His trachea was burning thanks, no doubt, to all the salt water that was being expectorated out of his system. He barely registered the lips on his own as warm air was forced into his flooded lungs which immediately responded with a hard coughing fit. He finally sat up, vomiting brine. The light tapping on his back to help him cough it all up turned aggressive once he was able to breathe through his nose and mouth properly. "Cretino! Can you not tell the sea is angry today?!"

The reproachful tone was probably well deserved. As well as the punch in the shoulder. He did push his luck a little too far this time. Angelo finally lifted his head and was met with the resentful gaze of Manuel, the young fisherman with whom he shared a room.

"I was craving oysters," Angelo managed to articulate despite his clogged throat which was still hurting from all the lethal drinking it had just been subjected to. To support this statement, he pointed at the fishing basket, still attached to his hip, full to the brim with crustaceans, and ventured a smile.

But Manuel was showing no sign of cheerfulness. "What are you? A pregnant woman who craves oysters in June?! Speaking of which, did they do this to you?" he asked, eyeing the ugly gash on the other's leg.

Without waiting for an answer, he took off his shirt and started wrapping it around the bleeding calf with nimble fingers.

"Manuel, you don't have to do this."

"Of course I do! If not, you'd bleed to death."

A desirable outcome, thought Angelo. But he did not say a word. After all these people had done to guarantee his survival, an alleged suicide attempt would have been as disrespectful as a slap in the face.

Manuel must have guessed the other's state of mind for he tied up the cloth real tight, tugging at the knot a little forcefully. "Don't even think about bleeding to death, you hear me?"

The meaning behind those words could not be mistaken for anything but a warning: don't you dare try to pull another stunt like that. Ever.

"Thank you," was all the other could say.

Manuel then helped him up before crouching in front of him. "Hop on."

"I can walk."

"It's going to pour soon. We'll need to run for cover. Stop being stubborn for a change and let me carry you on my back! We'll get home faster."

As if to rule in his favour, the thunder rolled and heavy drops of rain began falling. "Too late," chuckled Angelo who was still trying to cheer his roommate up.

"Che idiota," grumbled the other, sliding one arm under his injured friend's legs, effectively scooping him up in one swift motion.

"Hey! Put me down!"

"Stop talking."

There really was no point in arguing at the moment because first of all, Angelo knew just how headstrong Manuel could be when he believed he was in the right. And second of all, if it wasn't for his roommate, Angelo would more than likely be dead by now. It was not the time to squabble over trifles. Especially since they were essentially getting drenched from head to toe. Not that they had been dry to begin with. But the rain was not only heavy. It was cold. Surprising for a June shower.

Angelo lifted his hand to grab onto Manuel's shirt, remembering too late that Manuel was shirtless. And utterly wet. And oh my would you look at those pecs! And hold on a second, where were all these thoughts coming from?!

"Just latch on to my neck," said Manuel who had slowed down, taking note of the other's hesitancy to touch any skin on and around the torso area. Despite his anger, which was still bubbling inside, Manuel felt a smirk grow on his lips.

♠

"Dio mio! What were you two doing outside in this dreadful weather?!"

It didn't take long for Francesca to decide that between the two shivering boys standing before her, Angelo was the one in need of immediate care. She hurriedly wrapped him in a woollen shawl before having him sit in front of the kitchen fireplace while she rubbed his back up and down.

"Hey, what about me?" whined Manuel, still dripping and freezing.

"Get yourself a towel. And put some clothes on while you're at it!" Francesca couldn't be bothered.

She had just noticed the blood-soaked shirt. "What ever happened to you, Son?"

"I tried to catch an octopus," said Angelo sheepishly.

Instead of the scolding he was certain he deserved, Angelo felt two strong arms wrap around his shoulders and squeeze, forcing his face into the woman's large bosoms. "Oh precious boy! Always thinking about your mamma Francesca! I know how much you love my polpo grigliato!"

"Mammina! Let go of him! He can't breathe!"

"Scusa!" she apologized, releasing the boy who was indeed a little blue in the face. She went on to assess the seriousness of the wound, cleaning it with water before applying a generous layer of honey. It took more than one compress to cover the gash, but she seemed confident in her propolis-based remedy.

Pouring some white wine in two glasses, she ordered, "here, drink this to warm ourselves up while I fix you something to eat."

Francesca was busy deep frying calamari rings when Angelo spoke again, allowing the vino to loosen his inhibition. "You should be aware that it was Manuel who saved me. From drowning."

She didn't look up. "Well, it's the least he could do, right?"

"What—what do you mean?"

The chef decided it was in the young man's best interest to let him know they knew. "Dear boy, when you came to us, all bruised and injured, we took turns at your bedside to make sure the fever wouldn't go up, and we assisted Doctor Costa the best we could during the surgery he performed to retrieve that bullet. Little did we know that gunshot wound should have been the least of our worries."

She dipped a large wire strainer in the bubbling oil to remove the fried squid rings and place them inside a basket lined with newspaper, to absorb the excess grease. "My son tells me you cry yourself to sleep every night."

She cut a lemon in half, pressing both halves over the dish to give it a nice tangy flavour. "Manuel can look after you, and Mamma Francesca can feed you, and treat your leg. But that's about it. Nobody here, in Riomaggiore, knows how to cure a broken heart," she added, pointing at Angelo's chest.

He looked away, confused and somewhat ashamed. He had put so much work into holding up a happy front. Yet here she was, peeling his cheerful facade off so effortlessly.

What was the point in keeping up appearances? "I'm sorry for being so ungrateful. You have done so much, and I have done so little to deserve your kindness."

He drank the remaining wine in one. "I should appreciate this new existence I've been given. I really should. But how could I when every time I watch the sun rise, I am reminded of its cost?"

"What cost?"

"Someone very dear to me had to die for me to live."

Manuel felt a pang of some unidentifiable emotion taking over this heart.

Francesca leaned forward, ready to provide him with the bosomiest hug he's ever had, but he held a hand up and shook his head with pleading eyes. "Please don't pity me, Francesca."

The front door's bell rang as a few soaked customers hurried inside.

"It's not pity, Son." She sounded almost hurt. "Anyway, I have to go greet the guests," she added, straightening her apron. "Manuel shall keep you company."

Angelo turned toward his roommate who had been rather quiet until now. And by the look of his tight jaw, he wasn't about to speak any time soon.

Truth be told, Manuel was in a bit of a crisis. He knew he liked girls. A lot. A little too much if you asked his mother who had given up on keeping track of their names. At that point, she was convinced he was just dating them to supplement his collection of conquests.

However, at that precise moment, in that warmly lit kitchen which smelled of fried calamari and sea salt, all Manuel wished for was to hold the broken boy sitting by the fire and kiss his pain away.

Nobody here, in Riomaggiore, knows how to cure a broken heart.

Manuel pulled a face at those words, reminded of his not so reputable notoriety as the village heart-breaker. Yes. He knew a thing or two about smashing hearts to smithereens. But what about mending them? What should he do? What could he do?

—

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