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The party, thrown for Terzo’s nineteenth birthday, was everything one would expect from old Nihil: loud and over-the-top, downright theatrical.
Chandeliers glittered above a crowd squeezed into tight dresses and spotless suits. The clinking of glasses, bursts of laughter, and music all melted into a single, steady hum that buzzed in Terzo’s chest. Or maybe his head? He couldn’t tell. Honestly, he had no clue. Thinking wasn’t even an option.
He loved parties. Loved the overload, the lights, the smells, the glittering glasses, the feel of expensive fabric. Always had, at least in his own time, when he was in the mood for it.
But sometimes, like now, everything turned into an unbearable blur.
The noise stretched like a thin net, tugging at his nerves, pressing on his chest and head. It wasn’t nausea, wasn’t fear, just the feeling that everything around him was too much, like the world was spilling into him, crowding him from the inside.
He took a deep breath, his mismatched eyes, emerald green and ghostly blue, scanning the hall, finding his two older brothers.
Primo, the eldest, stood to the left, surrounded by adults and charming them like always, saying just enough to keep them hooked, never enough to give anything away. Secondo, on the other hand, kept his distance. Quieter, more cutting, he blended into the room like he’d rather be mistaken for a statue than make small talk. When Terzo passed by him, he jumped when he noticed him, as Secondo rasped a “Good evening,” his voice so hoarse from smoking that Terzo thought it was the devil himself.
Without warning, he slipped away from the crowd.
No one noticed. The kitchen doors were ajar, and the warmth seeping from them felt different: dense, greasy, comforting.
He stepped in.
The kitchen looked like another universe: black marble counters covered in trays, knives gleaming under golden light, pans bubbling gently. The smell was strong, roasting garlic, bubbling butter, slightly burning herbs, but it was good. Warm. Alive.
And in the middle of it all stood a tall man. A really tall man. Seriously tall.
He was impossible to ignore.
Tall, broad, with blond hair tied back with a bandana, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, revealing arms marked with old small cuts and various tattoos. He moved with impressive ease, flipping pans, tasting sauces, chopping vegetables like the bourgeoisie had once done to royalty.
The guy was really tall, with the vibe of someone who rides a motorcycle through the desert wearing a sleeveless leather jacket, showing off strong arms, stylish boots, and sunglasses. And no, it wasn’t Terzo’s fantasy. At least, not until now.
Kitchen Thor turned his head and came face to face with the boy standing at the door, slim, in an awkward tux, looking a bit lost, though he didn’t seem to be on anything.
One of Nihil’s sons, he recognized immediately. Terzo. The birthday boy.
A second of tension, the kind of moment when someone “important” might start screaming for champagne or caviar or some other nonsense, but Terzo just… stayed there. Breathing. Or whatever that choppy noise was. To breathe, Terzo first had to yawn, to stimulate his lungs to fill up when his chest expanded.
The cook wiped his hands on a towel tucked into his waistband.
“If you're going to stand there, at least close the door, yes?” he said, in a tone that was more an invitation than an order.
Terzo blinked, as if it were hard to tear his eyes from the steam and silver pans, but obeyed. The door shut with a soft click, muffling the sound of the hall like the whole outside world had been switched off. And what a relief.
“Better?” The older man’s calm voice reached his ears again, and Terzo almost relaxed, feeling slightly anesthetized. But he only nodded. He didn’t trust his own voice yet.
He stepped forward, hesitant. Like a cat in new territory.
The cook went back to work, casually, but never turning his back.
“First time in the kitchen?”
Terzo opened his mouth to reply, closed it, then opened it again.
“First time…” he gestured, a little frustrated, “in this kitchen.”
The man, who Terzo might confuse with a lamppost, laughed, a real laugh that sounded different from the ones he’d heard all night.
“It’s a good start.” He scraped a wooden spoon in a pan, tasted it, made an exaggerated (almost comical) face, and added more salt.
Terzo stepped a little closer, just enough to see inside: a thick, golden soup that smelled like what close-knit families might call home, or grandma’s house. If only that old lady, surely a Babylonian relic, knew how to cook.
“Want to taste?” the cook asked, holding out a steaming spoon.
Terzo hesitated, his upbringing screamed in protest. But this wasn’t the party. It wasn’t the hall. It was here.
So he stepped forward and accepted.
The soup was hot, salty, rich, like biting into a happy memory, if he had any that weren’t his younger brother falling off a bus.
“Omega,” said the cook, wiping his large, veiny hands on a towel, and extending one to Terzo. “I’m the one who feeds all these rich people.”
The young man discreetly wiped his mouth on his sleeve, ignoring the neatly folded linen napkins on the tables, and shook the offered hand, still a little hesitant.
“Terzo,” he replied.
“I know,” Omega smiled. “Happy birthday.”
Terzo felt something strange in his chest, something else. A small, steady warmth, like the first spoonful of soup on a cold night after being caught in an unexpected storm.
“Can I… stay here for a bit?” The question came out in a whisper, so soft and high it sounded like a newborn kitten meowing.
Omega looked around, at the bustling kitchen, at the assistants too busy to notice, and shrugged.
Terzo leaned carefully against the counter, eyes wide at the explosion of pots, spoons, pasta, and steam that filled the kitchen. Omega glanced over, wiping his hands again on the grimy towel tied to his waist.
“Wanna help?” he asked, amused.
Terzo nodded slowly, and he didn’t even know why. He felt like an idiot.
Omega pushed a bowl of tomatoes toward him and placed a knife beside it.
“Can you chop these for me?”
Terzo looked at the tomatoes. Then at the knife. Then at Omega.
Then back at the knife.
It felt like he had just been asked to build a cathedral with a stick.
“I…” he began, biting his lip, “I’m not very… handy.”
It was true. He also wasn’t great at walking, the floor was clearly in love with Terzo, always pulling him down, and his ankles were made of modeling clay.
Omega raised an eyebrow, but not judging. More curious, like watching a cat try to open a door or a lab rat in a maze.
“Show me,” he encouraged, crossing his arms.
Terzo grabbed the knife in the clumsiest way possible, like someone holding a slippery fish, and placed the tomato in front of him with all the concentration in the world, so much concentration it almost made the tomato levitate.
The knife slipped on the first attempt. The tomato rolled off the counter. Terzo chased after it like it was a soccer match.
Omega let out a low chuckle. "You’re more of a hockey player than a chef," he commented, not unkindly.
Terzo retrieved the tomato, his face already warm with embarrassment, and tried again, this time with both hands. He managed to cut it, finally, but the slice came out crooked, ugly, squishing the poor tomato into something close to puree. The sound was gross and squelchy—bleh—and the juice, along with some seeds, dribbled out.
He looked at Omega like he expected to be kicked out. But the cook just smiled lazily, gently taking the knife from his hands. "Alright, let me handle this part," he said calmly. "You’re better at... supervision. Yeah, that’s it. Keep watch."
Terzo blinked, surprised. "Supervision?"
"Sure," Omega replied, already slicing the tomatoes with the kind of skill that made it look like he’d been born doing it, like he came out of the womb and cut his own umbilical cord. "Someone has to keep an eye on me, or I mess it all up."
Terzo let out a small giggle, shy and bashful, not at all like his usual self, he barely recognized himself. He dragged a small stool close to the stove and sat down, hugging his knees, watching Omega work.
From time to time, Omega made comments:
"This sauce needs something..."
"Should I add more garlic or more chili?"
Terzo gave awkward guesses, like:
"Uhh… more garlic?", and Omega would obey as if it were the best advice in the world.
"The specialist approved," he’d say every time he finished, winking at him.
Specialist. And Terzo didn’t even know where the spoons were.
The young man didn’t know how much time had passed. The digital clock above the oven read 8:17 PM when he came in. Now it read 9:02 PM. No one had come looking for him. Maybe they’d decided to leave him alone. Maybe Nihil was too busy pretending his own son was just a prop in the grand set he had built.
But here, in that kitchen, Terzo wasn’t a prop. Nor a burden. He was just a guy with his suit sleeves rolled up, fingers covered in flour, and a head lighter than it had been in days.
"Is that... ravioli dough?"
Omega nodded as he filled a second tray with perfectly folded little squares."With ricotta and Sicilian lemon zest. Refreshing. The sauces are ready, one red with basil, the other butter and sage."
"You seem to enjoy doing this."
"I like making silence. And I like watching people eat something I made and forget the world for two minutes. That’s enough for me."
Terzo tilted his head, recognizing the feeling. It was like when he played the piano alone, not to perform, just for himself, in the dark, repeating notes in loops until he found the right pattern. "I like that too," he said. "When I just... am. Just me."
Omega grabbed a wooden spoon, stirred a pan, and extended the spoon for Terzo to taste. He hesitated. Looked at the steam. Smelled it. Basil, garlic, and a hint of Calabrian chili. He brought it to his mouth. The heat spread first on his tongue, then into his cheeks.
"This is ridiculously good," he said, voice soft, genuine surprise, and probably mourning for his own tongue.
"It’s the only acceptable way to be ridiculous," Omega replied, turning back to the stove.
Some time later, Terzo sat on a little stool near the counter. He watched Omega wash things in silence. His movements were methodical. Precise. Like a ritual. It made Terzo feel calm.
"Can I ask a question?" he ventured.
Omega raised an eyebrow, not stopping as he cleaned a ladle."Shoot."
"Were you always like this? Quiet. And… non-intrusive?"
Omega gave a half-smile. "When you’re a kid, they expect you to be noisy. When you’re not, they say something’s wrong. Then you grow up, and learn that silence can be a refuge. Then you learn to offer it to others too."
Terzo looked at the floor for a second before lifting his gaze. "I hate hugs when I don’t ask for them. But I like it when someone just... sits next to me. Or hands me a cup of tea. Or a limitless credit card. That’s affection too."
The taller one let out a real laugh. "You just described Omega's love language," he said, grabbing two small cups and filling them with an amber, fragrant tea that seemed to come out of nowhere.
"I don’t have a limitless credit card, but I do have tea." He handed one to Terzo. Their hands didn’t touch. That made Terzo relax even more, he didn’t know how he’d react if they did. Oh god, those hands, he thought. Omega wore a thick silver ring on each ring finger. "Chamomile, honey, and orange peel tea. Calming. But tastes good."
Terzo brought the rim of the cup to his lips. It really was good. Hot without burning the tongue. Sweet without being cloying. The perfect drink for someone who always thought everything was “too much.”
They stayed there a while longer. Omega washed. Terzo watched. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. The silence never felt awkward.
When the clock passed 10 PM, Omega nodded toward a covered tray on the counter. "I made an extra plate. If you want to eat here instead of facing the royal table out there..."
"I want to," Terzo replied before even thinking, nearly diving at the plate.
It was strange how quickly that kitchen had become a haven. It wasn’t just the absence of hellish noise or all the overwhelming stimuli that never made sense in Terzo’s head. It was the presence of someone who didn’t ask uncomfortable questions.
He sat at the small pantry table, and Omega served the ravioli with butter and sage, decorated with crispy little leek flowers on top.
The first bite was a revelation.
Terzo closed his eyes. The flavors were soft, but complex. The acidity of the ricotta, the richness of the butter, the crispy leaf crackling on his tongue. He didn’t need to say anything. But he did anyway:
"This is… the best gift I’ve gotten today, seriously."
Omega crossed his muscular arms, leaning against the counter with a half-smile on his thin, pink lips. "It’s not much, but it’s enough, right?"
After finishing the last ravioli, Terzo gently pushed the plate aside, careful not to be abrupt. His fingers traced invisible lines on the wooden table, even after the plate was removed. Omega said nothing as he washed the boy’s dish, then began separating ingredients on the other counter.
"Dessert?" Terzo asked, not raising his voice, still drawing on the table with his fingertip.
"Always save it for last," he replied. "Macarons tonight. I need focus."
Terzo nodded. He liked watching people who were in their own world, people who didn’t constantly try to invade his.
From where he was sitting, he could see Omega cracking eggs like a professional, separating the whites like a surgeon. It was almost hypnotic. It calmed him more than any birthday song or loud music.
But his mind, of course, began to drift. It always did when there was enough silence, which was why he avoided meditating.
The brothers.
Thinking about them was like opening a cupboard where each shelf had a mousetrap, a teddy bear, and raspberry jam. He loved them, of course. But they all seemed to live at a different pace.
Primo, the oldest, felt like a convincing cult leader. He always knew what to do, how to present himself. He was presence. He could talk to anyone, impress young and old, and was classically handsome in a way that annoyed Terzo. He couldn’t talk to Primo for more than ten minutes without feeling gently tested, even if he knew Primo didn’t mean it that way. Primo was a heartthrob, but looked too deep into people’s eyes. And Terzo hated being stared at, it was basically a thermometer for his neurodivergence.
Secondo was too much Secondo. Spoke like his opinion was the only one that truly made sense. Terzo had never managed to explain how his brain worked without feeling like a freak. One time he tried to talk about the patterns he saw when he listened to music—how certain sounds had "textures", and Secondo just replied:
"You should get laid, man."
So he stopped trying to explain.
Copia, on the other hand... was different. Full of noise, impulses, and exaggerated gestures. He wasn’t exactly calming, but he was genuine. They had good moments, especially when they snuck off together. Copia never asked him to be more “normal.” Just sometimes spoke too loud or touched without warning, which made Terzo jump like a cat splashed with cold water.
Even so, Copia understood more than the others. As kids, he was the only one who noticed Terzo hated too many candles on cakes. And started lighting just one. “Just to mark it, if it’s not a normal cake,” he once said.
Terzo smiled inwardly just at the memory.
He blinked, returning to the present when he heard the metallic, irritating sound of the timer. Omega carefully opened the oven door. The heat escaped in a dense wave. Small, dark wine-colored macarons were slowly rising on the tray. It was beautiful.
“You always seem to know what you’re doing,” Terzo said aloud.
“Only in the kitchen. Outside of here, I’m just like anyone else. Too many people confuse me, loud music throws me off, and too many questions give me a headache.”
Terzo looked at him more closely now. “You...?”
Omega nodded, no drama.
“Dual diagnosis. ADHD and autism. Found out after twenty. Until then, I just thought I was broken. Then I realized I wasn’t. I just function differently.”
That sank into Terzo, giving him more confidence to share what was already kind of obvious:
“Autism. I was diagnosed at nine. My father hated it. Said he’d ‘fix it with discipline.’”
Omega snorted, rolling his crystal-blue eyes. “Discipline doesn’t teach anyone how to feel less overwhelmed by the world. It just teaches you how to mask.”
“And it’s exhausting,” Terzo added. “I get tired just from being at parties sometimes, even when I like them. The lights. The noise. The mixed smells. And the fear of seeming ungrateful.”
Omega nodded, placing a spoonful of filling into a macaron. “You are grateful. You just don’t have to smile like you’re in a toothpaste commercial.”
Silence.
That sentence echoed in Terzo’s head. No one had ever talked to him like that before, no pity, no “you’ll learn to adapt.”
“I like you,” he said, suddenly.
Omega paused for a second. Didn’t turn around. But he smiled.
“You don’t even know me.”
“But I like you anyway.”
“Okay. But you’ll have to try the raspberry and pistachio macaron to be sure.”
Terzo smiled, already reaching out his hand.
He had just finished the second macaron, the raspberry with rose and pistachio was, honestly, a masterpiece. He felt whole for the first time that day, maybe partly due to hunger, breathing without needing to adjust his posture or facial expression, which tended to relax into a look of boredom.
Omega stirred a bowl of pistachio ganache slowly, almost like painting. The sound of the whisk was steady, rhythmic, comforting.
And then: footsteps.
Two pairs. One lighter, a bit clumsy. The other firm, decisive, impatient.
Terzo shrank slightly, shoulders rising in a subtle reflex.
Omega noticed. Said nothing, but paused his whisking, as if his ears perked up. Then, the kitchen door burst open with a not-so-polite shove.
“Cazzo, I said it’s not time!” Secondo’s voice rang out before he even fully entered. “You can’t just dance to Cyndi Lauper on top of the table!”
“I wasn’t on the table,” Copia replied, appearing right behind, hair a bit messy.
Copia stopped when he saw Terzo sitting there. He was more reserved than usual, maybe because the older brother was clearly tucked in a corner, away from the party, eyes fixed on the bowl of ganache.
“Terzino, I found you!” Copia opened a wide smile.
Terzo didn’t answer right away. He watched the two of them.
Secondo noticed Omega, eyes locking for two seconds like he wanted to judge the presence of a stranger in an apron in his kitchen, but he chose not to say anything. “The old man wants to sing for you,” he said, crossing his arms. “He’s got a cake the size of Primo’s head and a band of nuns playing jazz. I told him it was bizarre. But he’s the old man.”
Terzo lowered his gaze, then raised it just enough to look at Copia, who leaned against the counter like he was trying to appear relaxed, though clearly afraid of saying the wrong thing. “You were going to dance to Girls Just Wanna Have Fun?”
Copia shrugged but smiled. “Yeah. I was feeling it.”
Omega, still silent, wiped his hands on his apron and stepped a little away from the counter, glancing briefly at Terzo, as if giving him space to decide what to do. Terzo didn’t move. “I like that song,” he murmured, softly.
The three turned to him.
Terzo hated when that happened, saying something small and becoming the center of attention.
Secondo raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Just looked at his watch. “Ten minutes. If you don’t come back, the old man will send someone louder to look for you.”
And he left. That was it. No goodbye. No kindness.
Copia hesitated. “You okay?”
Terzo answered with a vague nod. He didn’t want to lie, but also didn’t want to explain what he was feeling. Partly out of laziness.
Silence.
Copia bit his lip. “Want me to tell them you have a headache?”
Terzo blinked. Copia understood things with a weird kind of precision. Even being so flashy, he knew when to shut up, how to act. “I do.”
“Done.” Copia grabbed two macarons, stuffed them in his mouth, then shoved three more into his pockets, and walked out like it was the most natural thing in the world. The door closed.
Omega stirred the ganache again.
Terzo leaned forward and said:
"I want to learn how to make that one with pistachio ganache."
Omega gave a slight smirk. " We start with the easy ones. Then you get to indulge."
Terzo watched the bowl as Omega script the ganache into a smaller container. " I’ve already chosen", said Terzo, after a few seconds.
Omega raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply. He was good at that, not interrupting Terzo’s flow. Letting the words come in their own time.
"I don’t like soft lies", he explained, fingers lightly tapping the edge of the tall stool. " Or empty questions. Or places with too many people. I hate blue light. I hate passionfruit mousse. And I hate when people touch my hair without asking."
He said it like a list. Like a catalogue of “important facts about Terzo” that the world always seemed to ignore.
"But I like when someone notices without me having to say. When food has texture. When I can leave a place without having to explain. And I like you."
Omega stopped.
He turned, carefully. His apron a bit stained, hair tied back. There was no surprise on his face. No rush. No romanticizing, no discomfort. " Do you like me or the dessert?", he asked with a slight smile.
"Both ", Terzo answered, without hesitation.
Outside, the windows vibrated with a saxophone solo. Clearly, Nihil was now leading the impromptu jazz band.
Terzo closed his eyes for a moment, the sound muffled by the kitchen walls. He thought of his brothers. He loved them. Loved them all. But sometimes, he needed to love from afar. Love with headphones on, or through doors, or mediated by macarons.
Omega moved away to open the industrial fridge. He began pulling out ingredients for what seemed to be a cake: butter, eggs, flour, sugar. He separated everything with certainty. "You staying?"
"I’m staying."
Omega nodded.
"Want to help me crack the eggs?"
Terzo climbed down from the stool and walked over to the counter. He washed his hands. Cracked the first egg carefully, and it wasn’t even that bad.
•
The cake had been in the oven for ten minutes.
Terzo had started to relax. The batter was perfect, Omega said so calmly. The smell wafting through the room was vanilla.
For the first time that night, Terzo felt more like a body than a thought.
He was sitting on the floor now, back against the fridge, watching Omega clean the batter bowl. There was something about that man that made time rearrange itself. It was too good, Terzo thought, and didn’t scold himself for it. It was a fact. Looking at those broad shoulders was paradise.
Then the kitchen door slammed open.
Clack.
Terzo’s body reacted before his mind. His shoulders rose. His eyes darted to the side. His breath grew shallow.
Nihil entered like he owned the place. In a way, he did. His jacket was open, gold chain hanging across his chest. He smelled of wine. His eyes were slightly narrowed, he wasn’t drunk, but maybe wanted others to think he was.
" Terzo ", he said, a mix of irritation, frustration, and something only Nihil would call love. He had a way of saying each son’s name, ranging from fondness to contempt. Terzo was close to contempt, though not quite as much as Copia.
Nihil stepped forward. Omega turned around, stopping what he was doing. The silence turned into concrete.
"The party is yours, figlio mio. And here you are, hiding in a kitchen?"
Terzo wanted to say he wasn’t hiding. That he was breathing. That he needed walls that didn’t vibrate with saxophones. That being with Omega wasn’t an escape, it was... necessary? Essential? Ah, screw it — the old man wouldn’t listen.
The words got stuck in his throat. He could be sharp, theatrical, even cruel, but with Nihil, it was different. It always had been.
"I have a headache", he muttered at last. It was true. But only half the truth.
" Mh.", Nihil made a dry, disbelieving sound. Looked at Omega. "And you?"
"Cooking." the other replied, steady. No hesitation. No fear. Damn, that was hot.
Nihil narrowed his eyes, as if sizing Omega up. Tall. Definitely. Terzo knew that look: it was when his father decided if someone was useful, disposable, or dangerous. "You’re the hired chef?"
"Yes."
"You’re getting paid too much to make cake", Nihil said, but turned around right after. The sentence hung in the air, like the bad smoke from Secondo’s cigarette.
He stopped at the door.
"Terzo. Five minutes. After that, I’ll come get you myself. And we won’t like it."
He left.
The sound of the door closing was softer than the way it had opened. But what did that matter?
Terzo kept looking at the floor. The smell of cake now seemed a little nauseating.
Omega came closer, crouched slowly, getting to Terzo’s level. Of course, he had to sit, Terzo was like a Mario without his mushrooms. " Want me to make up an excuse? I could say you’re throwing up."
Terzo shook his head. " He wouldn’t believe it. And... I don’t want to hide. I just don’t want to... exist like that."
Omega nodded. " Then we invent a new way. Go out there, stay two minutes. Say you’re getting more cake. And come back. The kitchen’s yours. Whenever you want."
Terzo looked at him.
Omega’s hand was there, nearby. Not touching, not forcing. Just there — steady, present, possible. Terzo took a deep breath, the smell of warm cake filling his lungs.
" Two minutes" he said.
" Two minutes" Omega confirmed.