We'll survive the test of time, I promise I'll be right here

Oneshot

The Tuscan sun cast a mosaic of light and shadow through the leaves overhead, dappling the ancient grapevines that snaked their way across the rolling hills of the vineyard. Pete, his name as vibrant and unpredictable as a desert storm brewing on the horizon, knelt amongst the rows, pruning with an practiced grace. His eyes, the color of a twilight sky where the pinks of sunset met the depths of night, held a quiet intensity that flickered to life when a low whistle broke the silence.

He looked up, and time seemed to stop. A figure stood at the crest of the hill, bathed in the golden light. A broad-shouldered man, with dark hair that danced in the breeze, he was sketching the breathtaking view before him. Vegas felt a familiar tug in his chest, a current that defied logic. This stranger, with his brooding gaze and the furrow in his brow as he concentrated on capturing the scene, felt strangely...known.

As he descended the hill, his steps light on the dusty earth, the breeze carried the scent of sandalwood and something deeper, a hint of woodsmoke and worn leather that sent a shiver down Pete's spine. He rose to his feet, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Vegas' eyes, the color of a deep forest under a full moon, met his, and the world seemed to shrink until all that existed was the space between them.

A hesitant smile curved Pete's lips, "Beautiful view, isn't it?" His voice sounded rough to his own ears, unused as it was to such sudden, unexpected encounters.

Vegas blinked, momentarily startled, then grinned, his smile brighter than the Tuscan sun, "It truly is. I couldn't resist trying to capture it." He held up his sketchbook, the lines charcoal and flowing, already capturing the essence of the landscape.

Vegas' gaze snagged on his calloused fingers, stained with the tell-tale smudges of charcoal, and a memory flickered in the dusty corners of his mind – a hand, strong and warm, holding his, smeared with the same dark ink. But the memory was fleeting, like a wisp of smoke on the wind.

He extended his free hand, "I'm Vegas," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down Pete's spine.

"Pete," he replied, taking his hand. The moment their skin touched, a surge of electricity coursed through him, a jolt that felt as familiar as it was shocking. It was a connection that transcended years, a recognition that defied explanation.

Days turned into weeks, and the vineyard became their shared haven. Vegas, it turned out, was an aspiring artist, traveling Europe in search of inspiration. They spent their days exploring the picturesque villages, sharing laughter under the shade of ancient olive trees, and stealing stolen kisses amidst the vibrant rows of grapes. Vegas was captivated by Pete's fiery spirit, his passion for the land evident in every calloused hand and sun-kissed brow. He found his stories of harvest moons and stubborn grapevines as captivating as the paintings of the Renaissance masters.

Pete, in turn, was drawn to Vegas' quiet strength, his soul as vast and open as the starry Tuscan sky. Their laughter echoed through the valleys they visited, their joy as vibrant as the summer wildflowers that painted the meadows. They talked for hours about everything and nothing, their past a closed book, their future an unwritten poem. But a shadow always lingered in Pete's eyes, a flicker of sadness that Vegas couldn't quite decipher.

One evening, as they sat by a crackling fire in the old stone villa that served as Pete's home, Vegas traced a constellation with his finger on the star-dusted canvas of the night sky. "They say," he said, his voice soft, "if you wish upon a shooting star, your wish will come true."

Pete's smile faltered. "Do you believe in that?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Pete looked at Vegas, his gaze searching Vegas' face, "I believe in things I can't explain," Vegas said gently.