Head pillowed on Gabriel's lap, Vitali stared at the half-empty wineglass that he held up at arm's length. "What's this stuff called again?"

"Barolo," Gabriel answered softly, his fingers twitching against his leg, inching towards the red-gold strands of Vitali's hair but not quite touching yet.

"Tonight, your fancy Italian wines are wasted on me."

"I have no cheap wine. Only the best."

"Hmm. Still, what I need tonight is a bottle of good Ukrainian vodka. I think that's what I miss most about home." The slender artist tilted the wineglass to a new angle and the light shone through the crystal, painting Vitali's pale hand red.

Finally giving in to temptation, the pale Spaniard wound a lock of his companion's hair around his finger. "Is it really?"

"No, not really," Vitali murmured. With a deft movement of his delicate fingers he upended the glass, sending fine Italian wine spilling down his arm in blood-red rivulets. As if drawn to the memory of true blood, the wine followed the white tracery of scars that covered the Ukrainian sculptor's arm.

Breath hitching slightly, Gabriel stroked Vitali's hair gently.

"The English language is odd. To 'drown one's sorrows'... I didn't understand what that meant, when I was first trying to learn English." The young redhead's eyes remained locked on the dripping red wine.

Not sure what to say, Gabriel hmmed softly and continued to comb his fingers through the fine strands of Vitali's hair.