Chapter Text
Autumn, 2000, hill town in Italy.
-
Night has already fallen when Marco pedals his bicycle faster than usual. Something inside his backpack swings back and forth, clattering loudly every time his tires hit a patch of repaired asphalt.
The houses he passes are modest, typical European homes, two or three stories high, standing shoulder to shoulder along the narrow main road. The road inclines steadily, winding uphill and bending gently with the contours of the surrounding mountains. Stone walls, iron railings, and shuttered windows slip past him in the dim light, while the silence of the valley is broken only by the soft whirr of his bike and the echo of his own movement climbing higher.
From this uphill stretch, he can already see it: a single point of light glowing brighter than the rest. His house. Sitting at the very end of the row, it forces Marco to pass several more houses before he reaches it. But with only one house left between him and home, he suddenly squeezes the brakes. His foot lands on the asphalt just in time, and the backpack that had been swinging wildly finally slumps against his back.
That is because his eyes catch something different from the usual view.
The neighbor’s house, directly beside his own, separated only by a narrow road leading elsewhere, has a room on the second floor lit up. Warm light spills softly through sheer vitrage curtains, diffused and trembling, as if the fabric itself were breathing. This is the first time in more than two years, and Marco knows he cannot be mistaken.
A smile grows on his face without him realizing it, even as the aggressive dog chained in front of the house lunges frantically toward him, barking and straining at its leash.
He gets off his bike and pushes it into the empty patch of ground beside the house. His father’s old bike is already there, resting against the wall, a clear sign that he has come home.
Marco pushes the front door open with that same smile. Inside, he finds his mother and father watching television together under a warm blanket. Both of them turn toward the door and greet him with voices bright with warmth and a childlike excitement, as if his coming home is always something new, even though he does it at nearly the same hour every day.
A warm family.
“Ah, right! Marco, my dear, there’s something we want to tell you.”
He stops.
His mother gets up from the couch, her smile faltering for a brief moment, awkward and hesitant, as if she’s bracing herself. “Your sister will be competing in the Science Olympiad next month, and.. uhm, you know, our finances haven’t recovered since the flood kept wrecking your dad’s farm.. and with that, we can only handle things one at a time. So, uhm, could we-”
“Postpone my admission test prep course??” he blurts, voice a little higher than intended.
His mom nods, giving bitter smiles.
The awkward air felt out of place in this house. Marco run a hand through the back of his neck, then shrugs casually. “Well.. I can prepare for the test myself. In this economy I don’t really need the course..”
His father shakes his head firmly. “No, son. We’ll still make sure you can take the course. I’ll do whatever I can to make it happen.”
Marco wavs a hand, smiling lightly, trying to keep things casual. “Uhm, don’t worry about it. Seriously.“
“Oh, Marco…”
Seeing that his words didn’t fully ease the guilt on his parents’ faces, he let out a soft sigh. “It’s nothing. Really. If you guys keep being like this, I’ll be up even later. You don’t want your son staying up all night, right?”
His mom laughs softly, relief finally creeping into her posture. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow, okay?”
He nods, shrugging again, careful and small.
Well… he’d care more next time. But right now, there’s something important he needs to do. That very thing. That very thing. Without realizing it, a small smile returns to his face.
He hurries up to his room. He has two boxes of chicken parmigiana in his bag and had planned to finish them immediately once he got home. But now he forgets his priorities, rushing to open his window even before closing the door behind him.
His window faces the side of that neighbor’s house, including the very window of the room he saw glowing so brightly from the road. From this side, he can see that it is slightly open as well. The distance between their houses is not particularly close, yet the small opening allows sound to slip through. Marco can faintly hear music playing from inside.
It has been a long time since I last heard that song. Marco finds himself humming along.
“I think he got here this afternoon.”
He startles, immediately searching for the source of the voice, and rubs his chest in relief when he realizes it is only his sister standing at the door. Except for the terrifying face mask she is wearing. If Marco were not used to seeing it, he would have thought the house was haunted.
“You’ve noticed he’s back, haven’t you?” she adds, teasingly.
Understanding what his sister means, Marco turns his gaze back outside, toward the glowing window of the neighbor’s house. The small gap between the curtains reveals the figure of a man lightly dancing along to the music he is playing.
Brunette and beautiful.
Just as beautiful as the last time Marco saw him.
A faint flush rises to his cheeks.
“Dear pretty boy next door, I see you from afar, Too shy to speak, stuck here in my car~” Silvia sings off-key.
And that shatters whatever fragile bubble of happiness Marco is in. His sense tells him exactly how irritatingly wide his sister is grinning behind him. So rather than encourage anything that might make her even more unbearable, Marco is forced to pull himself out of his beautiful little world. And of course, this awareness is born from a lifetime of experience being bullied as the only male sibling in this house.
He clears his throat casually while the whole room turns to look back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Silvia lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Ouuu whatever.”
Then the girl walks away, again humming that ridiculous melody. Her voice fades as she moves farther from Marco’s bedroom door. He would normally care about her teasing, if only he were not feeling so happy right now.
He watches the silhouette across the way move to turn off the light. Then everything goes completely dark. That also means cutting off Marco’s chance to keep admiring his beauty. The thought barely lasts, because Marco quickly crouches down on the floor when the man briefly looks outside before closing the window tightly.
God, that was close.
The music is gone now. Only the steady ticking of his own clock fills his ears. That window must be fully locked by now. Marco stands up and silently agrees with his own assumption.
It must be time for him to go to sleep.
The flight must have been exhausting.
“Sweet dreams, Marc,” he whispers to the empty view.
The next day..
“Marco, could you stop by Mr. Galli’s garden after your run and buy some apples for me?” His mother peeks out from the kitchen.
“Sure!“
It is Sunday, and unfortunately Marco wakes up a little too late for his morning run. As he rushes outside, he adjusts his shoes and nearly trips on the porch steps. The impact against the wooden floor makes enough noise to draw his father’s attention.
“Look at young men these days,” the slightly pot bellied man remarks teasingly, not seriously. He glances at Marco briefly before returning his focus to the row of ornamental plants he has just watered.
While doing an unstructured warm up, Marco keeps glancing toward Marc’s bedroom window. It is already open. The curtains are pulled up as well, revealing beautiful orchids in small pots resting along the window frame.
“He left for the track earlier, about twenty minutes ago.”
Marco immediately looks away.
His father laughs, glancing at him a few more times. “You are nothing like me when I was young and chasing after your mom’s love.”
Marco rolls his eyes. Not this story again.
“Keep it to yourself, old man,” he replies casually.
He walks away at an easy pace along the damp sidewalk. But once he gets a little farther from the house, his steps grow faster and wider. The rain that midnight is fairly heavy, and maintenance in this neighborhood is poor, since most residents are couples busy with farming or retirees whose children work in big cities. Aesthetic upkeep only happens occasionally. Even so, Marco runs as fast as he can, even as moss on the sidewalk threatens his balance.
His thoughts drift back to when he was still a child, when his family had just moved here from the big city. His mother forced him to deliver blueberry crostata to the neighboring houses. The air was so cold there that he feared he might not survive the real winter, and the sidewalk was slippery, the last crostata was heavy in his little hands and it nearly slipped as he also struggled to hold an oversized Tom and Jerry umbrella. He rang the doorbell three times, grumbling in annoyance. It took so long. He remembered how irritated he had been back then. But that irritation lasted only until Marc appeared from inside, one hand holding the door while staring at Marco in confusion. His lips were adorably pursed, his cheeks tinged like spring petals. Marco blinked. It was autumn when he first saw him, yet somehow he felt something bloom in his chest. Marc might have been the first thing that made moving to this place feel worth it.
He snaps back to the present when his shoes fail to grip the ground properly and he nearly slips. Jesus christ. He would have landed straight on his tailbone if experience had not kicked in.
He exhales. His rhythm returns, because no matter what, he has to reach the running track faster than usual. Because if he runs into Marc there, it will be the first time Marco truly sees him again in two years, ever since Marc left to study abroad.
But then, once Marco actually notices Marc’s presence on the track, he suddenly does not dare to run too close, let alone greet him. His pace slows until his thighs ache from the drastic change in tempo. A group of kids even pass him with confused looks, their heads turning to silently judge him lagging behind. Marco ignores them. This time he is not trying to win a race against them.
He spots Marc ahead, walking with his father and younger brother a few meters in front of him. They seem to be done jogging and are now walking leisurely to relax their legs.
Marc’s father, Julia, wraps an arm around his waist, their shoulders brushing as they stand close.
He was an early retired air force commander. Marco’s mind jumped back to the moment he and Marc first met at that door, with the crostata already in Marc’s hands. The door had opened wider, and a tall, imposing figure had appeared behind Marc. He took the blueberry crostata firmly because he was worried it would burn Marc’s palm. His body language had been unfriendly, though his words of thanks had sounded plain and unpleasant. Marco remembered how much the man had resembled Marc, yet had given off a completely opposite impression. He shivers at the memory, his eyes immediately dropping to the ground the next second.
Marco exhales, pushing the thought away.
When he looks up again, he sees not only Marc’s father holding him, but now his younger brother as well.
Marco takes a breath, feeling the air enter with a faint, all too familiar tremor. It reminds him of what happens after that.
At that moment, he was finally able to lift his head again after Marc’s father had gone inside the house first. Marc pulled his hand, guiding him into a handshake. Marco felt warmth spread across his cheeks. But suddenly, the sound of water splashing echoed from behind him. A smaller kid stood across the street, completely soaked, shouting at his rottweiler while pointing straight at Marco. Marc gasped the next second, but Marco, frozen in shock, was far too slow to process what might happen if the dog kept running toward him. What he knew for certain was that he ran home in panic that afternoon, breathless and drenched. His pants were torned right at the ass.
The memory makes him wince. He can still hear that psychopath kid’s laughter. It is not hard to admit that his first impression of Alex is frighteningly absurd.
A heaviness settles over him. The scene in front of him makes him smile bitterly. Of course they are still that protective. There is no reason not to be.
People say the death of Julia’s wife pushed him into early retirement. That was a long time ago, but well.. his military habits are still clearly visible. Julia has a strong, commanding presence. He doesn’t talk much and everyone respects him. His role as a single parent really shows in the way he carries himself, like a soldier. Marco often notices how he gets up early in the morning and makes Alex run laps whenever he misbehaves. Or something even more military than that. With Marc, though, he isn’t strict in the same way, he’s simply more protective. Especially since, with every passing year, Marc grows more captivating. He’s beautiful, intelligent, and kind to his core. Even as he got ready to leave for university, the elderly neighbors he helped had everything set up for him. Marco remembers picking them up when they returned home sadly, because the airline didn’t allow Marc to bring boxes upon boxes of food they had packed for him.
In the eyes of many, Marc fits neatly into the idea of the perfect boy, someone mothers quietly imagine when their hands rest over their wombs, wishing for such luck. Others feel drawn to him out of sympathy, knowing he grew up without one. But for Marco, it is different. He admired Marc long before anyone had a reason to admire him, back when he was still fussy and whining to his father about muddy shoes. Before the steadiness, before the praise. He likes him more than anyone else, and yet he has the fewest reasons to. Because for him, Marc is Marc. But.. deep in his heart he knows there’s something stronger than liking, he’s just too afraid to name it.
He blinks. A hollow breath slips out of him. After several laps that barely make him sweat, Marco turns back. He does not push himself further, admiring Marc through a window is already more than enough.
That night, Marco opens his window as wide as he can. He smiles faintly when he sees the other window across from his house glowing brightly again. The thought that it will stay this way throughout Marc’s holiday warms something in his chest. As he turns on his computer, Marco realizes that just a few days ago, he would never have imagined enjoying working at this desk again, considering that for the past two years Marc has not come home at all.
Back when they were still in school, Marco studied at this very desk, facing the window, and felt motivated to keep going simply because he could see Marc studying too. Marc was the smartest student, the one with the highest exam scores in their small town. He could study late into the night and only stopped when his father checked on him. Marco breathed out, letting out a soft laugh as he remembered how, at that exact moment, he was usually just getting up from his own desk. He truly developed the same study habits as Marc because of that.
“Huh? You hear that? I haven’t even cracked a joke and he’s already giggling.”
“He has lost his mind.”
Marco snorts at the two different voices coming from the house phone. “Hey, Luca, even if you did make a joke, there is no way I would find it funny,” he replies.
“Sly bastard!” Luca clicks his tongue playfully.
It is Luca and Pecco, his high school friends. They are on a paid three way call while working together. More precisely, the three of them are working on a branding project for the Italian restaurant where Marco works, or rather, Luca’s startup. Pecco’s ideas are quite complex, and he loves to complain, so inevitably they end up working on it together.
Marco briefly glances toward Marc’s bedroom window. There is no movement visible between the curtains. Marc would not be studying during his holidays, so of course he would not be sitting at his desk. Marco simply wonders what Marc is doing now, whether he is watching television or having dinner with his father and brother. Marco grows curious about whether he is still a homebody like he used to be.
“You are not going home, Pecco?” Luca asks.
For a moment, there is no answer. Only the aggressive clicking of a mouse can be heard, loud enough to speak on his behalf. It draws snorts of laughter from the other two.
“He probably doesn’t have the cash for his flight,” Marco answers for him.
“Poor boy Franci.”
“I will go home after you idiot Marini pays for my design,” Pecco claps back. “Flight prices have shot up mad since last month.”
Marco winces. He can easily imagine Pecco pointing at Luca with that frightening glare of his.
Luca chuckles on the other end. “Fiiinee!! Maybe I’ll borrow some cash from my brother first? I haven’t made any money this month anyway.”
Pecco exhales loudly. “Seriously, you gotta hire a real marketing team. Social media’s how restaurants get noticed now.”
Marco nods in agreement.
“Fine. I will ask Vale for it.”
“Oh my God, this idiot really can’t do shit without his brother,” Pecco mocks.
“Hey??!!”
Marco snorts again. The silly argument between his two friends does not stop there. Sentences filled with thick Italian accents continue pouring endlessly through the speaker of the house phone. Normally, Marco would cut the call short to avoid an expensive bill, but this time he forgets to do so. He also stops paying attention to what they are still arguing about, because his gaze is now locked onto Marc’s silhouette as he has just entered his room.
His entire world shifts.
Marc looks incredibly soft in his sleepwear. So comfortable. But then the light turns off. Marco can no longer see anything from where he is.
Is he going to sleep already?
Marco glances at the wall clock. His brow furrows. It is still too early to sleep. Still, he smiles. The holidays must be the only time when a university student like Marc can truly rest.
“Marcooooo!!!!!!!”
He turns his head sharply toward the door. It is his mother calling him from downstairs. Marco cuts the phone line without saying goodbye and immediately leaves his room.
He plans to shout back from the top of the stairs, but he realizes his mother is far inside the kitchen, and he does not want to shout too loudly. So he has no choice but to go to her.
He finds his two sisters gossiping while eating sliced apples from their plates. They probably have not moved since dinner earlier. Meanwhile, his mother and father are busy being affectionate while helping each other untie their aprons.
Marco reaches out to grab a slice of apple from the plate, but Laura slaps his hand away. What the hell? He huffs. He really loves apple that he pouts like a child.
The smell of something sweet finally reaches his nose after he gets over the fact that his sisters refuse to share his favorite fruit.
“Marco, there you are.” His mother is wrapping something into a paper bag. She turns to him. “Could you deliver this apple crostata to Mr. Julia’s house?”
The other three immediately clear their throats in unison. Marco knows exactly what that means. Even so, he blinks as neutrally as he can, playing dumb, pretending not to be bothered.
“Okay,” he says with a casual shrug. “But just one house??”
His mother smiles. “Yes, dear. I know you really hate it when I make you take it to every single neighbor.”
“Ah, yeah, you’re right….”
Unlike the three monkeys making noises beside her, Marco cannot find anything irritating or suspicious hidden behind his mother’s smile. Still, he suspects that his family is setting him up, but he tries to stay positive. Maybe this is all just a coincidence. After all, his mother genuinely loves sharing. Perhaps she truly just wants to share her famous crostata with their most reclusive neighbor.
“Alright so.. I’ll head out…”
“Heads up for that mean dog!” Silvia shouts, giggling behind her hand.
Fucking hell. This is a setup.
He knows it the second all four of them start shepherding him toward the front door, sneaky smiles plastered on their faces, then duck behind corners every time he glances back. It’s like a badly rehearsed heist, and he’s the clueless mark.
He feels dizzy. He has a family that could either send him straight to heaven or drag him to hell. Even so, his heart is pounding, but not because the dog starts barking at him. He is already immune to that, and besides, the dog is old and no longer strong enough to break free from its chain. What he feels is nervousness, heat rising in his breath, because as much as the dog has aged, Marc’s father certainly has not.
WHY DID I AGREE TO THIS
The closer he gets to the door, the harder he tries to push his anxious thoughts away.
I am an adult. This is not the first time I have crossed paths with Julia. He repeats it in his head. Marco exhales, silently cursing the way it comes out with a slight tremor.
Why am I this nervous, as if I’m trying to steal his beloved son?!
He blinks slowly, as deeply as he can. Focus. Focus. Focus. He presses the doorbell once. The sound echoes inward from where he stands. It sounds exactly like every other neighbor’s bell, and somehow that makes him realize that it is just a bell, so within five seconds he rings it again. But then his nervous system suddenly remembers that the problem is not the bell. It is the owner, who is probably still awake and will soon respond to the call from inside. God. Alex or Julia, both are disasters.
The door opens slowly inward.
Marco swallows, watching it happen. He realizes he has never delivered crostata to this house again since the first time. He realizes he is not healed.
Should I step back.. or just curl up and play dead…
His right foot has already taken a step backward, but then
“Oh- hi..” His lips move faster than his brain. Too automatic, as if it comes straight from his subconscious. After all, how could they not, the person standing at the door is the one he least expects. It is Marc.
“Is that you, Bezzecchi?”
It IS Marc!
Oh God oh my god, he repeats in his head.
Marc looks even more comfortable in his pajamas up close. His warm smile calms every storm inside Marco.
But I thought he was already asleep?
Or did I wake him up?
The thought makes Marco smile awkwardly, feeling bad if he has disturbed Marc’s rest. “Hi, sorry for bothering you.”
“No, no. It’s okay.” Marc laughs lightly.
Marco is stunned by how melodious the laugh sounds, how it settles back into that familiar warm smile. He wants to stand frozen like a porch statue, just to look at him forever.
“Oh my God, is that the infamous blueberry crostata your mom makes?” He examines the box in Marco’s hands, so excited he has to cover his mouth. His eyes sparkle, and it sends warmth spreading through Marco’s chest.
“Y-yes.” Marco clears his throat immediately, afraid of looking strange for being too eager. But the kindness on Marc’s face tells him it is fine. So Marco smiles, maybe a little awkward, but he feels somewhat relieved inside. “She wanted to share it with your family,” he adds.
Their fingers brush briefly as he hands the paper bag to Marc.
“Be careful, the bottom is still hot,” he says.
Marc nods, laughing happily, clearly unbothered by the heat inside the bag. “I looove your mom’s crostata. It is hard to find one this good in Australia,” he says. His eyes shine, touched at the same time. “Thank you so much.”
Marco chuckles shyly, unconsciously scratching the back of his neck.
“Oh right, do you want to come in?”
He shakes his head with a faint smile, without realizing that he is not refusing because of Julia. It is just late. It is time for Marc to rest. “Maybe next time,” he says, answered by Marc’s matching nod.
Because of that synchronization, they both let out an awkward laugh at the same time. Marco stammers, embarrassed, but it must look funny to Marc because his laughter rings out immediately.
God, he is so endearing..
They lock eyes as Marc slowly settles down from whatever he finds funny. For a moment, it feels overwhelming. Marco does not remember Marc looking at everyone like this. It is too deep, too searching. The light in his eyes glitters like a galaxy, and it feels as if gravity disappears around them. Marco hopes he is not wrong about this.
“Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile before. You look good doing it..”
It is not just his imagination when he hears Marc’s voice come out soft, almost like a whisper.
“Ah.. thanks...”
It is not his imagination either when he hears his own voice come out just as softly. He loses his ability to speak.
“Marc? Who is it?”
Julia’s voice comes from inside, making both of them blink. Now it is Marc who looks flustered, pulling the door partly closed, nearly trapping himself.
“It is just Silvia, our neighbor,” he calls inside.
“Do not stay outside too long. It is cold.”
“Alright, commander dad. Thankfully she- she just left.”
Marco raises his eyebrows at that. What is this? When Marc looks back at him, Marco has no desire other than to hold in his laughter. Marc also tries to suppress his laughter, a flush spreading across his cheeks after being caught lying.
The idea that only we know..
It feels so.. intimate.
A mix of feelings tickles Marco. Has Marc’s father been so strict that he turns Marc into a liar? Marco has never known. But that is not what matters right now. He realizes it is late, and he should respect Marc’s effort to cover for him. So before they get caught, Marco steps back first.
“See you, I guess,” he whispers.
“Hm, see you again.”
He turns away, but then something suddenly crashes back into his memory. He turns back to Marc, who is still standing there, holding the door, waiting for him to leave safely.
“Marc!”
His expression must be too intense, because it mirrors on Marc’s face.
“Hm?”
“Not blueberry, that is actually apple crostata,” he blurts out, pointing at the bag.
The tension in Marc’s eyes vanishes instantly. He laughs, but it is too loud so he has to cover his mouth, holding it back. Unable to do much else, Marc raises his thumb while still suppressing his laughter.
God.
Marco cannot stop smiling. He might explode. Oh my goooooddddd. He reaches his own front yard and decides that this is the best day of his life.
But as soon as he pushes the door open, he hides that smile. He finds the four of them standing in the most awkward positions imaginable. And what is with Laura? Why is she wiping the television screen with her hand?
The broken eye contact they try to hide tells him everything. They have been on guard. They have been waiting for him. And they have deliberately pushed him toward Marc. Marco snorts inwardly.
“I am home,” he says as neutrally as possible.
His father, who has been busy sniffing a Christ statue, immediately turns to him in the most exaggerated way, as if only just noticing his arrival. “That took a while. Did Mr. Julia scold you?”
Marco can barely stop himself from rolling his eyes at his father’s fake clueless tone.
“That is how it is. Nothing special.” He shrugs, then walks upstairs as neutrally and normally as he can. He can feel every member of his family watching him from behind. He even makes his footsteps sound as normal as possible.
Because in this house of clowns, he is one of them too. They just might not know it yet.
He closes his bedroom door quietly and locks it. Then, alone, he lets himself go, punching the empty air with a little too much force, collapsing onto his bed, and burying his face in the pillow with a muffled whoop.
This is not real..
MARC MARQUEZ IS NOT REAL!!!!
The realization hits him as he gets off the bed. He walks to the window and sees that Marc’s window is still dark behind the vitrage curtains. Marco smiles. He has no intention of peeking inside. He only imagines that, from the silence of that room, Marc is probably downstairs enjoying the crostata his mother made, his favorite.
The thought leaves Marco warm.
Later that night, at the quiet dining table, Marco eats a slice of it. He lingers on the sweetness, on the warmth, and lets himself imagine, just for a moment, that whatever it stirs in him might not belong to him alone.