fine. fine I did it. luca fic where massimo is trying to be a good parent for his teenage fish son. yes its the painfully awkward i know youâre gay talk. i wrote this at 2 am while projecting so this isnât shakespeare, just a vibe. set sometime 3-4 years after the film but i think itâs implied enough.
âââââââââââââââââ-
Alberto ran up the stairs, threw open the door, dropped his hat on the table and hastily washed his hands at the sink.
âSorry Iâm late,â he said breathlessly, wiping his hands on the front of his shirt, âI got caught up in, uh, well-â
âShowing off?â Massimo offered, turning from his workstation in the kitchen. Alberto laughed nervously and nodded- then paused- and shook his head while looking away.
âWell, I prefer the term âsharing with the communityââ Alberto offered, before pulling out a large pot and placing it on the stove.
âDonât be embarrassed,â Massimo returned to the cutting the fish, âItâs a nice bike.â
It was a nice bike. Nice enough that the kids in Portorossa frequently begged Alberto to let them sit on it or ride it around the plaza. And who was he to say no? It was the coolest thing he had ever set his eyes on, let alone owned. Of course he let them use it. Alberto had been saving up his tip money from fish delivery all winter to buy it: a shiny, brand-new, red-hot Vesta. Just like the one Erocle used to parade around town on. Giulia and Luca were going to be so excited.
Alberto began pouring cups of water into the pot as he raised the heat, waiting for it to hit a soft boil. âSo how much time do we have?â
Massimo glanced out the window facing the countryside, where the distance etchings of train tracks were visible, âAbout an hour. Lucaâs parents will meet us at the station. Then, dinner.â
âAn hour. Right. We can work with that,â Alberto said, mainly to himself, as Massimo continued with his fish. They both fell into a steady rhythm, as they stirred and simmered an outrageous amount of food.
While his hands were lost in repetition, Albertoâs mind wandered to Luca. Massimo liked to joke about how Luca never truly left, with all the letters and phone calls sent, but Alberto couldnât disagree more. Words couldnât capture the way Luca would say things, like how he yelled when he was excited and talk quickly when he was nervous. And sure, Alberto could read between the lines, and infer things, like how scrunched up words meant Luca was happy or excited and messy letters and wonky lines meant he was tired, but it wasnât the real thing. And phone calls, while better, were fewer and far inbetween, and couldnât capture the way Luca would move when talking, whether it was the way he walked or gestured, or the faces he would make and the way he would touch your shoulder or grab your arm to make a point. So no- Luca had truly left, and while Alberto had seen glimpses and pieces throughout the months, he preferred the whole Luca he got during the summer.
One hour. One hour and Alberto wouldnât have to rely just on letters and voices. It would be just them again, like it was every summer, whether it be sleeping under the stars in Giuliaâs hideout, or swimming out to the island to watch the sunsets, or spending afternoons filling up on gelato and playing futbol on the hot pavement. Giulia would be there too, and the trio would finally be complete. Just like how it was that first summer, and just how it was now.
Had Alberto mentioned he was excited?
âThe pasta is boiling over,â Massimo provided helpfully, and Alberto was thrust back into reality.
He swore under his breath, moving the pot to another eye and turning the stove off. He sighed and grabbed for a towel to wipe the sides of the pot. Turning his back to Massimo, he began searching for a strainer, but was interrupted.
âAlberto.â Massimo put his knife down and turned slightly. His face was drawn so that his eyes peeked out from under his eyebrows and bore down to Alberto (no matter how tall Alberto got, Massimo was always, well, massive).
âThere is something we need to talk about before the train comes in.â
And there it was. Or, rather, there it wasnât, because those words never came out of Massimoâs mouth. Maybe it was because, despite everything between them, Massimo just wasnât a big feelings guy. He was a man of few words who would rather hand-paint signs, mend hats, and hand-make pasta than say âI love you.â Not that Alberto cared much, about that, he couldnât complain honestly, but the point was that Massimo never âhad talksâ. If something was serious to discuss in private, it was always âAlberto, a wordâ. Because Massimo was a man of few words. So it was understandable, then, that that string of words elicited panic in Alberto. Because never in a million years, not even when Massimo first asked Alberto to stay with him, did they ever have something they needed to talk about.
Good thing Alberto was good at handling panic. He was basically an expert.
He held his elbow out to lean against the counter in a calm manner, but missed and instead landed on the red hot stove eye. All while maintaining a smirk-turned-grimace. Yep. Expert.
That was going to hurt later. A lot.
Massimo looked at Alberto, searching for something in his face, and, upon finding it, sighed, and turned to the window where the train-tracks were. Absentmindedly, he turned the faucet of the sink on, and letting it cool for a moment, held a rag under it. Once it was wet enough, he handed it to Alberto.
âLuca is a... good kid, no?â Massimo led after a moment of contemplation. Alberto took the rag, but his face scrunched up in confusion as he held it to his elbow. Faintly, he felt the familiar tingle of flesh-turning scale as the coolness took the edge from the burn. But the beginnings of a frown was settling on Alberto as he followed Massimoâs gaze to the train tracks.
Massimo nodded. âHe is very smart. He writes often. He knows fish... but not as well as you do.â
Alberto inched closer to Massimo, âYeah, heâs pretty cool. One of my best friends but... I think you know that.â
âHe is a very good friend,â Massimo said, but something felt strange about the way he said it, âHandsome, too.â
Albertoâs body froze and his face heated up. Before he could say anything contradictory, however, Massimo continued.
âI know the way you two look at each other. Young love. Itâs a good thing, especially when itâs between friends who have known each other for so long.â Massimo said slowly, âAnd if you ever want to take Luca out for some gelato on your Vespa... then I will be very happy for you, Beto. Heâs a good kid. Good for you.â
Alberto wasnât going to lie. He had thought about it, once or twice. In his head it always played out so incredibly natural, that a part of him assumed it would eventually happen. Giulia would be busy, either delivering fish or volunteering for the cup, and he and Luca would be on their own for the day. Maybe they bike to the top of Portorosso, or maybe they went out to the island or climbed a roof to watch the stars. Sometimes it would be just them having dinner together, and something would give- one of them would brush hands with the other, lean in just a little too close and stay there... then... well, it would be just like it to was. But more. And selfishly, maybe if they were more, Luca wouldnât leave at the end of the season.
But Alberto couldnât think like that. Luca loved school more than anything. Well, almost anything. He would never want to take that from him.
But Massimo was right. Luca was handsome. Summers in Portorosso had been kind to him, and theyâve both put on some healthy weight and muscle over the years. Even if they hadnât been friends, Alberto had no doubt he would have been fond of Luca regardless.
âI donât think thatâs going to happen anytime soon,â Albert said candidly. âBut... Thanks. For that. I guess.â
Massimo shrugged. âYouâd be surprised. Giulia tells me a lot.â
Impossible scenarios ran through Albertoâs head. The wheels were spinning so fast that smoke was practically spewing from his ears.
Massimo glanced out the window again, âI guess heâll just have to tell you when he gets here.â
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