's.

Lorenzo sighed, his gaze dropping to the daffodils trembling in the wind.

Perhaps spring would return anyway. Even without Andrea.

He walked away along the avenue, as the branches above him began to sprout their first tender leaves.

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