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After three lonely nights sleeping on a narrow boat in Copenhagen, on the fourth night, Marcus wakes up in Luca's bed.
He tiptoes around Luca's bedroom. It's improperly furnished, Marcus observes. He's using stacks of thick hardback cookbooks as nightstands and his clothes are folded, though neatly, lying around on the floor. Anyone else would find trying to navigate the room at nightmare, as Marcus is, but he's sure that Luca knows exactly where everything is. Currently, Marcus is struggling to find his jeans that were flung away way too quickly last night. He sifts through a pile on the floor, grateful to see a patch of denim that matches his jeans. He tries to shrug them on quietly so Luca doesn't wake up. It doesn't prove easy, but at least he manages not to fall over whilst doing so. His eyes fall on the backpack he'd brought over, nestled in the corner of the room. It sort of looks like it belongs there, sitting beside the floor to ceiling wardrobe doors, but he ignores it, picking up the bag and slinging one of the straps over his shoulder.
He doesn't shut the door to the bedroom behind himself fully, leaving a small gap so that he doesn't make a noise. It's starting to feel like he's trying to cleanse the house of himself. There's a churning feeling in his stomach which seems to be the drive for it, but he can't seem to place his finger on why exactly that is. He's planning to take a right, straight to the front door, leave without a word. Sure, it'll be awkward at work tomorrow but he knows he'll be able to come up with a believable excuse by then. Yet, he still finds himself drawn to the left. A living room slash kitchen, with a small cluster of cardboard boxes piled up by the breakfast bar. Some of them are open. He can't help but look inside the one that draws him in the most. There's a pile of photo frames of different shapes and sizes, like a little capsule of Luca's life, showcasing everything Marcus is yet to find out about him.
There's one of Luca with a girl. He looks a lot younger in it, but she's still much shorter than him. Even from afar he can see that she has the same shiny blue eyes that he does, and its suddenly obvious that she's his younger the sister. The one he'd told him about, the estranged one. Then there's a photo of a group of people, his sister is there again. They all have the same blue eyes. Must be his family. Marcus feels himself wince slightly at the thought of Luca keeping these photos despite his troubled relationship with his family.
The next few frames are filled with pictures of Luca with multiple different chefs, a few of whom Marcus vaguely recognises. He flicks through those ones quickly, with a sense of dismissal. The Luca here isn't the Luca he's spent almost every hour of the past days in the kitchen with, he wants to detach them as if they're two different entities. He smiles at the last one, it's probably from about ten years ago. He's wearing a dark suit, standing with an award. Marcus has a feeling it was his first one. He doesn't take the time to check, already leaning in to grasp for the next one, almost as if it had been calling him.
Before he even has a chance to pick it up, he sees who it is. There's only two people in this one. Well, he says one. There's a framed photograph, with multiple Polaroids that were obviously taken at the same time. They're of Luca with another man, Luca with Carmy. In the picture in the frame, Carmy is lying down on Luca's chest, smiling larger than Marcus has ever seen him smile before. Luca is kissing down into his hair, eyes closed, one arm around him, his other arm is holding the camera. Marcus' fingertips touch the edges as he picks it up to observe, his mouth opening slightly.
"Morning." Luca's voice comes startlingly. Marcus' eyes dart up. He's lazily leaning against the doorway, his hair touseled and nightshirt creased. Other than that, he's only wearing a pair of boxers.
"Hi."
"I had no idea you-"
"Were quite so competitive?" Luca grins, walking over to Marcus. He runs his hands over the bookshelf lazily. Almost as if he’s done this sort of thing a million times before, Marcus can’t say he’d be surprised if that was true.
Marcus shrugs, which must’ve made Luca think he wasn’t planning on saying anything. He doesn’t usually feel at such a loss of words. “Leaving so soon?" Luca then asks, narrowing his eyes, "Please tell me I wasn't that bad."
Marcus' eyes widen and he stutters over his words, "I- no. You were great, I promise."
The sides of Luca’s lips lift to a smirk. He steps forward, like it’s a challenge, "Okay then, so why are you leaving?"
Marcus opens his mouth in protest, eyebrows furrowed at the ready. Nothing seems to come out, he’s rendered speechless. Begrudging, he eventually sighs, "I have no idea."
"I feel like you sometimes think you don't deserve good things," Luca states, leaning into the crevice of Marcus' shoulder. It's soft and warm and leaning back into him is like a reflex action. "But you do. You do, Marcus."
Marcus mindlessly rubs soft circles into Luca’s back. It feels so non sexually intimate in a way he’s never experienced before. Soft and hard at the same time, quiet and loud. He’s never felt more out of his own depth, yet he doesn’t feel lost. “I think you do too.”
Luca leans back in a matter of seconds, smiling. It’s less smug than before. “Do you want me to make you some really good scrambled eggs on toast?”
Marcus wants to bite his tongue, turn around, tell Luca that this was a mistake. But he doesn’t.
“I could murder some scrambled eggs on toast right now,” he smiles, watching as Luca’s usually stony face lights up. Before Marcus can say another word, he has already darted straight into the kitchen.
Marcus could get used to this.