Archive of Our Own

It’s quiet in the mornings.

When Marcus gets in, The Bear’s usually still half asleep, lights buzzing on with a lazy hum, empty counters stretching out languidly, AC yawning to life from where it’s tucked under the ceiling.

It’s always been Marcus’s favourite time of day—these calm moments to himself, when the sky is still dark and the birds have only just begun chirping and most of the staff is still in bed, sleeping. When it’s just him, his station, his recipes, his thoughts.

And now—Luca, too.

He’s already there, usually, when Marcus steps into the kitchen. On paper, Luca’s just a stage, a free pair of hands to help out wherever he can and buy them some time to keep The Bear open. But Luca doesn’t see it that way, clearly. He treats his position with the same seriousness he reserved for Noma—a specific brand of quiet focus and reverence that makes Marcus’s breath still in his lungs.

Luca’s always busy when Marcus comes in, always moving around, eyes bright and sharp and hands steady and nimble, as if he’s been awake and at work for hours—or maybe never even slept at all, just pretended to wave goodbye to Marcus and then turned right back to the kitchen to keep working away at intricate desserts and artful platings. But he never seems stressed or hurried, in the mornings—just moves calmly, consistently, spoons tapping pots softly, with a practiced care, like the kitchenware’s still waking up and he doesn’t want to startle it.

It’s a little different, sure. To have someone else in his corner of the kitchen, someone else calling hands, someone else plating, stirring, mixing and weighing out ingredients.

But it’s not hard for them to settle into a rhythm again, to find the note they left off at in Copenhagen and continue playing in harmony. They’re still tuned to the same pitch, it seems, even after the time they’ve spent apart, even after all the things that have happened since then.

And it helps—to have someone there, a quiet presence, a soft “morning, chef”, a warm smile, a space cleared out for him. A cup of coffee, splash of milk, no sugar, waiting at his side of the counter. It feels nice—to be seen, heard, waited for.

And, in turn, it feels nice, too, to be the one waiting, on those rare occasions when he’s first to come in. To wipe down the table, take out the containers and bowls and measuring spoons, two pairs of each, laid out in silent anticipation, an open-ended question—as if the presence of Luca’s tools, their stillness, their clean and unused state will summon him to the kitchen any faster. And a coffee, too, of course—black, no sugar, a little on the strong side.

Today’s one of those days. The Bear’s dark and quiet when he enters, and the kitchen lights blink on, startled, a little hesitantly, as if they weren’t expecting him to show up first.

The room feels a little cold, a little empty, and Marcus gets to work quickly, setting up the station, making coffee, assembling ingredients.

Time drips by slowly. He takes a deep breath, tries to think of a song to hum. Nothing comes to mind. The AC murmurs in his ear. The numbers on the clock drift by slowly, on and on and on.

After seven minutes, the coffee he’s set out for Luca stops steaming. After fifteen, the cup has gone cold. Luca has never been this late before. Marcus tugs at his beanie, tries to ignore the unease curling in his stomach. It doesn’t work.

After thirty minutes, Luca’s coffee has turned into a black hole, smooth and impenetrable, sucking up light and time and everything that dares approach its gravitational pull. Marcus doesn’t touch it, just blinks at it from across the counter. The coffee blinks back, cold and defiant.

After thirty-five minutes, when the silence has thickened into an airless, oppressive weight on his lungs and his hands start feeling restless, he finally hears the door click, and his eyes drift up, expectant, hungry.

But the person who walks in isn’t Luca—no, it’s Carmy, looking a little frazzled, hair uncombed and eyes still lidded with sleep. He walks up to Marcus, gives him a sheepish little smile, and says:

“Morning, chef. Listen, Luca just called—says he’s sick with something, can’t come in. You good with me filling in for him today?”

Marcus feels himself deflate a little. He looks down at his hands, the bowl he’s holding, then back up at Carmy, whose eyes bore into him expectantly.

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbles. “Did he—say anything else? Like, if he needs anything, or…?”

Carmy cards a hand through his hair, shakes his head. “Nah, nah, I think he’s good,” he says, absent, eyes already elsewhere. And Marcus can tell that the conversation’s over for him—can see his brain starting to rev up, cogs turning and hands twitching to get moving, start the day, throw himself into the work, completely and irrevocably. So, he drops it. They get to work.

It’s quiet, again. A little more pleasant, this time—easier to breathe and think in, but still not the same as it is with Luca. Carmy starts organising his side of the counter the way he likes it, lines up his spoons and bowls neatly. He sees the cold coffee, asks: “Oh—you still drinking this?” and then gulps it down hungrily when Marcus shakes his head.

“Sorry ‘m late, by the way,” Carmy tosses out when they’re both busy stirring pots and mixing dough. “Wasn’t expecting to have to get here this early and be your stage for the day.”

“‘S alright, man,” Marcus says, and he means it, he’s not pissed at Carmy, of course not—that would be ridiculous.

But at the same time, he doesn’t mean it, because it’s not alright, not really—because the room feels a little off-kilter, somehow, and his mind keeps drifting to Luca, alone, sick, and he can’t get his hands to move quite as smoothly as they usually do.

—

The day drifts by in a blur. Time feels slow and stilted, and his eyes keep drifting to the clock, willing it to push on, move forward a little faster. He feels like a kid waiting to get out of school.

Finally, the last orders go out, and they clean up the station in quiet focus, give the counter a last scrub-down before closing down for the night. Tina hands him some leftovers from family, a motherly smile on her face, and he doesn’t have the heart to tell her that he has his own leftovers waiting at home, already.

And then, he’s at his locker, finally , and his hands feel a little sweaty when he grabs at his phone.

A message from Luca.

“Marcus, so sorry mate. Feel like shit, Carm will jump in for me. Will try to be back tomorrow. Have a good one”

He blinks at the message for a few seconds. Reads it again. It’s Saturday, he registers vaguely. The restaurant’s closed tomorrow. Luca knows that—or he should, in any case.

The anxiety that’s been swirling in his stomach all day twists a little tighter, curls up into a tight ball. Is Luca that sick? So out of it, to the point where he can’t remember what day it is? His lungs feel a little tight. He blinks down at the message again, and his fingers hover over the screen, uncertain, but he can’t seem to decide on what to say. The call button next to Luca’s contact winks at him, tantalising, but it’s late, and Luca’s sick, and Marcus doesn’t want to overstep.

Maybe Luca’s just confused, got his dates mixed up, and this is all a big misunderstanding. He’s overreacting. Not everyone who gets sick ends up like Ma , he tells himself, a little angrily, but it does nothing to soothe his nerves. He squeezes his eyes shut and sees a shaded room, beeping machines, a motionless body, slumped in bed.

Finally, he manages to steel himself, takes a deep breath, settles on a message, and types it out with clumsy fingers:

“All good! You sure you’re OK? Rest up & let me know if you need anything. Got some leftovers from family I can drop off if you want. Goodnight”

The message sends, and he puts down his phone, bends over to get his bag. He feels like he’s moving around underwater. His hands prod around in his locker blindly, and he nearly drops his keys. They rattle loudly against the metal door, but the noise doesn’t fade away when he has them clutched between his fingers again, just keeps ringing in his ears.

For a moment, he thinks he’s going insane, or passing out—or dying, maybe, although that seems a bit extreme. But then his eyes drift to his phone again, and he sees the screen light up, and suddenly he feels insanely stupid.

His phone’s ringing. Of course. He grabs at it, peers at the screen, and his heart skips a beat.

A call. From Luca.

His hands feel sweaty again, but there’s really no reason. He’s fine, Luca’s fine. Just a little sick. Marcus takes a measured breath in, then lifts the phone to his ear, swiping to accept the call.

Luca’s voice crackles through the line.

“Hey, Marcus—am I interrupting?” he says, hoarse and stuffy, and Marcus isn’t sure if he’s imagining things, but there’s a strange lilt to his voice, a little sad—almost.

“No, no, not at all. ‘Course not,” he rushes to say. His lungs still feel tight in his chest. “What’s up? You want those leftovers?

Silence. He’s about to ask if Luca’s still there, when his voice suddenly comes through the phone again, quieter this time.

“Yeah, I guess. I—That’d be nice.”

And then, like he’s expecting Marcus to retract his offer, all of a sudden, Luca hurriedly adds: “But—you don’t have to, like now now, y’know. It’s late, you’re probably tired. I don’t wanna be a bother—”

Marcus feels his brows draw together. “No, man, don’t worry ‘bout it,” he cuts in, and Luca falls silent again. Marcus hears his breath whistle through the phone, and his stomach tightens with worry. “Just text me your address, alright?” he says.

On the other end of the line, Luca clears his throat. “Alright,” he echoes, a little flatly, and then ends the call.

Marcus tugs on his coat. Puts his keys in his pocket, ‘cause his hands still feel unsteady. He bites at his fingernails as he waits for Luca’s text to come through, a nasty old habit that he thought he’d kicked.

Finally, the notification pops up on his screen. He enters the address into Google Maps, and rushes out the door without sparing The Bear another look.

—

The building where Luca is staying is a deep rust brown, all crooked bricks and dark green ivy curling up its sides. It sits tucked away between two taller, newly constructed apartment complexes, looking a little worn-down in comparison, like it’s slumping over onto itself, brittle and old, and can’t quite measure up to the tight-lined, perfectly leveled facades on either side. Moss lines the dark limestone steps to the entrance, and the front door lists ever so slightly to the side in its hinges.

Chester wouldn’t approve of the building, with all his newfound knowledge of real estate. He likes big and bright and open and conceptual architecture, whatever that means.

But Marcus thinks it looks nice enough. Charming. Homely. Big windows. It suits Luca, somehow, to be renting an apartment here, he thinks. To seek out a building with a little character, a little soul, a bit of wear and tear that speaks of stories and lives well-lived.

The steps up to the front door are slippery, and he gets a vague whiff of mildew when he steps into the entrance hall. A moth dances around the ceiling light, casting a blurry, shifting shadow over the walls. Marcus’s eyes drift over the doorbells lining the door to the stairwell, and hesitantly, he presses the number Luca gave him.

The intercom crackles to life, and Luca’s voice rings into the hallway, tinny and the slightest bit too loud.

“Marcus? Come on up, man, I’ll buzz you in,” he says, and the door clicks open.

Marcus steps inside. A narrow, dimly lit stairwell greets him, with wooden floorboards that creak a little every time he plants his feet. His mind drifts as he climbs, wondering what to say, what’s going on, how Luca’s doing. The building’s quiet, and his footsteps bounce off the walls. Somewhere upstairs, a cough rattles out, wet and rasping, and he wonders if it’s Luca. His legs move a little faster.

And then, he’s at Luca’s door, knuckles rapping against the dark wood, fingers clutched tightly around the strap of his backpack. A faint stumble from inside, floorboards creaking, and with a low groan, the door swings open.

Luca looks a mess. He’s usually so put-together, so neat and chipper, that it’s almost like there’s another person standing in front of him right now. His hair flops over his forehead, unkempt and sticking up a little oddly at one side of his head, as if he just woke up from a nap a few minutes ago. He’s in a dark green hoodie, rumpled, with the hood curled around his neck inside-out and a strip of white T-shirt peeking out at the bottom. And he looks tired, dark circles smeared under his eyes, face pale except for the angry flush at the apples of his cheeks.

It’s like Marcus unknowingly agreed to meet up with Luca’s identical twin, and he’s only now finding out—stood here in the yellow light of the stairwell, face to face with someone who looks similar enough to the Luca he knows, but not quite the same, every little detail of his appearance altered just enough to make the total picture come out looking like a whole different person.

But then Luca’s mouth curls into a smile, warm and bright, and his eyebrows lift a little like they always do when his eyes meet Marcus’s, and the way his face shifts and softens feels so familiar to Marcus that it makes all the other little discrepancies fade away, blur into the background, until it’s just Luca standing in front of him again.

Luca shifts to the side, cards a hand through his hair and tugs at his hoodie a little joltily, like he heard Marcus’s thoughts, somehow.

“Hey, Marcus,” he says, voice gravelly, “Come on in—how’re you doing?”

Marcus blinks, lets out a fond scoff.

“Dude—how am I doing, really?” he says, tone incredulous, and Luca huffs a surprised laugh too, cheeks colouring a little more pink. “I should be the one asking you that, man!”

Luca rubs at his neck, then starts twirling at the strings of his hoodie—and it’s odd, to see him so full of anxious movement, so twitchy when he’s usually anything but.

“Right, right—‘course,” he says, “Should’ve thought about that one before I said it.”

He opens the door a little wider, and Marcus steps inside. It’s warm and stuffy. He bends down to untie his shoes, and sees Luca’s toes curl nervously in the thick socks wrapped around his feet.

“No, but really—how are you feeling, man?” Marcus says, righting himself again.

Luca frowns a little, like he’s confused they’re still on this subject, as if it’s not the sole reason Marcus is even here, at all.

“‘M fine,” he says, sounding a bit unsure. “Just flu, I think. It was worse this morning—think I slept off most of it already.”

He shoots Marcus what is probably meant to be a reassuring smile, but its effect is undercut by the unsteady crackling of his voice and the way his eyes shine, glassy and fever-bright, lacking their usual sharpness.

Marcus doesn’t want to push him, though, so he just nods and lets his eyes drift around the room. The apartment looks small, but cozy, with old wooden furniture and a flurry of plants lining the windowsill. There’s a slightly shapeless couch tucked into the corner of the room, with a mess of blankets and pillows strewn across it. A tissue box sits on the coffee table in front of it, and an empty bucket leans against the table leg.

Luca follows his gaze, snaps a little more upright, and hurries over in a frenzy to straighten the couch out.

“Oh—shoot, sorry, hang on, don’t mind the mess—” he starts rattling off, but Marcus just chuckles, and Luca trails off in the middle of fluffing up a pillow, eyes flitting up to his again.

“I don’t care about the mess, dude. You’re sick,” Marcus says, “Of course there’s gonna be a mess.”

A beat passes. Marcus feels like there’s something not quite right, here.

Luca hesitates, then puts the pillow down and rights himself abruptly, mouth opening to say something, but nothing comes out. He sways a little, blinking. His face turns a chalky white, all of a sudden, and Marcus’s heart jumps to his throat.

In a split second, his mind concocts a horrible series of images: Luca, bashing his head into the coffee table or the windowsill, blood everywhere, hospitals, shaded rooms, a motionless body, slumped in bed—

He rushes to catch Luca’s elbow, nearly tripping over the coffee table along the way. The bucket rattles a little from its spot next to the table, as if it’s insulted to be kicked at.

“Hey, hey, Luca—just sit down, alright?” Marcus says, and if his voice comes out a little unsteady, he hopes Luca doesn’t notice.

They both settle into the couch heavily. Luca leans his elbows on his knees, takes a few deep breaths, pulls his hands through his hair again.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, glancing up at Marcus from between his fingers. “That was stupid.”

“It’s alright, man,” Marcus says, willing his voice into something calm and reassuring, but there’s still a shaky, nervous edge to it. He can tell Luca heard it, too. They both fall silent.

Luca’s breaths whistle in his ear. Marcus twists his hands together, untwists them again. The whole building feels empty and still, all of a sudden, and he prods at his brain to find something easy and normal to say, some safe topic to help break the strange, tense quiet that has settled heavily between them.

“Hey—so, I got you those leftovers?” he tries, reaching down to unzip his bag and grab the container. It’s nothing fancy—just some rice, vegetables and beef—but he thinks some food might do Luca good, with how unsteady and pale he still looks.

Luca’s eyes dart down. “Yeah. Right. Thanks—I’m just…,” he hesitates for a moment, brings his hands up to rub at his eyes, then shakes his head, as if he’s in disbelief of what he’s about to say. “I’m just… not really hungry, so… You can just—or, actually, I’ll put it away myself.”

Marcus blinks. “Okay?” he says, and lowers the container to the table slowly.

He feels like he’s in a weird dream—like maybe he’s the one who’s sick, and he’s just hallucinating all of this, and that’s why nothing seems to make sense. Or, maybe this isn’t Luca after all, and Marcus was right about the whole twin thing, and this is just some weird, elaborate, highly insensitive joke Luca and his evil carbon copy are playing on him. Because why is he here, dropping off leftovers, if Luca doesn’t even want the leftovers?

Luca must hear the confusion in his voice, and he drops his hands to his lap, eyes flitting around Marcus’s face.

“Sorry—and, thank you, Marcus,” he says, and then tries to draw a deep breath to say something else, but the motion must have tickled at his throat, or pulled at his lungs, and he doubles over, coughing wetly into his elbow.

Marcus’s hand floats to his back without him even thinking about it, rubbing circles between Luca’s shoulderblades. Luca’s warm beneath his palm, and he can feel the knobs of his spine and the twitching of his muscles. His mind feels empty, just a dark vacuum with a big question mark bouncing around in it, like a cartoon.

When he’s finally done coughing, Luca wipes at his eyes and sits up a little straighter again. Marcus pulls his hand back without a word, feeling vaguely embarrassed and hoping, for some reason, that Luca didn’t notice it was there.

Luca clears his throat, and if he noticed, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he says, voice even more shot than before: “I’m sorry, Marcus, this is stupid.” He scratches at his jaw, then fists his hands in his sweater. “I don’t wanna make you ill, just—I wanted to see someone, see you, and I didn’t think. You should go home, get some sleep.”

He smiles at Marcus tiredly, like there’s something funny about this whole situation. Marcus doesn’t think it’s funny—just confusing, and a little scary, too.

“It’s alright, man,” he says for what feels like the thousandth time this evening. He brings his hand up to bite at the nails, drops it again. “‘S not stupid. I don’t like being alone, either, when I’m sick,” he admits, and the words hang between them for a few seconds.

Luca nods, softly, then lowers himself against the back of the couch with a raspy sigh. He looks exhausted.

“Sorry ‘bout the food, though,” he mutters, looking over at Marcus a little tentatively. “You didn’t have to bring it. I should’ve just told you not to bring it.”

Marcus shrugs. The food doesn’t matter, really, and he doesn’t get why Luca is so hung up on it. “I can put it in the fridge at home—or you can keep it, for when you get hungry again,” Marcus says.

A soft smile tugs at the corners of Luca’s mouth. He nods again, tilts his head back against the pillows. Marcus lets himself lean back, too, and they both fall silent again for a while.

“Y’know, my sister—I was gonna see her, here. She’s in Chicago, too, for work, for another few weeks. But it’s not gonna work out after all,” Luca suddenly says, voice brittle, eyes on the ceiling.

Marcus studies his face from the corner of his eye. Luca’s eyebrows are knitted together, and his eyes look a little shiny. Marcus can’t tell if it’s from the coughing fit, or if he’s blinking back tears. He doesn’t keep staring to figure it out, just tilts his head back to look up at the ceiling, too.

“Why can’t she see you?” he asks softly.

Luca shrugs. “Dunno. Says she’s suddenly flooded with work, whole company’s in a real tight spot, some scandal with one of the CEOs…” he trails off, shakes his head. “I think it sounds like a load of bull. Surely we could just—get a coffee, or something, doesn’t have to take long. But—what do I know,” he sighs.

Marcus bites at his lip, traces the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes. “When’d she tell you?”

“Today,” Luca huffs. The motion rips a new series of coughs from him, and he curls forward to stifle them in his elbow.

When he’s done, he leans back heavily against the pillows, breath a little wheezy and a sheen of sweat on his brow. Marcus shifts a little closer to him, just to be in reach, in case anything happens.

“That sucks. I’m sorry, Luca,” he murmurs, eyes drifting over to Luca’s face again. Luca wipes at his brow, then lets his hand flop down to his lap again.

“‘S alright,” he says. “I’m just—I’m being more dramatic over it ‘cause I’m ill, I think.”

“I don’t think you’re being dramatic,” Marcus says, quietly. “Family’s important. It’s not dramatic to be sad about something like that.”

Luca bites at his lip, seems to think over his words for a second.

“It’s just—,” he starts, haltingly, “We didn’t have… the greatest childhood, y’know? And my sister, she was like, my best friend, ever .” A smile flits across his lips, but it’s gone before Marcus can blink. “We helped each other through it. Kept each other sane, cared for each other. My parents—they never…” Luca swallows thickly. “They didn’t really believe in all that nurture stuff. Never cared for us like parents should’ve, you know?”

He glimpses at Marcus, quick and nervous, like he’s scared to face him completely. Marcus gets that. He nods, and Luca continues talking.

“So—we tried to do that for each other. Be each other’s parents, in a way. Can’t say we were very good at it,” he chuckles, and it rasps a little in his throat, “But we tried our best. I think, deep down, I’m just a little… hurt, maybe, or sad, that we lost that. That connection, y’know? Like, I’ll be there for you when you need me, that type of thing?”

Marcus hums. He misses his Ma, all of a sudden, wishes Luca could’ve got to meet her, back when things were still good and she wasn’t sick yet. Not that she’d have been able to replace Luca’s parents—that kind of wound doesn’t heal so easily—, but just because she was that person for him, the kind of person who was always there when he needed her. Loving, warm, caring. Kind. Always paying attention. He wishes Luca could’ve got to feel that, too. He thinks they would’ve liked each other, Luca and Ma.

And then—for some reason—he thinks of his dad. How he wasn’t there for such a big part of Marcus’s life, and now wants to be, all of a sudden. How confused and conflicted that makes him feel, because he learned not to miss him, not to think about him, healed and grew around his absence, watched the hole in his life scab over and scar, and now it feels like that wound’s being torn right open again.

And he thinks of how, deep down, he feels an ugly, heavy knot of guilt gnaw away at his stomach, because he didn’t show up, he left his dad hanging—and isn’t that a little too similar to what just happened to Luca? Shouldn’t he have pushed himself a bit more, bitten through his own pain a little harder, just to try and find a connection? Just to see if they could be there for each other again?

Luca must’ve noticed the doubts and questions running through his mind, because he nudges his shoulder against Marcus’s softly, and asks: “What’re you thinking of?”

Marcus doesn’t know what to say to that. He looks down at his hands, picks at his nails for a second.

“My dad,” he admits, finally, and he feels the weight of Luca’s eyes on him. “He reached out to me recently—left me a weird voicemail, asking to meet up. I…” he hesitates, swallows. “I almost went. Stood right outside the diner, saw him sitting at a table inside. But—I just couldn’t do it.”

Luca stills at his side. For a moment, Marcus thinks he messed up—that he shouldn’t have said this, admitted to this shameful moment of cowardice—not to Luca, at least, not now, when he’s just relayed what feels like the exact opposite side of this story.

But then Luca lets out a little hum.

“Why didn’t you go in?” he asks, voice open and soft and nothing like the sharp, accusing tone Marcus was expecting.

He frowns, shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he sighs. “Felt too—too much, all of a sudden. Like, I’d learned to live without him, and when I saw him, sitting there, it brought back all these memories, and feelings, and I realised… I don’t know if I got it in me to learn to live with him, again.”

“That makes sense,” Luca murmurs.

Marcus looks up at him, surprised. “It does?”

“Yeah,” Luca says. “I dunno—if my parents suddenly reached out to me now… I don’t think I’d wanna see them, either.”

“But—your sister—” Marcus stammers.

Luca shakes his head. “That’s not the same, though. We were close. We—we went through all this shit together . Your dad… It doesn’t sound like he was there for you.” His eyes flicker to Marcus’s. “Or was he?”

Marcus swallows. He feels tired, all of a sudden. “He wasn’t,” he says, and his voice comes out small, like he wasn’t quite ready to admit that to himself.

“So, then, I think—maybe you don’t owe him that hurt, y’know? Of carving out a space for him in your life again? Or—at least not until you feel like you’re ready.” Luca doesn’t sound very certain of himself, but his words carry so much weight that Marcus falls silent for a moment.

He thinks, deep down, maybe a part of him knew that, already—that he doesn’t owe his dad anything, that it’s okay to take time. But it feels different hearing Luca say it. It means so much more, coming from him, because Luca sees him, listens to him, pays attention, fully—like Ma used to.

“Thank you,” he says, finally. “I think I needed to hear that.”

“Of course,” Luca replies, voice low and scratchy but warm, too. And then he shifts, inhales like he’s going to say something else, but hesitates.

A beat passes, and then: “I… heard about your mum.” The words roll out Luca’s mouth quietly and carefully, a little stilted, like he’s scared to let them float into the air between the two of them and wants to keep them tucked as close to his chest as possible.

“Yeah,” Marcus breathes. His eyes sting. He blinks up to the ceiling.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Luca continues. His knee nudges Marcus’s softly, a quiet, grounding gesture. “Just wanted to say—I’m sorry. And, I’m here. If you need anything. Or just—in general, too. I’m here.”

It almost sounds a little ridiculous, the offering of help coming out of Luca’s mouth, because every crack in his voice, every raspy exhale, every glimpse of his face, pale and drawn and tired, reminds Marcus, insistently, that he’s not the one in need of assistance right now—Luca is, sick and alone, in Chicago, thousands of miles away from his home, with a sister that doesn’t seem willing to set aside as little as ten minutes for him.

But—it sounds sincere, too. And although they’ve never been this open with each other, this vulnerable, and he’s not sure whether he’s ready to let Luca in on his grief, just yet—Marcus knows he can rely on him. He just has that feeling.

“Thank you,” he says again. “I’m here, too. If you need anything. Not just now—for as long as you’re here.”

Luca’s lips quirk into a gentle smile. “I know. I’m glad you’re here,” he murmurs. “You know—it felt weird, today. Not seeing you, at all. I could feel myself start to go a little mad, just stuck here by myself. So—thanks. For coming to see me.” His face looks a little more pink, suddenly, but it’s hard to tell in the dim light.

“I’m glad I came,” Marcus admits. He shifts a little, feels himself sink into the pillows even more. It’s like he and Luca are both being swallowed up by the crease running down the middle of the couch, bodies dragged down into its inky abyss, slipping towards each other slowly. 

Next to him, Luca lets out a sigh, rubbing at his forehead like he’s trying to knead out a headache. It makes that spark of worry in Marcus’s chest flare to life again, and before he knows what he’s doing, he says: “I was—worried about you, today, you know.”

Luca brings his hand down, frowns. “Why?”

“It’s stupid,” Marcus mumbles. He feels embarrassed, suddenly. Exposed. He doesn’t know why he’s saying any of this, but it’s like his mouth keeps moving without his permission. “I saw—You said, in your message, that you’d be at work tomorrow. But today’s a Saturday.”

The frown between Luca’s eyebrows deepens, then smoothes out. “Oh,” he says, and he lets out a hushed chuckle, rasping deep in his throat. “That—Oh. I must’ve typed that when I was half asleep. I didn’t even realise.”

Marcus wants to laugh along, tries to force a smile on his face, but it feels strained and brittle—and Luca must notice, because he sobers up in an instant and his eyes search Marcus’s face carefully. “Did that—Is there something…?” he trails off, hesitant.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus sighs. He brings a hand up to fiddle with his beanie, pulls it down, adjusts it. “It’s just—I—My Ma. When she first got sick, she’d have those moments where she got confused. Lost in her own head, mixing up dates, times, names. I know it’s not—But I just—” 

Every word keeps getting stuck in his throat. He sighs, clenches his hands in his lap. “It reminded me. Of that.”

Luca’s eyes are big and round when Marcus looks at him again. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, like Marcus will snap, shatter into a million little shards if he speaks any louder. It’s not necessary. Marcus isn’t fragile like that. But—it’s nice, too.

“No, don’t be,” he says, forcing his voice into something steady. “It’s fine. I overreacted. It’s alright. And—I’m glad you reached out.”

Luca nods, once, hesitantly. “Okay,” he breathes.

Somewhere in the building a door slams, and the sound makes them both pause. They sit and listen for a moment. Footsteps clatter down the stairs. Floorboards moan and groan. The front door creaks in its hinges. And then Luca says, voice a little unsteady: “You know, you’re not the only one overreacting.” 

Marcus blinks, frowns. "Huh?"

“When you left—went back to The Bear,” Luca continues, “I felt so… weird. Like, I didn’t know how to work alone anymore—isn’t that weird? It was like I couldn’t remember what it was like before, when you weren’t around.” He shoots a searching glance at Marcus, and then his eyes turn guarded—scared, almost. “That’s overreacting, too, no?” There’s an uncertain edge to his voice, like he’s trying to convince himself.

Marcus feels his stomach squeeze, turn into a tightened, rock-hard fist. His mind whirs.

Is that overreacting? Because if it is—why did he feel the same?

Luca seems to think he’s weirded out, and lets out a strained chuckle. “Okay—forget I said that, I’m gettin’ tired, maybe, don’t know what I’m on about anymore—”

“No, no,” Marcus blurts out. “That’s—No, I’m just—I was thinking.” Luca’s mouth snaps shut.

Marcus chews at his lip. “I think—” he says after a second, “I think I had the same feeling. Or—something similar. Like I kept thinking you’d be around, and then you weren’t.”

“Yeah,” Luca says under his breath, eyes fixed on Marcus, bright with relief. “Yeah,” he repeats. “I—I missed you.”

Marcus’s heart does something funny in his chest. It tingles, twitches a little. His face burns—a dry, radiating heat, like he’s been out in the sun for too long. 

“I missed you, too,” he breathes. Luca smiles at him, warm and soft, and he’s so close. His eyes flicker across Marcus’s face, and Marcus feels a twinge of something in his stomach, all of a sudden.

Because Luca’s beautiful, like this. Messy, tired, sick, but beautiful, still. His hair glows a soft honey-gold in the warm light of the ceiling lamp. His eyes curl up at the corners, fond and familiar. There’s a light smatter of freckles running across his nose, over his cheeks, under his eyes. 

He’s beautiful—and it’s terrifying.

Luca locks eyes with him for a second, must see something of his thoughts or the panic building in his chest flicker across his face, and frowns a little. “What’s wrong?” he says, voice low and scratchy around the edges, and Marcus can’t think right, can’t breathe right. 

He can’t do this—what’s wrong with him?

“Nothing,” he croaks out. Luca’s eyes wander to his mouth, linger just a little too long. 

His chest feels like someone’s squeezing all the air out. His heart hammers against his ribs—knives rapping across cutting boards; dough being punched into shape; a slab of meat getting tenderised, beaten down to pulp. His hands feel clammy and his face is hot and cold all at once and impossibly close to Luca’s, all of a sudden. 

It’s too much.

He sits up straight, abruptly, hastily. The warmth of the couch lingers on his back; the warmth of Luca’s face—close, soft, almost touching—lingers in his thoughts. He takes a shaky breath, rubs his hands up and down his thighs, clears his throat, unnaturally loud, and cringes at himself, a sharp and shameful thing.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. It’s fine. They’re fine. Everything’s fine.

A beat passes. 

Marcus sneaks a glimpse over his shoulder. Luca’s still leant into the couch, blinking at him like he doesn’t quite get what’s going on, body curled like a question mark around an empty space. That’s where he was sitting, his brain helpfully fills in. The thought makes his stomach twist into a panicky knot, the kind that tightens the more you pull at it. He turns his head and stares down at his shoes, instead.

Behind him, he can feel Luca shift and move forward on the couch. Next to his own feet, he sees Luca’s toes curl into the carpet. A nervous twitch.

“Did I do something wrong?” Luca rasps, head ducking to catch his eyes. Marcus just keeps staring at his shoes.

“No—not at all, it’s just—” he stutters, and he can see Luca’s brows draw together even more from the corner of his eye. “It’s—late. I should…” he draws a deep breath, winding up. “I should go, I think,” he finishes lamely, and he can tell Luca’s hurt by the blatant lie, because he shifts away a little, and his expression shutters, goes carefully blank.

“Alright,” Luca says, voice small, and Marcus feels his heart twist in his chest. He’s a horrible, horrible person.

“I’m sorry—” he tries, but Luca cuts him off, quiet and firm, but icy cold, all of a sudden. 

“No, you’re right. It’s late. I already—Like I said, I don’t wanna make you ill. You should go.”

Marcus’s brain goes blank, for a moment. No service, channel lost. Just empty static, buzzing in his ears. 

He fucked up. He fucked up so badly.

“Alright,” he says, flat and empty. “Goodnight, Luca.” 

Luca doesn’t reply.

He gets up on numb legs, nearly barges into the coffee table for the second time that night, and hurries over to the door to put his shoes on.

Before he leaves, he shoots a look at the couch, where Luca’s still sat. He’s curled in on himself, hands white-knuckled in his lap, eyes fixed on his feet, vacant and glassy.

Marcus swallows thickly. He wants to say something, but he can’t think of anything that could fix this, that could wipe that look from Luca’s face and make everything normal and good again.

So Marcus does what he did earlier that week, with his dad at the diner, and turns his back, guilt swirling in his stomach. It's becoming something of a habit, at this point—a shameful vice that leaves you lonely and raw with regret the morning after.

The door clicks softly behind him, and then he’s gone.

—

He wakes up at 6 a.m. on Sunday with a knot of anxiety in his throat and a horrible, sinking feeling in his gut. He tosses and turns, but his thoughts keep drifting to Luca, sitting on the couch, eyes empty, shoulders hunched.

After about half an hour he gets up, and despite it being his day off, decides to head to The Bear. Maybe the kitchen will bring him some peace and quiet, some semblance of normalcy. Maybe getting his hands busy will help stop the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his head.

The kitchen’s empty and cold, again, but he tries to shoulder past it, tries his hardest to focus on recipes, ingredients, plating. Nothing helps. His coffee sits at his side, forgotten. His eyes keep drifting across the counter, expecting to see another person standing there. He tries to work on some gelée experiment, but it keeps turning into a muddy, lumpy mess.

At 8 a.m., the door clicks, and Marcus looks up, startled. He both does and doesn’t want it to be Luca.

But Sydney walks in, rubbing at her eyes, tying her bandana, and she’s nearly halfway across the kitchen before she notices Marcus, at his station tucked away in the corner.

“Holy shit , dude,” she says, grabbing at her chest. “You scared the shit outta me!”

Marcus chuckles sheepishly, mumbles a half-hearted “sorry” before turning back to his gelée. He’s not sure if he’s in the mood for company, but Sydney always manages to make the atmosphere a little lighter, so he’s relieved it’s her who walked in. He wouldn’t want to be stuck in here with a wired-up Carmy today—he has a feeling they’d both just start brooding.

Sydney pulls out some pots and pans, clatters a chopping board on the counter, and starts peeling and dicing an onion. He feels her eyes poke at his back.

“So what are you up to this early?” she asks. “Getting ahead on recipe development, or practising some technique, or just…”—she eyes the gelée sludge in his bowl—“messing around?”

Marcus sighs, turns to face her. “I’m not sure, to be honest,” he admits. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Sydney quirks a brow, lets her eyes flit over him. “Okay…” She drags out the syllables a little. “So… You got, like, chronic sleep deprivation, or what? What’s got you so… mopey, dude?” She gestures at him with her knife, as if that’s somehow supposed to show him just how mopey he looks.

“I’m not moping,” Marcus tries to deflect, only to realise he did actually sound a little bit mopey, just now.

“Alright, sure,” Sydney says, looking back down at her chopping board. “So, you wanna tell me what you’re not moping about, then?”

Marcus rolls his eyes. “It’s stupid, dude. I don’t even know—” he shakes his head, scoffs.

“What, you don’t know?” Sydney says. Her knife rattles across the chopping board.

“I—” he tries again, hesitates. 

Should he tell her about Luca? Isn’t it horrible, terrible, abhorrent workplace etiquette to have these kinds of talks about your coworkers?

Sydney pushes her diced onion to the side, looks up at him. Her eyes narrow. “Oh God, you really are moping,” she says. “What’s got you so down, dude?”

And then a thought seems to pop into her head and a grimace flits across her face, mouth twitching, and she stammers: “Oh—shit, unless it’s, like, some dead mom shit, dude—my bad, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no—it’s not about that,” Marcus rushes to reassure her.

Sydney’s face stills, softens. “...So what is it about, then?”

Marcus mulls over his words for a few seconds. He might as well tell her, he thinks. Sydney won’t talk, and she’s given him some good advice, before—when Carm lost his shit and they both quit their jobs for a few days, when his mom died. She might give him shit and poke fun at him, but at the end of the day she gets him, and she has his back, like he imagines a sister would.

He takes a deep breath. “It’s just—So you know how Luca called out sick, yesterday?”

Sydney’s eyebrows do a little dance across her forehead at the apparent non-sequitur. “Yeah?”

“Well,” he says, “I—uh. I went and visited him, after service.”

“Oh!” Sydney says, and then looks at him, confusion written across her face. “That sounds… nice? What’s so bad about that?”

Marcus huffs. “It wasn’t bad , just… Confusing. I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “And I think I really messed up, dude. Like, really really.”

“How, though?” Sydney frowns. “You gotta give me some context here, man.”

Marcus tugs at his beanie, bites at his lip. “Well—We had a talk… Like, a good talk, ‘bout family and stuff, and we were on the couch, together, and then—” he lets out a shaky sigh. “I don’t know what happened. We—Suddenly, we were so close , and—I felt—I wanted… It scared me, dude.”

He looks up at Sydney, willing her to understand. Her eyes are warm and soothing.

“You think you like him?” she says. Marcus’s lungs freeze in his chest. It’s a perfectly natural question, asked with no judgement or nosiness, but it’s horrifying, hearing those words hang in the air between them, their meaning, their implications, their potential to ruin everything —

“I don’t—I don’t know,” he stammers. His hands grip the counter, cold and solid. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Sydney’s eyebrows arch into a sad little frown. “Nothing’s wrong with you, dude,” she says forcefully. And then, softer: “Marcus. Really. Nothing’s wrong with you.”

Marcus feels his eyes sting. He blinks, looks away, then blinks again for good measure. “I don’t know,” he says again, and it comes out as a whisper.

Sydney sighs. He hears her knife clatter softly on the counter, her footsteps coming towards him. She nudges his side and settles against the counter. They both stare into the bowl of lumpy gelée.

“You know what I think?” Sydney says after a moment, head tilting up at him. “I think he likes you. And I think—I think you might… like him too. And that’s scary, I know.” A faint smile plays around her lips. “Dude, first time I felt something for a girl—I had a whole crisis, like, you wouldn’t believe . Didn’t leave my room for two days, my dad thought I’d lost my freaking mind.”

She chuckles softly. Marcus feels a smile tug at the corners of his lips. “I didn’t know…” he trails off, eyes flicking down.

Sydney lets out a scoff. “Well—yeah, dude, I’m not exactly dating, right now. Got this whole mess to deal with”—she waves a hand around—“So I don’t have time for—anything, really.”

She rubs at her forehead, and Marcus sees the tired lines worn into her face, all of a sudden.

“How’d you deal with it?” he asks.

Sydney shrugs, bites at her lip. “You just gotta accept it, man. I know it’s a lot—and you’re… already going through a lot, right now. But, I think… It might be worth it to just—face the fear, you know? Jump in, even if it’s scary. It might bring something good, who knows?” She eyes him carefully. “And you deserve that, Marcus. Something good.”

Marcus lets out a breath. His chest feels looser, somehow, now that he’s heard Sydney say those words.

“Thanks, Syd,” he breathes. Sydney nods. “You know, you got some awful good advice for someone who’s ‘ not dating right now ’, dude.” He nudges her side teasingly.

“Alright, man,” she grins, cheeks turning a faint shade of pink. “See if I’ll ever give you advice like that again. You know—maybe I just have, like, an insane amount of life experience and wisdom stored inside me, I dunno. Like, some kinda prophet for the confused queers, or something.”

They both chuckle, and Sydney turns around, goes back to her own counter. Her knife rings softly when she picks it up again, but she doesn’t continue chopping, just yet.

“Just—talk to him, dude,” she says after a moment. “Take it from the prophet. Last words of wisdom I got for you today.”

Marcus swallows, nods. “Alright. Thanks, prophet,” he mutters with a smile, looking over to Sydney. She lifts a finger to her brow in a mock salute, decidedly un-prophet-like, and they both turn back to their work. Marcus makes a new gelée, and it turns out a little better, this time.

—

On Monday morning, he wakes up late, mouth dry and pillow pressed into his face. It’s already past five when he rushes out the door, and by the time he finally stumbles into the kitchen, out of breath and sweaty, the lights are already on.

Luca’s at their station, frowning down at the notebook he keeps his recipes in. He looks a little better, some more colour in his face, but dark circles still ring his eyes, hinting that he could’ve done with just one more day of rest. His hand kneads at his brow absently, like there’s a headache bothering him.

He looks up when he hears Marcus walk in, and his lips quirk up in a tentative smile. His eyes dart up to Marcus’s for a split second, then quickly drop down to his notebook again.

“Mornin’, chef,” Luca says, and Marcus is a little relieved to hear his voice is mostly back to normal, just a little raspy edge left to it.

“Morning,” he replies, making his way through the kitchen. He eyes their station. Luca seems to be looking over a recipe for some kind of tart, messy sketches scattered across the pages he’s peering over and words scribbled out, underlined, circled. On Marcus’s side of the counter, a coffee blows wisps of steam up to the ceiling, milk dancing around inside in a lazy twirl. Luca—to Marcus’s surprise—has a cup of tea standing in front of him.

“Oh, yeah—just tea for me today,” he mumbles when he catches Marcus eyeing his cup. “Not turning into a patriotic Briton just yet, don’t worry—just figured it’d be better for my throat. Giving me a killer headache not to have my coffee, though,” Luca chuckles. It sounds a little flat, to Marcus’s ears. 

His chest twinges with guilt, but he forces a smile on his face nonetheless. Maybe it’s better to just—pretend, for now. Keep things light, act like nothing happened. Maybe that’s what Luca wants, too.

“You can have a sip of mine, if you want?” he offers.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Luca says quickly, more to his notebook than to Marcus. “Don’t wanna make you ill.”

Marcus blinks. Instantaneously, his mind flashes back to two nights ago: him and Luca on the couch,  gradually shifting towards each other, Luca coming closer and closer until he—and then Luca, saying those exact same words—

Luca’s thoughts must have gone to the same place, because he freezes up and blinks down at his notebook hollowly.

They fall silent.

It’s tense, and cold, and horrible. Marcus starts prepping for the day. When the dough’s rising, in a moment of bewildered desperation, he tries his hand at the gelée again. It's even worse than before, and he throws it out with a frustrated sigh.

–

The kitchen’s still eerily quiet when Sydney walks in an hour later, her steps echoing around the room.

“Oh,” she blinks, tucking a notebook against her chest. “Good morning, chefs. I didn’t think anyone was in here—didn’t hear you two from the locker room.”

Her eyes dart between Luca and him, and Marcus knows she feels the strain between the two of them.

“Morning, chef,” he mutters, and he hears Luca mumble the same.

Sydney gives him a look that says “ what the hell is going on here? ” and starts to open her mouth, but Marcus just shakes his head at her subtly, and she drops it, turning to set up her station for the day. 

They all turn to their tasks—kneading dough, chopping vegetables, flicking through notes and recipes. The clock flashes on the wall, imperturbable, and the silence stretches, thickens, starts to feel even more oppressive with three people in the room.

Sydney seems to think the same. She flicks on a stove, starts toasting up some peppers, and then—like she can’t hold it in any longer and just has to hear someone talk, even if it’s her own voice—begins to rattle off an incoherent story about how she’d found mould in her apartment, and it might be fine but also might not be, because what if it’s black mould, that’s really dangerous, according to WebMD, and maybe that’s why she’s been having all these weird dreams lately, about floating food and The Bear turning into an opera building for some reason, and you , Luca, you were such a good singer in my dream—

Marcus hears Luca huff out a surprised laugh across the counter. The tightness in his chest loosens up, just a little.

“What, me ?” Luca says incredulously, “ I was a good singer?”

Sydney nods with conviction. “Yeah, dude, you were like, tearing it up on stage. Hitting all the high notes. Richie was so jealous of you, I think deep down he wanted to be the one getting all the attention.”

A smile pulls at Marcus’s mouth. “That’s not too different from usual, then,” he says, and Sydney laughs.

“Exactly!” she says. “See, even when I’m having weird, mould-fuelled dreams, there’s still an element of truth in there. Maybe there’s still an opera career out there for you, Luca.”

Luca shakes his head, scoffs fondly. “Nah, ‘fraid that’s not in the books for me, but thanks for the tip, chef,” he says, scratching at his forehead with the back of his hand, fingers white with flour.

Sydney shrugs. “Worth a try.” She pokes around in the pan for a moment, then turns off the heat and drops her ladle, walking over to where Marcus is standing to rummage in a cupboard behind him. “Sorry,” she mutters, “Just wanna see if we have any of that potato starch left in here—ah, there it is.” 

She turns around, sidles up to Marcus and rests the bag of starch on the edge of the counter. “But—you guys don’t happen to know a good mould guy, right? I read on WebMD that black mould can give you all these, like, respiratory issues, and as fun as the dreams are, I really don’t want any of that happening.”

Marcus shakes his head. His eyes float to Luca.

“No idea,” Luca mumbles, suddenly looking a bit tense again. “But—I don’t live here, so. You probably weren’t asking me.” He glances down at his notes, the hint of a frown between his eyes. Marcus feels like there’s a double meaning to his words that he can’t quite grasp. His hands feel a little sweaty, all of a sudden.

Sydney peers at him from the corner of her eye. It’s painfully quiet again. Marcus swallows.

“I’ve never had any mould issues, but I can ask Chester if you want?” he says, just to fill the silence. “He’s big on real estate right now, he might know a guy. Or—why don’t you ask your dad?”

“Dude, are you kidding me?” Sydney huffs, seemingly relieved to latch onto his question. “My dad would never let me live that down. He already didn’t like the place when I moved in, said the walls were too thin, the building looked old… He’d probably be so fuckin’ happy to know he was right. He’s, like, the biggest smartass ever .”

“Oh, I see,” Marcus teases, “so that’s where you got that from.” His eyes flick to Luca, hoping to get a laugh out of him, but Luca just stares at them both absently, like he’s watching a TV show.

Sydney lets out an exaggerated gasp. “Oh, you are so not getting invited to my mouldy apartment ever again, dude! You can watch ‘They Cloned Tyrone’ by yourself!”

She shoves him playfully, and Marcus, caught off guard, loses his balance and stumbles over his own feet. It’s so stupid that it makes them both giggle.

Across the counter, Luca smiles, too, but it’s a little put-on, somehow, doesn’t fully reach his eyes. He carefully glances between Sydney and Marcus, like there’s something he’s trying to see there, something to analyse in the space between the two of them.

When Sydney’s walked off again, ducking into the office to grab a cookbook, Luca clears his throat. It sounds a little stilted. Nervous, almost.

“So,” he says, “tell me to shut up if I’m overstepping, but you and Sydney…?” he trails off, brow quirking.

Marcus frowns, sputters out a surprised laugh. “Me and Sydney, what , man?”

It comes out a little sharper than he intended. Defensive, like there’s still something there—except there isn’t, never really was, and he just feels self-conscious, really, because why is Luca bringing this up?

Luca raises his hands, dusted in flour. White flag, don’t shoot.

“Alright, alright,” he says, a little too breezily, “I’ll shut up, got it.”

He bends back over the dough in front of him, and they both fall silent. The countertop between them feels awfully big, all of a sudden, and Marcus feels like he messed this up even more, somehow.

“No, no, it’s fine, dude,” he says, tries his hardest to sound relaxed and happy and like this is all very normal and not weird, at all. “I asked her out, like, a long time ago. But she rejected me, and—I think I wasn’t even into her, really, just…” An awkward chuckle crawls its way up his throat. It falls flat. Luca nods, encouraging him to go on.

Marcus mulls over his words for a moment. “I felt—lost, I guess,” he says after a beat. His voice feels a little unsteady, and he almost stops talking at that, but then he thinks of Sydney, telling him to jump in, it might bring something good , and he pushes through. “Like… I wanted someone I could escape into for a little while, you know?”

Luca’s hands still in the dough. His eyes flicker up to Marcus’s, and the overhead lights make them flash so bright blue that Marcus doesn’t know where to look, for a second.

He settles on Luca’s hands, the tattoos etched into them—a pepper nestled in the bit of skin next to his right thumb, stem curling up to his wrist; the capital letter “A” on his left hand, bold and yet elegant, twirling down to his thumb with a flourish.

He wonders if there’s a meaning to them, a story behind those lines of ink, reminds himself to ask about that. Later, maybe, when they’re back to normal, back to sharing smiles and funny kitchen stories and their station doesn’t feel as quiet, anymore.

“Yeah, I get that,” Luca murmurs, and it feels sincere, like he’s not just saying it to say something, but gets it , truly. Marcus wonders if there’s a story there, too, but he’s not brave enough to ask. Later, maybe.

Sydney chooses that moment to walk in again, giving both of them a long sideways look. Marcus wonders if she’d been eavesdropping. Probably, he wagers.

The air feels a little thinner, now that they’ve talked; it floats through his lungs easier, less syrupy. Luca looks more relaxed, too. His shoulders loosen, and he lets out a breath, then reaches up to rub at his forehead again with the back of his hand. A tiny cloud of flour flutters in front of his face, settles on his eyelashes. He looks tired, all of a sudden. Marcus wonders if he has a headache.

“Hey—let me make you a coffee?” he says quietly. It feels like a plea, somehow, like a peace offering of sorts—saying sorry without saying sorry. Luca’s eyes snap up, sharp and bright like a summer sky, and he blinks at him for a second, like it’s the strangest question he’s ever been asked. And then his mouth quirks into a smile, soft and absent, like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it—just muscle memory at work.

“Okay,” he says, “Sure—why not.”

Marcus wipes his hands, busies himself with the coffee machine next to the office. The thing whirs loudly, beans grinding, steam rising, and it feels like a victory—so much noise, such exalted, unrestrained sound. From the kitchen he hears the muffled tones of Sydney and Luca’s voices, and his heart dances around in his chest with playful leaps, giddy like a child. He doesn’t even know why, really, but he welcomes the feeling anyway.

—

Service feels like a sped-up tape. The restaurant’s packed, the diners are loud and hungry, and there’s a birthday party at a six-top in the corner, a cheerful group of thirty-somethings drinking heavily. Together with Luca, he whips up a surprise dessert for the birthday guest—a toasted lemon-poppyseed cookie crumble with a lime-guava gelée and an ice-cold glass of limoncello on the side. The gelée comes out beautifully, a warm, sunset-orange, and the guests are ecstatic—probably most of all about the birthday sparkler accompanying the dish.

When the last order has gone out, Luca slumps against the counter, shooting him a smile—contented, warm, but a little wan, too. He kneads at his eyes, scratches his throat, and it’s like a blanket of exhausation settles over him all at once—or maybe Marcus is only noticing it, now, in the hushed after-service comedown: the way his eyes are a little drawn at the corners, dark circles standing out starkly; the way his face seems a little pale and clammy, again; the way his shoulders droop and his hands tremble as he wipes down their station.

He rushes through clean-up, tries to take most of the work off Luca’s hands, and then they’re stood in the locker room, Luca blinking at him tiredly, opening his mouth to bid him goodnight, and Marcus feels his heart clench, shrivel up, die.

He makes an impulsive decision.

“Let me drive you home?”

His words hang in the air for a second. Luca closes his mouth again, searches his face, scrutinising and a little distrusting, like he’s expecting Marcus to burst out laughing any second, say that he was just joking around, and send him off to get home by himself, on the L, cold lights and hard benches, Luca—tired and sick, head swaying as the train lurches over the rails.

Marcus swallows, feels his face heat up. The seconds drag on. The air feels taut with words left unspoken. His fingers clench around his car keys in his pocket. They bite back, grounding and sharp.

Luca finally snaps out of his staring spell. He looks down at his shoes, then back up at Marcus. A flicker of doubt flashes across his face, and for a moment Marcus is scared he’ll say no—but then his eyes soften, and he nods.

The car’s cold and dark, and Luca folds his arms tightly over his chest, staring out the window. His face flashes brightly at the corner of Marcus’s eye whenever they pass under a street lantern, white and blurry, like there’s a ghost riding along in the passenger seat. The radio murmurs softly, a Suzi Quatro song: Our love is alive, and so we begin; foolishly layin' our hearts on the table, stumblin’ in.

When they reach Luca’s apartment building—its facade a deep coffee-brown in the dark of the night, its back curled up sleepily in the shade of its tall, wakeful neighbours—they sit in the car for a moment. Luca rubs at his eyes, yawns into his fist. He unfastens his seatbelt, starts murmuring his thanks for the ride, moves to open the door. It's mundane, normal, a stellar act—almost believable, but not to Marcus. He can't let him leave, not like this, feigning nonchalance when they're both hovering at the edge of something, scared to leap forward yet unable to step back.

His hand darts out like it has a mind of his own and latches onto Luca’s sleeve. The corduroy of his jacket ripples and waves under his fingers. Luca stills. He turns back to Marcus, a question in his eyes. They glow a soft, greyish-blue in the light of the street lanterns.

Marcus’s mouth feels dry. He wets his lips. His hand feels warm on Luca’s arm, but he doesn’t want to draw it back, doesn’t want to let go, just yet. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

Luca’s face goes blank, shielded—mouth set into a careful line, eyes distant, shuttered.

“What for?” he asks, and his gaze flits down to Marcus’s hand, still on his arm. He studies it with a curious detachment, like he’s never seen either appendage before.

“For Saturday. For—for running off.” The words leave Marcus’s mouth in a jumble, shaky and nervous, bouncing against each other clumsily. Luca’s arm tenses under his fingers, then goes slack again.

“It’s okay,” he says, careful and measured. A shadow of something sad flits across his face—quick and subtle, just a twitch of his mouth and a furrow of his brows—and then it’s gone again, and his face is schooled, stony, empty. Marcus feels his insides twist.

“It’s not, though,” he breathes, “It’s not. I’m sorry, Luca. I don’t know—” His voice cracks, and he takes another breath. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren wails, lonely and desperate.

“I don’t know why I did that,” Marcus continues, and then frowns, shakes his head, because that’s not what he wanted to say. “Or—I do know, I think. I—I was scared.”

Luca blinks, swallows thickly. Marcus’s eyes trace the movement of his throat, the way it bobs and shivers, the way his tendons twitch up-down as he takes a deep breath.

“Okay,” he murmurs. His eyes are shiny when he looks at Marcus again, but they’re here, open, present. “I’m sorry, too. I was—You—We don’t have to… pretend it’s the same, you know. I—uh, I overstepped, then, and—and today, too, and I’m sorry for that, and—”

Marcus doesn’t know what he’s hearing. “What?” he says, loud and sharp. Luca frowns at him, confused. His eyes are glassy and big.

“I—Yeah, isn’t that what you…?” He searches Marcus’s face.

“No, no, oh my—no,” Marcus stammers. He almost wants to laugh, do something with the nerves thrumming around in his veins—except he feels like he would burst into tears sooner than laughter, so instead of trying either he tightens his grip on Luca's arm. His blood sings in his ears, off-pitch, distracting, but he talks through it anyway. “I meant that I was scared because I—I realised, suddenly, that I did miss you. I missed you, a lot. When I left Copenhagen, but—on Saturday, too, and Sunday, and today, even, because I don’t—I don’t want us to be… like this, or like before, either.” Marcus's chest heaves. Luca stares at him like a deer caught in headlights.

“I’m—I think I like you, Luca,” he says, and the world seems to go quiet for a second.

It’s just them, here, the car, the flickering streetlights, the shadows of branches swaying in the wind. Luca’s mouth drops open a little, and it’s like Marcus’s eyes are drawn to it through some force of nature, a magnetic field pulling them in no matter how hard he tries to resist.

“Oh,” Luca says.

And then he moves forward, and his hands are soft, and his face is warm, and his breath is a little raspy, still, and he’s close, so close.

Marcus’s heart jumps up his throat, his lungs twirl in circles, his stomach loops around in somersaults, but it all feels so good, the best it’s ever felt, because Luca’s lips are on his, and he’s here, right here.

And so is Marcus—here, forever, heart on the table, beating a morse code of love, love, love.

It’s scary—terrifying, even, but he jumps, head over heels, and he’s not going anywhere. Not this time.