All Roads Lead to Rome

Well, it was all beginning to resemble a classic Julia Roberts situation.  From the strained smiles of the guests to the monotonous and hypnotic chatter of the priest; from the obnoxious guy across the room, to the horrible itch all over his body that urged him to just take off and run.  The hall “ahh’d” touchingly as if a guy was standing somewhere holding a sign that spelled out the instructions: laugh, cry, sigh. He shivered once more, moving his fingers in someone else's hands, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the cold stickiness of sweat.  This was all wrong. A horrifying mistake reaching its climax, threatening to explode right in his face in the next couple of minutes.  He cast a panicked glance toward the exit of the church; warm light streamed softly from the open door and seemed to be calling his name. Someone about to be his husband in just a few words squeezed his hands to draw attention to the priest's words and to what was going on in general.  "If there is a person here who knows a reason why this couple cannot be legally married, let him speak now or forever hold his silence," the holy father said sternly, staring out into the audience in anticipation of objections, which of course were not forthcoming.  Well, this was probably his exit.  "I can't do this," he said confidently, instantly eliciting a shocked gasp from fifty people at once. "I can't this...this is wrong," he muttered more quietly, wrenching his hands from the wet grip of his frustrated partner who was currently experiencing something akin to a stroke.  "I..I’m...sorry," he muttered and, obeying his flight instinct, quickly scampered down the aisle, trying to ignore the coming apocalypse.  His heart was pounding at breakneck speed when he finally made it out of the walls of the Episcopal church and immediately into the arms of a new crowd.  "Cut, cut!" shouted the director triumphantly, and everyone around exploded with applause, shouts, and loud whistling. "Congratulations, we’re now wrapped on filming season one! You’re all doing great!" praised William sincerely and allowed himself to be swept off his feet by the cast.  Mickey went from person to person, hugging coworkers and posing for pictures, answering questions from a couple of reporters allowed on set, and all the other tiring but obligatory chaos that always came after the last sound of the clapboard.  Finally, when he managed to escape the noisy commotion of the set to the safety of his car, something large and abnormally strong grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him into the darkness of a nearby alley.  "That's my baby!" roared his manager, Jeffrey Jacob Kalua, a good-natured, Hawaiian bear of a man, who inadvertently strangled Mickey with his embrace. "You smell that in the air, Milkovich? You know what it is?"  "My imminent demise," Mickey wheezed dramatically, trying futilely to free himself of JJ's paws.  "What?" JJ raised an eyebrow. "No, it's the smell of money, kid," he loosened his killer embrace, instead grabbing Mickey by the shoulders to lead him somewhere. "That's what Thomas Woodrow Wilson's paper ass smells like buddy. And who did it? Who did it? That's my boy!"  Mickey inhaled deeply and resigned himself to the fact that he would soon be crumpled like a plush toy. After six years of working with JJ, he’d mastered the art of completely ignoring his chatter for his own good.  He adored big Jeff, no one in their right mind wouldn’t. But sometimes there was just too much of him. Especially when all Mickey could think about was taking a cool shower and collapsing into his soft hotel bedsheets, in a room the studio gave all the actors on the last day of filming.  He nodded half-heartedly as his manager painted his no doubt near-stellar future, letting his words drip off him like rain off a duck.  Mickey was usually just as enthusiastic as JJ. After all, they've been working damn hard over the past year: filming a new TV series between stints of voiceover work on an animated movie, nonstop photo shoots, and interviews. All this was in addition to his privacy-hungry ass being chased everywhere by either reporters or throngs of fans. He was popular and that was an understatement.  That wasn't to say Mickey didn't enjoy it. Like many artists, he drew inspiration from audience reactions and responses, and found motivation in critics’ rave reviews and bursts of applause. And like many actors, Mickey was also a sponge, absorbing what was happening, subject to the almost inevitable deformation when stage and life inevitably mixed, warping reality and your sense of self. Even at this second, Mickey was lazily contemplating which of his remaining emotions he should release at JJ's eulogy, even though there were no more cameras or spectators around. With a crack of the clapboard, he fizzled like a burned-out light bulb in a dark, windowless room and could no longer make out the difference between his real emotions and his character's rehearsed, artificially created ones.  JJ continued to good-naturedly coo at him, occasionally shaking him with his big paws. He didn’t realize that mentally, Mickey was already in his hotel room, taking a big bite out of a juicy double-patty hamburger. He could finally tell his diet to go to hell, no longer needing to observe the strict guidelines he was given during filming so he could maintain the slim and trim physique of 22-year-old Canadian Nickolas on screen. With a side of crispy potatoes, this would pair beautifully.....  "Mickey!"  "Jesus fucking Christ!" Mickey was abruptly pulled out of his sweet fast food reverie, surprised to find himself in the staff office, which was on the other end of the site altogether.  "So, what do you say?" JJ plopped down on a small couch and looked expectantly at Mickey, who stood before him like a frightened schoolboy at the blackboard. "It's a great idea, right? The fans will go crazy, the ratings will soar to the gates of heaven, baby, so I think you could go together already to the Vogue party in early September, and then," he smiled slyly and mimicked quotation marks with his fingers. "You'll ‘accidentally’ get caught kissing here and there, so..."  "Okay, stop!" the mention of kissing completely shook Mickey out of his trance and he suddenly felt like a cat on hot rocks. "I'm coming to the party with who?" "You weren't fucking listening to me, were you?" JJ threw Mickey a sour and insulted look, to which he just yawned tiredly. "Okay, okay, I know you're exhausted, just come pay attention for a second and then I'll let you go so you can go stuff your face with chicken nuggets. Yeah, yeah, you think I don't know what you're dreaming about in there?"  Well, sue him. Mickey's life was interesting and fulfilling, just sometimes a little (very) exhausting and routine in terms of food and exercise, so forgive him for just wanting to be a regular person once a fucking year.  He snorted and plopped down on the couch, squeezing into the hard cushions, glaring at his manager.  "I thought it might be a good idea to bond with your shooting partner next season a little in advance," JJ said, and sirens sounded in Mickey's head. "Cast a line, throw some meat, start a rumor, bait a dog, come out of the closet..."  "Stop talking in fucking analogies, Jeffrey!"  "Fake dating!" JJ clarified with a wry grin, knowing full well that Mickey was going to freak out in the next ten seconds. "Before you tell me to go to hell in every language in the world you know, just listen," he added holding his hands out in front of him while Mickey pondered where he could get a knife. "It’d be the perfect PR campaign, you know how it works. I'm not forcing you to lick Byron's tonsils, just have a couple of outings together and an innocent kiss on camera, fans will love it. Like Hudgens and Efron, Kardashians and Humphries, Cruz and Holmes, Aniston and Vaughn, Swift and Styles, Tr..."  "Like hell I'm going to touch fucking Barry any more than the script requires," Mickey interrupted his manager's tirade, fully prepared to defend himself by any means necessary. "The series is doing crazy numbers as it is, why would we..."  "It's not about the series buddy, the rumors of you and Byron together will get you a million mentions on Twitter alone, which will get more serious people's attention, and then you can negotiate for more money on your next project."  "And what, we can't do that without me touching fucking Barton?" exhaled Mickey and crossed his arms over his chest. "And anyway, maybe I already have someone?"  JJ didn't even bother to dignify that brazen fat lie with an answer, which was fair enough. Not only would Mickey not have had the time to get himself even a cockroach, he'd also been a toxic closeted nun for most of his life, even if he brilliantly portrayed promiscuous gay men on screen.  That's not to say they hadn't done this little trick of cheating and redirecting attention before, it was just that in this case, Mickey hated Barney specifically rather than the very idea of a fake relationship. They'd had a little run-in in the past when Mickey had overheard the brown-haired man speak rudely of his art, calling him a dry amateur destined to be stuck in one role. The jerk had hit Milkovich right in the sore spot and the next thing he knew Bertrand was begging for mercy while Mickey kicked him in the ass. So finding out he'd been confirmed to be Mickey's hero's new boyfriend for season two was bad enough, although it was worth giving credit to the fact that the asshole probably had some balls.  "Look, Mick, I'm not saying you have to answer right now," JJ took pity and patted Mickey on the shoulder, ignoring his bitchy look. "Just keep in mind that it would be awesome for your career, you know where we're aiming, buddy and sometimes you have to do nasty things to get something good, right? It's a dirty business," he smiled and pulled a white envelope out of the breast pocket of his jacket. "I got something here for you."  "If it's that Thai massage again..." growled Mickey warningly as the memories of the masseuse sneakily grabbing his junk were still fresh and painful.  "You'll never forget that, will you?" JJ snorted derisively, tearing open the envelope. "Okay, I should have warned you, but I just thought everyone knew what a deep massage was."  "And I'm also gay, asshole."  "Who cares whose fingers are twitching your trunk?!"  "You wouldn't believe it, you're an omnivore" Micky spat out, to which his manager just laughed.  "My dick doesn't cling to any particular sex characteristics and also mother nature gave me this gorgeous body, it wouldn't be fair of me to deny men and women the opportunity to touch it," Jeffrey stated teasingly and Mickey feigned vomiting. "Fuck you bitch, you like me," he said confidently and held out the papers to Mickey. "I figured your next event is a couple weeks away so you might as well take a break."  Mickey looked at his manager skeptically and looked at the papers, studying them while his eyes widened to the point of being absolutely comical.  "Fucking Rome?!" he squeaked disbelievingly, poring over tickets, hotel reservations and other papers. "For ten days?!"  JJ nodded and broke out into a dreamy smile, seemingly pleased with Mickey's reaction. "Exactly, my friend. Italy is a land of dreams and poetry, of love and lovers, a paradise where there is no such thing as bad weather or ugly people. I fondly remember my last vacation in Naples, ah, that's where I fucked a man for the first time."  "Jeffrey Jacob Kalua!" roared Mickey, waving the ticket in an attempt to chase the Hawaiian off like an evil spirit while he chuckled stupidly.  "Yeah, you're right, I shouldn't have said that," nodded JJ, and Mickey suspected something amiss. "You're not allowed to dip your dick anywhere until filming is over anyway."  "Ohhh," Milkovich groaned and slid dramatically off the couch. "I'm starting to hate all this shit."  "No, you fucking love it, now sign the papers and get out of here, there's no plane waiting for your ass no matter how famous it is," he laughed before rubbing Mickey on the top of his head and getting a little more serious. "Think about what I said before, Byron may be a pimple on your ass but he's just a phase, you know firsthand how important it is to present yourself properly. And even if you say no, I'll respect that, but you're still not allowed to hit on anyone else but him because the producers will eat us up for breach of contract. Get some rest, eat pasta till it comes out of your ears, jerk off to the statue of Hercules, build up your strength, and get back to base, kid. You're standing right at the peak, you're the story of the day, Mick, it's time to play big." 

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Mickey looked around cautiously, making sure no one recognized him, and headed for the Ciampino airport exit, adjusting the brim of his lucky cap.  It was an old but carefully preserved beige baseball cap with a fox patch from Goorin Bros. Mickey had bought it with his first paycheck seven years ago. He had a whole collection now, and he even took a few with him: the black one with the panther on it, and the gray one with the ram that his sister had given him. Still, there was something special about this first big purchase, with its frayed edges and threads sticking out, that warmed and sustained Mickey like his secret amulet.  Besides the special value he placed on old things, Mickey was generally simple and unassuming in his clothes, choosing monochromatic and almost boring things, like right now: a white T-shirt and mustard-colored pants with black Vans. JJ was constantly trying to hook him up with all sorts of designers and brands, which Mickey fought off like a young samurai. Fuck that, Jeffrey could only pull so much pink Gucci shit over his breathless body. The fashion houses already had Cole Adams' skinny ass and they could dress him up like a Christmas tree literally every day if they wanted.  He stepped outside into the warm breeze, enjoying how it pleasantly caressed his skin, so unlike the perpetually hot Los Angeles sun that felt like it wanted to burn you and give you cancer. He sighed contentedly, despite his internal tremors and share of excitement. People around him were speeding around, rolling suitcases behind them. Cab drivers were hailing customers, some were rushing inside, late for their flight; some were laughing and hugging as they lazily walked out the doors.  Mickey stood aside, out of the way of the main stream, not yet in Rome, but no longer in Los Angeles. He was somewhere between the past and the future, in a place where tears were as frequent as smiles. Maybe that’s what this was: the present.  He swallowed noisily, playing with the lock on his bag, watching the steel white bird go in for a landing, cutting through the fluffy clouds. Mickey figured that if a man could conjure up an airplane and damn near make it take off with hundreds of passengers on board, he might as well get his act together and head out into the unknown, on the first personal journey of his life.  He'd been on stage hundreds of times, been in the crosshairs of lenses thousands of times, and yet now Mickey felt small and helpless as the world spread out before him: boundless and infinitely beautiful.   In his hands was a guidebook to Rome, which Mickey was sure would be of no use to him, nor would a small phrasebook with basic phrases, because he had never been able to speak any language except Spanish. And that was probably in his genes, as a backup, considering how many of his relatives had worked for drug cartels or were just hiding from prison in Mexico.  Yeah, Mickey's family was unrelenting, fun-loving and ruthless, and thankfully, safely hidden from the claws of the press. His ass wouldn't have been hired for any projects otherwise, since the universe couldn’t have invented more homophobic Nazi bastards than Mickey's father and his entourage. So to the general public he was an orphan, though his real life was very different considering Terry would rather kill him if he ever met him. He had a sister, Mandy, and sometimes they even saw each other, carving out rare hours to meet between Mickey's filming schedule and her busy catwalk schedule.  "Bitch would totally figure out these fucking catacombs," Mickey thought with a grin as he looked at a map of Rome, which he saw as some kind of super complicated cipher in an alien language.  The modeling business involved frequent flights, so Italy was almost Mandy's second home during fashion season, and Mickey felt a little sorry that his sister was now strutting around on the complete other side of the globe.  A feeling of heavy cold loneliness flooded over him without warning, and Mickey shuddered in an attempt to shake off the depressing thoughts that were burrowing under his skin. This was just his life.  To anyone watching from the sidelines, he was adored by tens of thousands of people. In reality, however, none of them had ever really loved the real him. They were only familiar with the image, the costume, carefully crafted by a team of agents, and marketing and PR execs. They created this person who was successful, sought after, talked about.  An image, the price for which was round-the-clock work, constant deprivation, loneliness.  A long time ago, Mickey heard that the greatest happiness was to find someone with whom you could behave as freely as you do alone, someone who recognized and loved the real you.  Mickey had simply resigned himself to the fact that this was a fairy tale in which he would never get a part. He'd paid his price long ago and just hoped the dividends would cover his losses. He took a deep breath and removed his dark Ray-Ban square tortoise-shell glasses from his T-shirt before slipping them on his face and heading for the parking lot. It was time to put this plan into action.  He opened the cab door and plopped inside, remembering exactly where the word "Buongiorno", from the Italian word for hello, was accented, when he realized he was about to go down an Indian version of a rabbit hole.  A thick fog of potent incense mixed with curry dissipated and revealed a tiny branch of Mumbai encased in a yellow Daewoo Nexia.  It took a minute before Mickey focused enough to see the cab driver amidst the smoke, the beads, and the gold-fringed velvet curtain that separated the back seats. It didn't do him any good, anyway, because the guy was clearly in a trance, singing an intricate Indian tune and biting into a bun full of vegetables and meat.  Mickey glanced at the door and wondered if Rome was outside or if they'd driven all the way to India. He was about to apologize for interrupting the guy's lunch (though he didn't even notice him) when the driver surfaced and smiled at Mickey, shaking off the crumbs at the same time.  "Welcome to the eternal city! My name is Sanjay, where would you like to go?" said Sanjay in flawless English with a slight Indian accent and a wild grin.  Mickey froze, looking at the sheet with JJ's instructions: the address of a paid-for five-star hotel, guide contacts, popular tourist spots, Michelin restaurants...  "Where would you like to go?" He rolled it up, tucking it into his pocket before getting comfortable and glancing conspiratorially at the driver.  "To somewhere the tourists don’t know about."  Sanjay thought for only a second before smiling triumphantly, starting the engine, and pulling out of the airport parking lot.  All Mickey could do was hold on tight and hope he hadn't uttered any secret codes to designate a meeting place for the Italian mafia.  On the other hand, life is either a great adventure or not. The only question is which will you choose?    

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Early in his career, Mickey was lucky enough to play a mail carrier, in a small but beautiful short film about the transience of time.  His hero's name was Livio, which, as Mickey realized only much later, was a sarcastic mockery of his fate because every day, in order to deliver the mail, he had to bike down the same stone street. Time went by, paintings changed, makeup artists puffed and put more wrinkles and gray hairs on Mickey until he simply became the very definition of time and his two-wheeled friend rusted away.  Yet the alley remained just as beautiful, adorned with baskets of lush, brightly colored flowers that wilted at the end of each season only to bloom again soon after.  Everyone was free to make their own sense out of the movie. Mickey was just glad he had gotten the lead role, even if he was paid practically in dust.  Perhaps the point of the film was that men, though they considered themselves the crown of creation, was a mere set of bones and H2O, and inevitably succumbed to fading, while the world around them was destined to last forever.  He remembers critics rapturously praising their sets - colorful pastel-colored Italian Quarter-style houses decorated with pots and hanging baskets of blooming hydrangeas, pink bougainvilleas creeping up the walls.  It was all pure fakery, of course. The houses were made of plywood, the flowers made of paper, fabric, and the enthusiasm of the decorators. But the audience response was unrivaled, and Mickey was proud to be a part of it.  But now, after some time, he realized with clarity that it was kind of trash and not remotely good.  Sanjay had courteously given him a ride to...well, a place somewhere in Rome and even tried to explain exactly where Mickey was geographically.  "We're in the north-central part of Rome in the Trieste district, between Via Tagliamento, Via Arno, Via Ombrone, Via Serchio and Via Clitunno," he calmly explained while Mickey wondered what language he was speaking.  Again he thought of how cruelly society had underestimated cab drivers, and how they didn't realize their own nuclear potential. Knowing multiple languages, incredible communication skills and advanced spatial reasoning were qualities that any self-respecting firm competed for, and yet here Sanjay was, spinning the worn steering wheel of a used car.  "Where, again?" tried Mickey, giving the driver a hint that he didn't understand a damn thing.  "You're in the next neighborhood over from the block that houses the frog fountain where the Beatles bathed," he offered.  Mickey considered this option for a second before nodding and shrugging, that was fine with him.  Sanjay was nice, sociable and helpful, giving Mickey instructions on how to get to the right hostel, which was owned by an old acquaintance he'd met just after arriving in Rome.  When Mickey finally got out of the car, he was almost certain that his ass wouldn't get lost in this big museum of a city, left to be mauled by the local street kids.  "Oh yeah," Mickey almost forgot the most important thing, digging into his pockets and pulling out an envelope with the required documents. "It's a paid for ten-days stay at a five star hotel," he said shyly while Sanjay was clearly losing his mind. "Have fun yourself or I don't know, sell it to someone. Either way you helped me and I don't like to be in debt," he added and the next moment found himself unceremoniously crumpled into a heap by one lanky Sanjay.  "I'm going to name my first born after you," he declared, folding the papers neatly. "What will his name be?"  Mickey snorted, knowing in advance that the guy would regret this in a couple seconds.  "Mikhailo."  "That's...that's...not so bad" reasoned the cabbie and nodded at Mickey. "My brother's name is Madhukar, which literally means bee, so one ridiculous foreign nickname won't spoil our family tree," concluded Sanjay, not noticing the sour look on his passenger's face. "Call me my friend if you need wheels, or to hide evidence."  "Evidence?" squeaked Mickey, turning on the cabbie in disbelief.  "What evidence?" interjected Sanjay, and, with a conspiratorial wink at him, started the engine and disappeared into the stream of cars. And so Mickey stood among the gardens of paradise, breathing in the thick, sweet fragrance of the flowers blooming lushly in hanging baskets on either side of the narrow alley. He walked slowly, soaking up the atmosphere of some fairy-tale alleyway, as if there were a portal somewhere that he had inadvertently wandered into, stepping into a world created by Clive Lewis. The stone houses with small windows reminded him of little castles, standing side by side, decorated with wrought iron signs, carved wooden frames and, of course, fragrant geraniums whose sweetness mixed a little with bitterness.  Mickey's Vans clattered down the paved road as he admired the neighborhood, hidden from the clutches of tourists, holding the spirit of the average working Roman. It barely occurred to him that he wasn't actually in Los Angeles, not to mention that Mickey's sleep deprivation was well beyond a consciousness-critical level, so right now he was literally floating like Alice in Wonderland, taking pictures of flower pots and wrought iron lanterns like a travel blogger.  Sanjay had told him to keep walking forward until he came to a small sidewalk café, beyond which was the entrance to the house he wanted, and Mickey was proud of himself when he found his destination, even if it took five minutes to get there without a single turn. Whatever it was, it was not as hopeless as it might seem.  Amongst the green bushes and barrels of flowers stood wooden tables and chairs with wrought iron legs, five in all, indicating that the place was by no means popular, and that couldn't help but please his inner sociopath.  Again the atmosphere struck him to the heart, it seemed he had never seen anything more perfect than this old alleyway with simple furniture amidst thick domesticated vegetation. It had such a fierce sense of Italy about it that even Mickey, who didn't know a damn thing about Rome in the first place, could penetrate and admire it.  The door to the house was hospitably open, and Mickey read the sign forged on the plaque. "Visita a Di Dio," before tapping meekly on the jamb, attracting attention. No one appeared at his call and after a little thought, Mickey stepped inside, entering a twenty-first-century manor house, seriously expecting the Bridgertons to jump out from somewhere.  He took a few steps down the hallway before discovering a large, bright kitchen and probably the lady of the house, self-consciously kneading ridiculously huge amounts of dough.  "Siniera Di Dio?" he called out, but the woman was singing her Italian tune too loudly to hear Mickey. "Buongiorno?" he almost shouted, which he regretted the next second.  "Signore abbi pietà!" muttered the landlady, clutching her heart and blinking at Mickey as she came to her senses from her fright. "Oh ciao, caro, come posso essere utile?" she said, coming to her senses and blurring into a smile, washing her hands, to walk over to Mickey.  He probably looked like a stunned possum because he couldn't make out a single word she said, panic-strickenly rummaging through his phrasebook until Senora Di Dio realized what was happening and heaped the greatest relief on him.  "Oh, you're an American tourist, darling?" she cooed in the kindest grandmotherly English, and Mickey nodded happily. "My mom, God rest her soul, was American, so you can talk like you're at home."  Mickey almost took off in relief, putting the damned dictionary away and trying to remember why he was here in the first place. "I...I was told I could rent a room from you. Señora Elisa Di Dio, is that correct?"  "Sì sì, caro," the woman smiled and immediately waved her hand. "Oh, sorry dear, we don't have many foreigners here, just one more. And call me Elisa please," she asked, clapping her hands together and waiting for Mickey's nod. "So, who do we have here?"  "Oh, Mikhailo, I'm Mickey...that is," he introduced himself, happy to be in a place where no one would likely ever recognize him. In fact, there was nothing more wonderful than just being an ordinary, unremarkable person.  "Michael" smiled Elisa and rubbed Mickey's cheek, which confirmed that he had finally found his long-missing grandmother. "Who, like God. What a beautiful name darling, it's really rare nowadays. Come follow me."

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"Lunch in two hours, don't be late!" ordered Elisa before leaving Mickey's room. He didn't even think of arguing with her.  It had taken him exactly five minutes to realize that Senora Elisa Di Dio was the type of woman whose kind and gentle speeches didn't in the least dislodge her iron grip.  He looked around, smiling at what would be his home for the next ten days, pleased with the place he'd gotten for a ridiculous sum: a small but bright room with creaky wooden floors, white walls and ceiling, adorned with paintings and, of course, stocked with green leafy plants.  The new bed, piled with pillows and covered with a coarse-knit gray blanket, was especially calling Mickey’s name, and he practically jumped on it like a little kid, disappearing into the featherbed to finally fall sweetly asleep.  He slept through lunch for two hours.  Mickey's stomach was particularly unhappy since his last meal had been Eggs Benedict and a Greek salad on the airplane a few hours ago. He washed his face and got his dark hair into somewhat decent condition so he could go out and look for a restaurant, which Rome was supposed to be littered with.  He felt like a bit of a hypocrite because he had always claimed that his closet was the epitome of boring and classic. Recently though, Mickey had somehow gathered the wildest collection of Hawaiian shirts that had ever existed on Earth that didn’t belong to Elton John.  He never had a chance to wear them anywhere in the US considering he’d blow up on Twitter in three minutes, and then on Instagram moments later. Here, the colorful shirts would be his thing, just like that warm brown sweater he'd worn to threads a few years ago.  Call it a little passion of his. Bright shirts in ridiculous colors and patterns, which only confirmed that Mickey was, without a doubt, unapologetically gay. He merely shrugged and tsked, long since accustomed to his orientation, happily choosing between the green beachy pattern and the more delicate blue.  He chose the second option and tossed his other items into his bag, trying on a sky-colored short-sleeved shirt printed with roses and green leaves over a white t-shirt with blue jeans. He completed the look with dark, thin-rimmed glasses, opened an online travel guide on his phone, and set off into the unknown in search of the smell of Rome's famous pizza. 

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Well, that was to be expected.  Mickey stood in the middle of the busy square, looking around in panic, realizing that he was stupidly, humiliatingly, unquestionably lost. Why had he ever trusted that fucking artificial intelligence-packed piece of hardware that had led him to the middle of nowhere and refused to show him the way back?  Sarah Connor was right. Mickey gathered the strength to grab a random Italian and ask him to show him the way back. He recognized that he was completely useless without JJ at his side. On the other hand, maybe he should call Sanjay?  "Ha bisogno di aiuto, siñor?" a warm honeyed timbre snapped him out of his reverie, and Mickey looked up in search of its source only to freeze confusedly, forgetting any words.  The first thing he saw was pure and bright gold, an incredibly beautiful shade of orange that shimmered under the rays of the Roman sun in a mop of enchanting curls that seemed to be crowned with a halo.  Their equally charming owner smiled briefly at Mickey, looking back at him interestedly, probably waiting for Mickey to come out of his mini-concussion.  The brunet wondered if he had accidentally been hit by a car - and that this was heaven and he was seeing the local angels. If they were still on sinful earth, Mickey was beginning to understand why JJ had made his bisexual coming-out in this country of all places, if this was what Italy had to offer....  The man tilted his head in mute question, and Mickey found an ounce of will and pride to open his mouth and speak. "Buonasera. Mi sembra di essere..." he muttered crookedly, trying to remember what the saying was....  "Oh, American," the man concluded with a dazzling smile, and Mickey exhaled a sigh of relief. "You...walked in the wrong place?" he asked courteously, and the brunet was grateful that the guy seemed to just understand his problem and didn't advertise it.  "Uh, yeah," he nodded, wondering if he'd ever found anyone's freckles this attractive, if he'd ever noticed them at all. "I...just checked into the Visite a Di Dio today and went out for a walk to…," Mickey spread his hands, reluctantly admitting his defeat. "Get lost in ten minutes, I guess...?"  The man laughed briefly, making Mickey's insides twist tightly, because it was one hell of a dangerous laugh: beautiful, melodic, pleasant, but also husky and sexy, making the heat begin to rise to the brunet's cheeks with unprecedented force.  No doubt the words, "Fuck me, I'm desperate" were written on Mickey's forehead. He couldn't remember when he'd last had proper sex, but it was still crazy how the fiery man with the searing gaze and warm laugh was able to start his rusty motor from zero to light speed.  "Are you staying with Elisa and Vincenzo?" the man clarified, continuing to smile charmingly.  Who but God could have sent him an English-speaking angel who also knew where he needed to go, he thought, even though Rome was kind of an anthill.  "Yeah, nice old lady, bunch of flowers, and so on," he muttered like an idiot, trying to tap into his acting talents, which were apparently now asleep. "You need to go right then," the redhead nodded and gave Mickey another hot emerald stare. Thankfully Mickey could once again rely on acting to keep a low profile when he was being brutally roasted like this. "Now we're in Piazza Giovani and you need to go right," the man explained, pointing in the right direction with his free hand. "And turn left under the big archway and then go straight until you hit the café."  "Oh, thanks," Mickey couldn't contain his delight and joy, smiling at the guy with appreciation and likely undisguised adoration for what he saw before him. Whatever it was, they would never meet again, and the man didn’t show any signs that he recognized him, so Mickey could act like the idiot he really was.  "You're welcome, and you are...?" the man brightened, genuinely pleased to have helped, adjusting the basket filled with fruits and vegetables at his fingertips.  "Mickey," he replied and made the mistake of shaking the large palm extended to him, only to have an electric current run straight down his spine, making him shiver.  What the hell was that?  "Nice to meet you, I'm Ian," the guy introduced himself, still not removing his warm soothing hand. "If you'd like to wait a minute, I could escort..."  "Oh, no, no," Mickey shook his head as the flare gun shot straight up his ass. The divinely handsome, tall and kind, green-eyed redhead walking him to the wicket couldn't lead to anything good. It would end up with Mickey attacking a straight man somewhere in an alleyway. "You...you've been helpful enough, thank you," he awkwardly released his hand and staggered backwards. "I have to go, thanks again."  Ian only smiled at him again, continuing to look at him like he was something he wished to unravel and devour at the same time, an almost submissive look if anyone had asked Mickey.  "Ci vediamo a cena, Mickey," he said in a slight American accent, and Mickey cherished that phrase like water in the palms of his hands in the middle of the desert, lest he forget it before the hostel and look it up in the dictionary to see what, mercy Jesus, it meant.  I'll see you at dinner, Mickey.