"I'm sure," he comments, wearily, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen stepping out of the way when Cesare cleans around him, strangely amused by the show of domesticity, a little put off maybe since he hadn't cleaned before.

"Fucking freezing," Alex grumbles, hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans. He's frowning at Cesare, at the grappa bottle, would have liked to see it full with something, would have liked another sip, would have liked a lot.

Staring at the back of Cesare's head, glaring at it really, he eventually moves to the sofa and drops down onto his, half landing on Cesare half off the Cesare and huddles close. "It's fucking freezing," he hisses into cesare's ear.