Between Two Mountains - 8. Chapter 8

Marco strove determinedly along the mountain path, leading Giorgio deeper into the upper reaches of the valley, until the heap of tumbledown sheds was long out of sight. Hot anger still coursed through his veins at the way Cosmo had behaved towards them both.

What the hell was he thinking? I can’t believe I was actually FRIENDS with that guy.

Judging by the stumbling, ungainly nature of Giorgio’s footsteps behind him and the harsh, uneven gasps of his breathing, the younger boy was trying hard not to cry. Marco let up the pace a little, his anger beginning to subside into something softer.

Galvanised by the transfer of power, Giorgio wrenched his hand free. Marco turned to face him to await the onslaught he suspected was coming.

“What are you doing?” the younger boy cried, and Marco was dismayed to see that there were, in fact, tears trailing down his face. “I finally got my chance… my one chance…!”

Marco leaned forwards and grasped both his arms; the other boy tried to shake him off, but Marco clung on determinedly. “You’re not serious? You heard him! He was going to proposition us both.” He shook his head furiously. “I don’t know what just happened, exactly, but you can be sure of one thing. You mean nothing to him, Giorgio. If he cared about you at all, he’d never have done it.”

The younger boy’s face crumpled. Marco released him and walked away a few paces, meaning to give him some space, but after a few moments, a small voice followed him.

“You’re right.” Giorgio hiccoughed wretchedly. “Thanks.”

Marco stuck out a hand. “Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s go and chill out for a bit. We can talk, or not. Whatever you want.”

Looking a little embarrassed now, the younger boy took his hand and allowed himself to be led on through the chestnut trees. They walked on in this way until the path split, and Marco led the way down a narrow, earthen side path until they emerged into the quiet field of young chestnut saplings where, not so long ago, he had spent a laid-back afternoon with Emilia and Luca.

“What is this place?” Giorgio asked, blinking blearily as he stepped out into the full, unfiltered glare of the morning sun, which was now edging towards lunchtime.

Marco shrugged. “Just somewhere I know.”

He led the way to one of the slightly larger trees, and they sat down under its narrow canopy, forced together by the small pool of shade. Once again, Marco looked up through its green, blade-like leaves, his eyes roving from Monte Brusara on one side to Monte Candelitto on the other. He was dimly aware of Giorgio observing his movements, and when a flight of swifts flew overhead, screeching shrilly, they tracked it together, seeming to move as one.

Once the birds had vanished from view, disappearing over the rooftops of Santa Caterina, Giorgio sagged a little.

“I crushed on him for so long,” he said, “and all the while he never gave a crap.” He gave Marco a miserable look. “You’d have thought I’d be glad to know it for sure, but so far this feels so much worse.”

Marco looked at the other boy earnestly. “It does get better,” he assured him. “Sure, it sucks now, but… now you know for certain, you will be able to move on.”

Giorgio frowned slightly. “You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

Marco sighed as he recalled his own chequered history. “I crushed on Giaco for as long as I could remember,” he said, gazing into the middle distance, “…at least until Dani came along and stole him away. I hated them both for a while, but then Dani took an interest in me, you know? He tried to make me feel better about myself, even after everything I’d done, and I fell for him so much worse.”

“What happened next?” Giorgio asked quietly.

“For a while it looked like Dani and Giaco weren’t meant to be,” Marco replied. “Dani and I tried it out a couple of times, but… you know… it just wasn’t there between us, in the end.”

Giorgio’s eyes were painfully hopeful, searching desperately for reassurance. “And you’re over him now?”

Marco looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, searching inside himself for the truth of the matter.

“More or less.”

It was as definite as he could honestly be. Tentative as his reply was, it seemed to satisfy the younger boy.

“So, what do I do now?” Giorgio asked, looking down at his soft, still-growing hands.

Marco shook his head, suddenly finding himself suppressing a strangely adult laugh. “You think I know?”

Giorgio gave him a confused look. “But…”

Marco shrugged. “I’m only a year older than you. I’ve had exactly two kisses, both with the same boy and each just as bad as the other. I’m no freaking love doctor.”

“So, you’re saying…”

Marco nodded. “I’m just as clueless as you.”

The corner of the younger boy’s mouth twitched. “Wow. We’re amazing.”

They looked at each other in silence for a moment, but then they both broke out into giggles. Their vaguely hysterical laughter rung around the clearing, momentarily silencing the cicadas.

“There’s one thing I’m sure of, though,” Marco said once they’d both calmed down.

“What?” Giorgio asked.

“You can do way better than Cosmo. I don’t care that you’re Elisabetta’s brother, I can see it in you. You’re alright.”

Giorgio flushed slightly and returned to inspecting his fingernails. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

It was the strangest feeling. Somehow, although he wasn’t sure how, Marco felt like a weight had been lifted from both their shoulders.

Together, they relaxed in the calm of the mountain meadow.

* * *

“To me, Giaco!” Daniele called, bouncing excitably in the waist-deep seawater, his hair shining like gold in the afternoon sun.

Several metres away, Giacomo drew back his arm, pausing for a moment like a perfectly sculpted statue, then lobbed the beach ball sideways with all the force he could muster. It sailed right over Daniele’s outstretched fingertips and flew out into the deeper water behind him. Giggling, Daniele pirouetted into the waves and set off to retrieve it.

Watching from the beach, Marco sighed inwardly.

Do they have to be so BEAUTIFUL?

Next to his friends, Marco still felt outclassed, small and meagre by comparison. Both Daniele and Cosmo had challenged him on that over the years, and he had tried to take it on board, but it remained difficult for him to believe that he would ever really catch anyone’s eye.

He glanced around at their surroundings. On a normal Thursday afternoon in June, the main beach at Amalfi would have been a bustling mass of people with serried ranks of coloured parasols, but the beach bars had been a little slow to open back up this year. A couple of grids of sunshades had been set up, but the rest of the beach remained open to all, a cool-looking expanse of grey volcanic sand.

Of course, the sense of cool was a mere trick of the colour; the afternoon sun was just as fierce as ever, and the whitewashed buildings and silvery cliffs of the seafront shimmered in the heat as they receded into the distance. A few buses and cars growled around the waterfront square, signs of life finally beginning to return after a long spring of silence.

Marco had made it into his swimming shorts; he could feel the sun-heated sand scrunching between his toes, and he was itching to enter the cool blue water. His companion, however, seemed a bit more hesitant.

“I’m not sure about this,” Giorgio said. His brown eyes seemed restless and skittish, flicking uneasily from Giacomo and Daniele one moment, to Marco the next, and then out to sea, down to the sand at his feet or at nothing in particular. He had taken his shoes and socks off but stood tensely in his dark polo shirt and shorts, looking entirely out of place on the sun-drenched beach, his plastic carrier bag of borrowed beach things dangling pointlessly from one hand.

“What’s wrong?” Marco asked. “Can’t you swim?”

“Oh, I can swim,” Giorgio assured him. “It’s just…” he tailed off, glancing out at the others and then back at the sand, looking embarrassed.

Marco tracked his broken gaze out to Giacomo and Daniele, who were now wrestling enthusiastically over the beach ball, happily oblivious of anyone who might be watching them. He began to have a hunch what was bothering the younger boy.

“I know… it’s hard to watch them, right?” he said. “But if I can get used to being around them like this,” – he gestured down at his own skinny frame – “surely you can.”

Giorgio’s eyes flicked uncertainly up to Marco for a moment.

“Uh-huh,” he replied, his tone utterly unconvinced. Passing his carrier bag to Marco, he glanced down at himself, sighed faintly and began to struggle out of his polo shirt.

Marco caught a fleeting glimpse of the other boy’s flat, round bellybutton and looked away, embarrassed in spite of himself. He still didn’t really know Giorgio that well, and to stand there watching him undress just felt weird.

When Marco glanced back at the younger boy, he found he was back in his polo shirt as if nothing had happened. He frowned slightly.

“Huh…?”

A dull flush had crept back into Giorgio’s cheeks again. “Sorry. I just wasn’t feeling it.”

Marco glanced uncertainly back out at Giacomo and Daniele. He had been looking forward to a swim, but it didn’t feel right to leave Giorgio sitting on his own.

“Fine,” he sighed. Handing the carrier bag back to Giorgio, he stooped to his own rucksack, grabbed his shirt and slung it back on without bothering to button it up. “We’ll stay on land. Want to walk for a bit, get a drink or a gelato maybe?”

Giorgio sagged a little in relief and offered him another vulnerable smile. “Cool. Yeah.”

“Let’s get rid of these,” Marco said, indicating his rucksack. They stashed their bags next to Giacomo and Daniele’s things, then Marco tucked his phone into his shirt pocket and they set off back up the beach for the seafront.

They had barely made it up the steps to the waterfront square when there was a clattering of hastily donned flip-flops and Giacomo and Daniele caught up with them, still dripping with water from the sea.

“What’s going on, guys?” Giacomo asked. “Where are you going?”

Marco gave them a sidelong glance, his defences rising warily.

Oh, great…

It was still a little difficult to be so close to them both when they were going round with almost everything on display. He looked away again, grappling with a faint flush that was threatening to rise to his own cheeks.

“Giorgio didn’t feel like getting undressed, that’s all,” Marco replied.

“Oh, I see,” Giacomo snickered. Marco gave the dark-eyed boy a condescending look as Daniele silenced him with a punch on the arm.

“Grow up, Giaco,” Daniele said.

“Not if I can help it,” Giacomo smirked.

Marco rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you’re a proper Peter Pan.”

“So… we’re all going?” Giorgio enquired. He glanced uncertainly back down at the beach. “What about our stuff?”

Giacomo smiled. “It’ll be fine. Nobody’s going to steal it.”

Giorgio frowned. “What world did you grow up in?”

Giacomo shrugged. “Apparently, a nicer one than you.”

“It’s true,” Daniele chipped in. “Giaco’s the only criminal element here.”

A short wrestling match followed, with a certain amount of stifled giggling. Giorgio started to smile, but then his expression faltered slightly. Marco supposed he was thinking of his sister, and he decided to move them all on.

“Come on, guys,” he said. “Andiamo.”

Giacomo and Daniele brought themselves under control, then they began to wander along the pavement that bordered the busy waterfront square, threading their way through the small knot of people who were waiting for the next bus up to Ravello. Passing a few parked cars, they made their way across the road to a small, paved area where a few trees and an old iron gazebo provided one of the few patches of shade on the seafront.

As they touched down on the paving, Marco spied two familiar figures talking in the shelter of the gazebo. He gestured furiously to the others, and they crowded behind the partial cover of a creaky old Indian bean tree together to get a better look. Marco thought he was probably the only one who knew the real significance of what they were seeing, but he was grateful that his friends had been willing to follow his lead.

“What is it?” Daniele asked from behind him, unthinkingly grasping onto his shoulders in his eagerness to see what was going on; Marco was forced to tug awkwardly at his unbuttoned lapels to keep his shirt from sliding off.

“It’s Vincenzo,” he hissed.

“What, Cosmo’s ‘meathead’ crush?” Giacomo whispered, a delighted smile beginning to curl the corners of his mouth.

Marco grinned back. He had a feeling this scene was going to be worth watching.

“Cosmo has a crush?” Giorgio asked quietly, but Marco left the question unanswered. Things under the gazebo were just getting interesting.

Vincenzo had clearly made every effort. He had presented himself immaculately in trim white trousers and a pink shirt artfully unbuttoned to his chest, revealing a silver cross medallion, and his highlighted hair was carefully styled to look effortlessly mussed. He was clutching a small bunch of red roses in one hand. The young woman who faced him was wearing the white shirt and peaked cap worn by the captains of the local ferries that plied the coast. She stood where he had obviously just accosted her, with her phone hanging loosely in one hand, her mid-length hair, which she normally wore in a loose bob haircut, pulled back into a neat ponytail.

Daniele giggled faintly. “What’s he doing with Isabella?”

“He’s about to take a fall, that’s what,” Giacomo whispered back.

Marco put a finger to his lips to silence them, and tried to tune into what the older boy was saying. It was difficult, because, for the first time Marco could remember, Vincenzo was mumbling.

“So, ah, I was wondering…” he hesitated.

Isabella glanced at her wristwatch. “Yes…?” she prompted.

Vincenzo took a deep breath, then his words tumbled out in a rush. “Wouldyouliketogoforacoffeesometime?”

Isabella blinked. “Sorry, what? Breathe, Vincenzo.”

“Right.” Vincenzo ran a hand through his hair in frustration and fought to get himself under control. “I said… would you like to go for a coffee sometime?”

Isabella raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were hanging out with Cosmo Neri?”

Vincenzo’s mouth fell open in a look of shock and dismay that was quite comical.

“What…? How do you know about that?”

“From my friend Michele,” Isabella replied. “People talk up in Ravello, Vincenzo. I know all the gossip.”

Next to Marco, Daniele had to shove a hand into his mouth to stifle a sudden giggle.

“Oops,” he whispered.

In front of them, Vincenzo was trying valiantly to regain his footing. He smiled awkwardly.

“Yeah, well, I won’t be doing that anymore,” he said.

“How come?” Isabella asked. She seemed genuinely curious.

“Stupid queer tried to hit on me!” Vincenzo laughed. “Can you believe, he actually thought I was into him?”

Now it was Giacomo’s turn to giggle. “Oh, boy,” he whispered.

Isabella crossed her arms. “I expect that was very shocking for you,” she replied drily.

Vincenzo nodded. “I know, right? After he tried to kiss me, I had to take a bath for, like, an hour. Didn’t want him to…” he snickered, “…rub off on me, you know?”

“Of course,” Isabella said seriously, arms still crossed.

Vincenzo held the bouquet of roses out to her. “So, what do you think?”

Isabella accepted the flowers. “Thank you, they’re lovely,” she said. She offered him a sweet smile. “But you should probably know that I’d sooner date Cosmo Neri than a homophobic tosser like you.”

With a dismissive flick of her chin, she walked away, tossing the bouquet casually into the nearest litter bin, leaving Vincenzo standing uselessly with his jaw agape. Within seconds, she had her phone clamped to her ear.

“Claudia… you won’t believe what just happened…” Marco heard her say as she receded towards the ferry terminal.

Marco soon was surrounded by laughter, except from Giorgio, who was smiling uncertainly but looked a little confused.

“Hey, Don Giovanni!” Giacomo called, drawing a startled glare from Vincenzo, “you’re so smooth! That one’s going down in the history books.”

The older boy gave them a humiliated scowl, then slunk away in the direction of a pedestrian tunnel under the coast road and vanished into the old city.

“Had. It. Coming.” Giacomo turned to Marco, holding a hand up for him to smack.

Smiling, Marco high-fived him, but the moment of triumph felt hollow. Not so long ago, he would have rejoiced in passing the story onto Cosmo, but the older boy had left reason and friendship behind several days ago.

“That guy hurt Cosmo, did he?” Giorgio asked Marco as they moved on.

Marco nodded. “Probably one of the reasons he’s gone off the deep end,” he replied.

Giorgio twisted his mouth, seeming to think about it for a moment.

“I should feel sad about that,” he murmured.

“But…?” Marco prompted.

The younger boy sighed. “He’s not worth it, is he?”

Marco smiled slightly. “I guess not.”

* * *

Somehow, although Marco couldn’t have explained it if he’d tried, he and Giorgio had become the sort of friends who hung out every day.

Maybe it was because, once you took all the couples away, they were what was left… and being lonely together was better than being alone, right? While all the boyfriends, girlfriends, boyfriends and boyfriends, finally reunited after being stuck at home for so long, went off to enjoy their summer of love, Marco and Giorgio kept each other company.

But there was a little more to it than that, wasn’t there? There was something between them. An affinity, perhaps, a sense of shared hardship.

As Marco spent more time with Giorgio, he tried to get a feel for his interests and passions, but, in that respect, the younger boy seemed to be a bit of a blank slate. Had Giorgio’s life been so deprived, Marco wondered, that the most he had been able to manage was to become a pale imitation of his older sister, like a ghost dressed in black?

What Marco had observed in his new friend was a sense of growing self-worth, as if he felt seen for the first time in his young life. If this was how it felt to help someone to emerge from the shadow of their family and find their soul, Marco decided he liked it.

Friday evening, a day after their abortive trip to the beach and, although they little knew it, three days after Cosmo’s last encounter with Elisabetta, found Marco and Giorgio cloistered in Marco’s little attic bedroom, leafing through some of his pictures. They sat about a metre apart on the side of the bed, with the small pile of papers between them. The door was open, and they could hear low voices coming from downstairs, where Gianni and Angelo were talking. Although things were starting to pick up back at the hotel, apparently they were still some way off fully booked, as they had been able to spare Gianni for the night. The young man had wasted no time in cooking up a storm in the kitchen, and there was a delicious, savoury scent wafting up the stairs; he was preparing a lasagne to his grandmother’s recipe, which was one of Marco’s absolute favourites.

Giorgio had surprised Marco tonight by showing up in a mid-grey casual shirt, which he was wearing open over a black vest top. The shirt was made of a soft cotton material of some kind and projected a very different picture to the younger boy’s usual retiring image. He no longer looked so much like he wanted to recede into the shadows. Marco wondered where the shirt had come from, and whether the younger boy had any more surprises in his wardrobe.

Not skeletons, I hope, he thought ironically.

Maybe Giorgio’s uncle had bought it for him. Either way, the change in style suited him.

Now, Giorgio shifted in his seat, glancing away from the artwork they were discussing to look longingly out through the bedroom door and down the landing.

“Dio, that smells so good,” he drooled. “I want to make love to it.”

Marco choked for a moment. “I don’t think I’d want to eat that, Giorgio,” he replied.

The younger boy gave him an embarrassed smile and then they burst out into giggles.

“I just mean… it smells really nice.”

“I’m getting that,” Marco remarked. He cocked his head curiously. “Doesn’t your uncle cook nice meals for you?”

“Oh, zio Maurizio can cook,” Giorgio confirmed. “He’s lived on his own all his adult life, so he’s had to learn. It’s just that he’s out almost every night running that bar of his.”

“So, what do you do?”

Giorgio shrugged. “I manage. I make…”

Marco was struck by a sudden memory. “…bread and cheese?” he interjected.

Looking surprised, Giorgio nodded.

“Jesus, that sounds like my old life,” Marco murmured. “What about Elisabetta?”

Giorgio shrugged. “She cooks sometimes if she’s around, but it kinda sucks. The onions in her penne al pomodoro are hard, and her carbonara is like an omelette.”

Marco blinked; it was hard to picture the older girl cooking at all. “At least she tries.”

Giorgio inspected his fingernails for a moment. “Only when it suits her,” he mumbled. He looked up again and ventured a smile. “But it’s okay. I like having the place to myself sometimes. Although…” he hesitated, “it’d be cooler if you’d, ah… come up with me sometime.” He flushed, suddenly looking very embarrassed, and his brown eyes flicked down again. “Ah, Jesus…”

Ah… okay…

The younger boy’s energy had been a little bit strange all evening, and if it meant what Marco was beginning to suspect it might, he was no longer so sure it was Giacomo and Daniele who had made Giorgio behave so awkwardly on the beach.

It was a strange feeling, and Marco wasn’t sure what to do with it. He was profoundly unused to being the focus of anyone’s attention, and it was messing with his head… not to mention making his heart beat a little faster. It was flattering, for sure, but it certainly wasn’t something he’d been looking for.

“Hot in here, isn’t it?” Giorgio murmured. He shrugged his shirt off, letting it fall casually down onto the bed behind him so that he was sitting there in just his black vest top and shorts with his bare shoulders protruding, revealing a pair of spotless fourteen-year-old arms.

What the…?

Observing all this with a sidelong glance, Marco turned his attention back to the picture before it could all get too confusing. The picture was a rough attempt at an outdoor scene; little more than a sketch in pencil, really. Marco felt he had a lot to learn about drawing landscapes.

“So, this is, ah…” he began.

“I know this place!” Giorgio interrupted excitedly. “It’s the meadow we hung out in the other day.”

Marco stared at him in surprise. “You could tell that so quickly?”

“Sure,” Giorgio enthused, “it’s all here.” He gestured at the drawing. “See how the land comes down steeply on the Ravello side and rises less steeply on the other?” He pointed with a delicate finger at the foreground, where there were a few indistinct scribbles. “Those are the chestnut saplings. And, up there, poking up above the trees, that’s Santa Caterina church, right?”

Marco shook his head in disbelief. “I didn’t realise you were paying that much attention. You must have a great eye.”

Giorgio shrugged. “Maybe. My hands are rubbish, though. I’d make maps, not pictures.”

“Can you design? You could be a landscape architect or something.”

The younger boy scratched his head in a confused sort of way. “I dunno,” he replied. “I’ve never really thought about it.” But then he seemed to brush the idea off and turned his attention back to the pile of pictures. “What else have you got?”

Marco flicked the picture to the bottom of the pile. “I… oh.”

“Oh wow…” Giorgio breathed.

Marco flushed. He had accidentally unearthed his portraits of Giacomo and Daniele, in all their lovingly curated detail.

“Ah…”

Giorgio gave him a wide-eyed look. “They’re amazing.” He pored over them for a moment, examining the softness of Daniele’s demeanour and the glint of mischief in Giacomo’s eye. “You’ve totally nailed how different they are to each other. I guess you must have really liked them both, huh?”

Marco shifted in embarrassment. “Things change. I’ve tried to move on, you know? I’m getting there, but part of it never goes away.”

Giorgio nodded. “That’s cool,” he said earnestly. “You’re cool. I hope I can learn to be as strong as you.”

Marco was stunned into silence once again.

He thinks I’m… strong?

“Um…” he mumbled.

“Ragazzi…!” called Angelo’s voice from down the stairs. “Dinner’s being served!”

Giorgio sagged with relief. “Oh, thank God! I could eat a horse chestnut.”

A what…?

Marco uttered a confused laugh in spite of himself. He felt like he was learning a lot about his companion tonight.

Giorgio, meanwhile, had already set off for the stairs. Suddenly finding himself left behind, Marco rose to his feet and followed the younger boy’s bare shoulders along the landing.

* * *

Alfredo looked up curiously from his bed under the stairs as they came clattering down into the dining area together, then sagged back down, resting his beardy face on his front paws. From his usual perch on the old church pew below the windows, Ennio glanced at them with typical disdain then returned to washing his chest with long, fishy strokes of his tongue. The room was the very definition of cosiness, lit warmly by the old brass lantern that hung over the dining table.

Gianni was just fishing the enormous lasagne out of the oven. Judging by the size of it, Marco reckoned they would get a second full meal out of the leftovers… unless Giorgio wolfed it all down first, of course. The dish, which was still emitting that delicious, savoury aroma, was steaming appetisingly, layered with rich ragù and creamy bechamel sauce.

“Take a seat, boys,” Angelo encouraged them, bringing a couple of glasses of cool mineral water and a bowl of freshly grated parmigiano cheese to the table. Marco and Giorgio hastened to comply; Angelo passed them the water, then turned to pour a couple of glasses of red wine for himself and Gianni.

“Can’t we have some, too, signor Rossi?” Giorgio asked forlornly.

Angelo chuckled. “I’m not sure your zio Maurizio would approve of that just yet,” he said. “And as to Marco, well, he doesn’t really partake.”

Giorgio gave Marco a questioning look; he shrugged and nodded. It was true.

Aided by an oven mitt, Gianni brought the large Pyrex dish to the table and set it down on a double mat that had been laid out for the purpose. His mission accomplished, he set the oven mitt down on the breakfast bar, mopped his brow in relief and joined them at the table, gratefully accepting one of the glasses of wine from Angelo.

“That’s hot work in the summer,” he said. “How did Nonna manage it?”

“Ravello and Scala women are made from sturdy stock,” Angelo remarked. “You should know that by now.”

Gianni chuckled. “That’s true enough.” He turned to Marco and Giorgio. “They may seem gentle, but try to outmanoeuvre them at your peril.”

Marco smiled. Thinking of Isabella, he wondered if that went for Amalfi women, too.

“So, what have you been up to this evening?” Angelo asked them both as Gianni began to dish portions of lasagne out onto warm plates.

“Marco’s been showing me some of his pictures,” Giorgio blurted out before Marco could answer. “They’re brilliant.”

Marco gave him an embarrassed glance and kicked him gently on the shin.

Just chill, okay…?

The younger boy glanced down for a split second and then smiled awkwardly, looking a little chastened.

Gianni nodded as he passed a plate full of lasagne to the younger boy, who drunk it in hungrily with his brown eyes. “You keep telling Marco that, Giorgio. His drawing’s really coming on. He just needs to believe in himself a little more.”

“I do believe in myself,” Marco grumbled.

Gianni chuckled again. “You think you’re okay. We’re trying to persuade you that you’re great.”

Next to Marco, Giorgio giggled faintly. Marco gave them all a slightly despairing look as he received his own plate of food.

It’s not fair. Now they’re ALL ganging up on me.

As they ate, Marco became increasingly, uncomfortably aware of Giorgio stealing constant quick glances at him. He tried to ignore it, but it made it hard to look at the younger boy directly. Worse still, he was beginning to get a paranoid feeling that his foster fathers would notice. Angelo, especially, seemed to be observing them with particular interest.

“So, ah… how was work today?” he asked Angelo, hoping to distract the young man’s attention.

Angelo’s dark eyes turned back to him. “Fine, thanks. I installed some new patio doors for Chiara and Davide Romano.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” Marco replied, scratching around desperately for something else bland to say. “Did they like them?”

“Well, Davide’s travelling for work, of course,” Angelo replied. “But… Michele and his mother had no complaints.” He exchanged an amused glance with his partner; now, even Gianni seemed to have noticed that something was afoot. Inwardly, Marco cringed with embarrassment; he had only made things worse.

Time to shut up now…

Marco still didn’t really know how to feel about all this. Risking a sideways glance at Giorgio, he caught the younger boy’s brown eyes looking at him once again and turned his attention hurriedly back to his meal, flushing faintly.

Somehow, his plate was already empty; he pushed it forwards.

“Please may I have some more?”

* * *

By the time they had all had enough, Giorgio had put away three helpings. Marco supposed it had something to do with his teenage growth spurt.

I wish I would grow that fast…

The younger boy had licked his lips thoroughly after he had finished, but he had eaten with such enthusiasm that there were flecks of tomato and bechamel sauce dotting his cheeks and chin.

“Thank you, signore,” he said earnestly to Gianni as he and Marco dutifully helped to clear the table. “That was amazing.”

“You’re welcome, Giorgio,” Gianni replied. Glancing down into the large Pyrex dish, he gave Angelo a rueful smile. “I think all we’ve got left is a meal for two.”

Angelo chuckled. “Don’t worry. We’ll have it next time Marco goes out for a night on the town.”

Marco rolled his eyes. “When do you have to take off?” he asked the younger boy.

“Dusk, I guess,” Giorgio replied. “Don’t want to walk back across the valley in full dark.”

“Can’t you get a lift?” Gianni asked with a concerned frown.

Giorgio shook his head. “Zio Maurizio’s bar doesn’t close until midnight, so…” he shrugged.

Gianni nodded. “That’s too bad.”

“It’s okay,” Giorgio replied. “I’m used to being on my own.”

Angelo’s eyes flicked from one boy to the other. “That makes two of, you I guess,” he interjected thoughtfully.

Marco gave him a despairing look.

Ah, c’mon…! Stop making connections!

“Let’s go back upstairs, then,” he said, tugging the younger boy on the arm. “We can hang some more.” He hesitated, glancing questioningly back at his foster fathers. “Unless you want some help with the washing up?”

Angelo shook his head, a tea towel already slung carelessly over one shoulder. “No, I think we’re good here.”

They were about to make for the stairs when Alfredo heaved himself out of his basket and approached them, his black button eyes watching hopefully for a treat.

“Want to say hi?” Marco asked the younger boy.

Giorgio looked uncertain. “I, ah… don’t really know how to talk to dogs.”

“It’s easy,” Marco replied, kneeling down and tugging the other boy down with him. Now on their level, Alfredo perked up, his beardy white face turning to each of them in turn. “You just give him a scratch behind the ears and say ‘ciao, Alfredo!’”

Giorgio smiled uncertainly and then reached out for Alfredo, giving him a quick scratch about the neck.

“Ciao, Alfredo,” he ventured.

Alfredo approached Giorgio thoughtfully with his damp black nose quivering, then unfurled his pink tongue and began to slobber enthusiastically at the traces of dinner that still dotted the younger boy’s face.

“Eeuw!” Giorgio yelped, shrinking away from the questing muscle, his eyes wide and horrified. It was such a comical picture that Marco had to put a hand to his mouth to keep from laughing.

“Alfredo!” Angelo interceded, pointing sternly at the dog’s basket. “Back to bed, go!”

Meekly, Alfredo trotted back to his basket and sank back down onto his front paws.

Giorgio glanced speechlessly back at Marco, his cheeks still glistening with flecks of moisture. Marco shrugged and helped himself to a handful of tissues from a box on the breakfast bar, then approached the other boy, meaning to wipe his face clean.

“Oh, no, not you as well,” Giorgio gasped, attempting to shuffle back along the floor.

“Just let me –” Marco began, taking the other boy by the shoulder, but Giorgio squirmed away and Marco lost his balance, almost falling on top of him. He saved himself just in time, landing on the terracotta floor tiles with one hand to either side of the other boy’s chest and their faces only inches apart.

The younger boy’s brown eyes widened, and for a couple of seconds they froze that way, a confusion of thoughts suddenly running through Marco’s mind.

They were way too close. He could see every fine black eyelash, and every pore of the other boy’s oh-so soft-looking skin. Wouldn’t it be interesting just to…?

Oh, crap…!

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Giorgio squeaked, and he slid out from under Marco and hurried for the stairs.

Slowly, Marco looked up at his foster fathers, almost dreading what he would see there.

Gianni was watching him with a sort of amused curiosity. Angelo snaked an arm around the young man’s shoulders and raised an eyebrow, his expression carefully and effortfully composed.

“Who’d have thought it, Gianni?” he deadpanned. “Fireworks, in June…”

* * *

By the time Marco left to walk Giorgio back to the end of the valley road, it was gone ten o’clock and dusk was already well advanced.

They descended the avenue of oleanders in silence, flitting through the shadows cast by the verdant shrubs under the decorative street lighting, to the distant sounds of conversation and music. Marco was in a confused sort of daze, turning over everything he had learned that evening in his mind.

So, I guess I sort of like him, right?

But it didn’t feel like love. After all, they hardly knew each other. He supposed it was just chemistry, a base attraction nurtured by a certain shared understanding.

Did that have to stop it being a bit… intriguing?

He turned to Giorgio, wondering how to broach the subject. “Ah…”

“Want to hang out again tomorrow?” the other boy said abruptly. “You could, I dunno… come to mine?”

Marco gaped for a second, momentarily outmanoeuvred.

To his house…?

Back in the kitchen, Giorgio had visibly picked up on the signals Marco had accidentally given out. He wondered what the younger boy had in mind by inviting him to his home.

C’mon… it’s probably nothing.

He gave himself a mental shake.

“I’d love to,” he said, “but Gianni and Angelo are taking me to Salerno tomorrow. Clothes shopping.”

Giorgio gave a slightly disappointed shrug. “No worries,” he replied. “How about Sunday…?”

Marco nodded uncertainly. “Okay.”

Giorgio brightened. “Cool.”

They had already swept past the corner of the square, where the bars that would be staying open late were doing good business, making the most of the balmy evening. Now they were wandering down the quiet confines of Via Roma, where the shops had finally shut for the night. There were few other people about.

They parted for the night in the little square outside Da Rossi, in front of the darkened windows of the ancient church. As they said their slightly awkward goodbyes, Marco was dimly aware of Pietro emerging from the restaurant behind him and fumbling with his keys as he locked the doors in the gloom.

“So, I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, about ten o’clock?” Giorgio asked hopefully, hands shoved in his pockets and his shoulders hunched in a slightly embarrassed way.

And then what…? What will he expect from me?

But Marco had decided not to let his doubts rule him this time. Things hadn’t gone his way with Daniele, but maybe it was finally time to roll the dice once more.

He nodded. “Sure.”

Giorgio smiled. “Don’t bring Alfredo.”

Heart beating a little anxiously, Marco laughed. “I won’t.”

Giorgio parted with a shy wave and set off down the little flight of steps behind church.

Marco lingered for a moment to catch his breath and return some calm to his senses.

Other guys always make this look so easy.

He had just turned for home when he became aware of raised voices coming from the little street that led towards the end of the valley road and the car park. He paused, squinting into the gloom; the street had no lighting of its own, but he could dimly see two figures arguing. One of them was Pietro, but he couldn’t quite make out the other, masked figure, who seemed to have snuck out from a driveway behind the restaurant.

“Do you think you’re the first punk kid to try to intimidate me?” Pietro snapped. “It didn’t work when Filippo Neri tried it, and it’s not going to work for you.”

A cool response from the other voice; Marco couldn’t quite make it out.

Pietro shook his head. “I don’t believe it for a minute. I suggest you step aside so I can go home to my wife.”

The situation was making Marco uneasy; he had a feeling something bad was about to happen. Part of him wanted to help, but he had frozen for a moment. Maybe his presence alone would make a difference… but what could he really do if it escalated?

There was a movement in the gloom, and, to Marco’s dismay, Pietro’s would-be assailant was now clutching a blunt weapon of some kind: it looked like a metal pole of the sort you might find holding up a flimsy parking chain; not enormous, but big enough to do some serious damage if it were swung with enough force.

Now, at last, Pietro sounded frightened. “Put that down,” he said, backing away a step, but it was too late.

What happened next happened with terrible speed. Marco tensed as the second figure swung the steel; a split second later, it connected with Pietro’s face with a sickening crunch. The young man cried out and flung a hand to his nose, just as the metal pole swung again and struck him in the stomach, driving the wind out of him and leaving him bent and wheezing.

“Hey!” Marco cried desperately, beginning to move towards them in spite of himself, but Pietro’s assailant was already spinning round for a third attack. Thrown off target, perhaps, by Marco’s intervention, the pole caught the back of Pietro’s head a glancing blow, sending him sprawling, senseless, to the ground. The masked figure gave Marco a furious glance and then vanished into the night, sprinting off in the direction of the valley road.

Horrified, wide-eyed and breathing hard, Marco dropped to his knees next to the fallen restaurateur.

“Pietro?” he asked hoarsely, giving the prone figure a gentle shake; there was no response. Dismayed, felt beneath the young man’s jaw and was relieved to find a pulse still beating strongly there.

With shaking fingers, Marco fished out his phone and dialled the first number he found.

“Angelo?” he croaked. “Pietro’s just been attacked. We’re outside the restaurant. Please, hurry!”