Chapter Text
Lorenzo quickly realizes rushing through the station in a suit is not his smartest choice. He ducks his head as he scans the screen for the Rome train, praying not to be recognized. Everyone he knows is still back at the graduation reception, but urgency and adrenaline have driven him here. He can’t risk polite smiles and congratulations, not while the clock ticks mercilessly on.
Getting his diploma, a pat on the back from his teachers, and the beaming proud smile from his parents had marked the official beginning of his adulthood, as much as starting university and getting involved in the Medici bank’s operations would in the upcoming months. Except for that, and all the changes in his life, it is a regular hot July Thursday, and so it seems to be for everyone else at Santa Maria Novella station, as he scans the screen one more time and looks around to find the right platform.
Lorenzo sees him amongst tourists dragging too big suitcases behind them and anxious locals tapping on their crossbody bags. Francesco is slightly rocking back and forth on his heels, absentmindedly huffing and glaring at those rushing around him. One suitcase and a backpack seem to have been enough for him to pack up a whole life in Florence. Something twists inside of Lorenzo as he realizes Francesco probably doesn’t have much to take with him, not for a lack of money or material possessions, but for scarce happy memories to want to carry with him.
Lorenzo is not boarding that train — he doesn’t think so, at least. He checks the time one more time and for once in his life prays that the usual train delays happen today as well. This isn’t how he expected the afternoon to go. He was supposed to be shaking hands and making his family stand tall in pride as they paraded him around, but instead, he had found himself undeniably stretching his neck above the crowd at school, darting his eyes around looking for Francesco’s tall figure. It is an old habit that not even ten years of minimal contact could erase.
The moment his mother had left Lorenzo to go look for Giuliano, his sister had sneaked up behind him. She sipped on the champagne that had been passed around and was silent at first, which Lorenzo had thought had something to do with their father’s insistence that she’d go and congratulate Bastiano Soderini on his return from university. Instead, now that they were alone, Bianca had pressed the cold glass into Lorenzo’s hand and with an equally icy expression said: “he’s gone to Rome.”
Lorenzo had turned briskly and lowered his head, not even worrying about feigning confusion and pretending he didn’t know who she was talking about.
“He’s not supposed to leave for another two weeks,” he had said.
Bianca had softened her look and shrugged.
“Change of plans, I guess.”
Lorenzo would have said that any excuse to leave that place could have worked, that he wanted nothing more than to ditch the people who were accosting him with questions about his future, but what had made him nod shortly at his sister and sneak off the school grounds had been something else entirely. Change, so much of it. So much that it was unbearable, undeniable, and sudden. Everything was shifting around him out of his control, and the idea of never seeing Francesco again was so overwhelming that it had led him to the station in a sort of daze.
Lorenzo is not boarding the train — he thinks so. He can’t just pack up and leave, but some days he wishes he could. He lingers on the platform, his frame half covered by a column. He probably should say something, he tells himself, but he seems frozen in place. Francesco is a few meters away and imminently about to leave forever and all Lorenzo wants to do is hold on to him, to one of the few remaining constants he still has.
Even from afar, Francesco had always been there, sometimes close but only to interject a cruel remark or flash a sarcastic smirk. It was a certainty Lorenzo had, like turning a corner on the street and seeing the Duomo his family had helped construct, like finding silence in the library, like watching a sunset from uphill in the city. He had taken these things for granted, had never imagined a day when they wouldn’t be there for him, to bring him comfort or to ground him or to make him rethink his place. They had stood tall and menacing, a firm reminder that he was in Florence, that his life was going as it was supposed to.
And Francesco had always been there, even if Lorenzo had to settle for staring at him from a distance, like the golden cross on top of Brunelleschi’s dome. Seeing him as they had classes together or they coincided in some high society event they had to attend reminded Lorenzo that Francesco was present, walking the same street as him, getting wet by the same rain, feeling the same sun on his skin, cohabiting the place both their families seemed to strive so much to contest over.
Lorenzo feels his chest constrict, a sudden angst and stubbornness taking over him. He wants to make Francesco stay, even if he knows it’s out of his hands, a feeling he hasn’t felt since they were seven and Jacopo had torn Francesco away from his life.
As if sensing he is being watched, Francesco suddenly turns. He looks sideways but misses Lorenzo, who has stepped further behind the column. Francesco has ditched the suit and tie he had put on for receiving his high honors diploma merely two hours ago and is wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He finally looks 18, Lorenzo thinks, and tries to burn the image onto his mind because he knows that when they see each other again (if they ever do), the last of who they are right now would be gone forever.
A lady pushing a stroller accidentally steps on Lorenzo’s foot and he cries out in pain. He accepts her apology with a grimace but dreads looking up. All the people waiting for the train are staring at him, Francesco Pazzi included.
“What are you doing here?” He almost hisses as he approaches Lorenzo.
“Getting my foot stomped all over, clearly,” Lorenzo says.
Francesco takes a deep breath and looks around them once more, his gaze searching over Lorenzo’s shoulder.
“Seriously, what are you doing at my train station?” he asks.
“Oh, your train station?” Lorenzo smirks, and he wishes it wouldn’t sound as douchebaggy as he thinks it does. “I didn’t realize your family had gone into the public transportation business, my apologies, Messer Pazzi”.
So much for not acting like an asshole.
Lorenzo is rarely this unpleasant with anyone (he is not allowed to be), but he feels as if he has been caught red-handed and should divert attention. He is usually good at that.
“Shouldn’t you be celebrating with your entourage?” Francesco asks.
“I didn’t feel like sticking around that place a minute more than I had to,” he says, and it’s nothing but the truth. “Seems like you felt the same,” Lorenzo adds.
Francesco takes a step back, his eyes focusing on a point behind Lorenzo again.
“I’m sure there are plenty of parties waiting for you, Medici,” he says as he adjusts the backpack on his shoulder.
“You could join me,” Lorenzo stupidly blurts out.
He knows Francesco’s answer will be “No”, just as it was in the first months he had tried to keep their friendship going as kids. He would always pull Francesco aside and invite him places, wait for him after class, and beg with him to reconsider. Francesco only grew colder and more distant, and for years all Lorenzo ever heard was a single syllable denying him before he had stopped asking altogether.
But this time Francesco huffs out some air and looks sideways, like he still feels he is being watched, and then up, to the screen announcing the delay of his train.
For a moment, Lorenzo dares hope.
“You shouldn’t be here, Lorenzo,” he says. His voice is a bit softer now, grave and hoarse, and Lorenzo almost feels the vibrations of his tone more than hears him properly.
“You don’t leave for university for another two weeks,” Lorenzo insists, feeling desperation building inside of him and knowing he is reflecting it in his words.
“How do you know that?” Francesco asks, taken aback.
“I just do, and I also know you had plenty of opportunities to study here in Tuscany,” he says. He sounds agitated, he hears it, but he has stopped caring if someone recognizes him.
“I am going to kill Guglielmo,” Francesco mumbles.
Lorenzo stares at him, taking in all of his sharp angles and how contrasting they are to his soft freckles. Something turns in the pit of his stomach, and his throat feels itchy.
“Stay,” Lorenzo finally says.
The one thing he has come here to say, slipping out of him like an unavoidable plea.
“Why?” Francesco asks. He shakes his head and his nostrils flare. “So that people can look past me at those classes? So that I’m forced to see every single face I have seen since I was a child and continue to listen to what they whisper behind my back about my family?”
He rushes on his words, and Lorenzo is taken aback by the sudden need to hold him.
“Our bank needs me in Rome and I think it’s all for the best that I finally leave,” Francesco says. He frowns and turns, and Lorenzo can see him clench his jaw.
“What’s the difference between leaving now and in two weeks, anyway?” Francesco asks him. “It’s not like I’ll be missed around here.”
“That’s not true,” Lorenzo quickly responds. But all of his bravado dies in his throat when Francesco meets his eyes.
“Florence will miss you,” Lorenzo says instead of what he really means.
Lorenzo’s Florence, at least. The one that feels crowded as he crosses the river every day to see Sandro’s workshop, the one where the leather smell invades him as he visits the markets. The one where late at night, alone in his room, when he can’t sleep and his mind plays tricks on him, his thoughts are only fixed on his ex- best friend.
“I very much doubt so,” Francesco laughs. “Florence has turned her back on me a long time ago.”
Around them, people are moving and trying to stand where their carriage will stop and Lorenzo knows he only has minutes before the train arrives.
“Well,” Francesco coughs, “next time I’ll see you it will probably be from the opposite side of a desk.”
The finality of the statement pulls at Lorenzo and makes him choke. He knows he can’t talk, so he extends his hand. He wants to play it cool, but he can feel his eyes pricking. He doesn’t understand why he is suddenly so affected. Francesco hasn’t been a part of his everyday life in ten years, it’s true. Yet somehow the sight of him leaving Florence, leaving their childhood behind, leaving Lorenzo — again— rips him from within.
Francesco takes a look at Lorenzo’s extended hand and puts his own in his pocket instead, the other grabbing his suitcase.
“See you then, Medici,” he says.
Lorenzo doesn’t stay waiting for the train to leave. He sees Francesco unceremoniously climb onto the carriage and wills himself to not turn around and check if he is looking at him from his seat window.
He doesn’t watch the train pull away. He doesn’t trust himself to.
The busy sounds of the street outside the station seem to mock him as he stands there. Florence’s life continues, undisrupted.