Chapter 45: Bedlam

Third POV

It was late in the evening, and the apartment had officially descended into its usual state of localized bedlam. What was once a relatively normal living space had been entirely transformed into a madhouse, filled with the kind of daily drama only this specific group of men could generate. In one corner of the dimly lit living room, Tony and Elia were huddled together over an iPad, completely engrossed in whatever explicit pornography they had managed to find this time. The faint, unmistakable sounds drifting from the device were entirely ignored by James, who was sprawled out comfortably on the opposite sofa, fast asleep and softly snoring. As for Orso, the man was nowhere in sight, having likely slipped away to avoid the evening’s inevitable chaos.

And as for the other two unholy occupants, they were currently occupying the kitchen. Marco stood at the counter, slicing a mountain of vegetables with the aggressive precision of a man who was severely questioning his life choices. He was in the middle of preparing dinner, a task he had somehow inherited despite his many protests.

Fabio was there too, though he was entirely useless at the moment. He sat on a high wooden stool just a few feet away, watching Marco work. It was not exactly Fabio’s choice to be a mere spectator, but Marco had laid down a strict order earlier that afternoon: Fabio was not allowed to touch a single pot, pan, or utensil, out of genuine concern that the stubborn man would worsen his current injury.

Fabio let out a long, heavy sigh for what had to be the hundredth time that evening. He shifted his weight on the stool and opened his mouth. "I can at least..."

His sentence died in his throat as Marco stopped chopping. Marco did not turn around, but he cast a dark, sideways glance over his shoulder. That single, terrifying look said it all: Shut up, or I will politely shove this chef’s knife straight up your ass.

Fabio wisely zipped his mouth shut. However, never one to be entirely obedient, he refused to just sit there. He stood up from the stool, closing the distance between them, and positioned himself directly behind Marco. Marco said absolutely nothing, rolling his eyes as he resumed his chopping. Fabio did not try to help with the food, but every so often, his good hand would snake out to rest possessively on Marco’s waist. He did not dare do anything more major than that. He really did not want to risk getting a six-inch blade buried in his backside.

Once the vegetables were finally simmering in the pan and the food was cooking steadily, Marco let out a tired sigh of his own. He wiped his hands on a kitchen towel and finally turned around, only to find himself instantly trapped. Fabio had boxed him in, pressing him between his own warm body and the edge of the kitchen counter.

Marco looked up at him, shaking his head in disbelief. "I still can’t fathom how my life has led to this," Marco muttered, a dry, sarcastic edge to his voice. "I’ve been turned into a personal chef for five fully grown men."

Fabio retained a light, infuriatingly handsome smile. He did not offer a word of sympathy. Instead, his good hand slowly worked its way up Marco’s chest, coming to rest right over his heart. He gave the fabric of Marco’s shirt a gentle squeeze before tracing his fingers lightly down his torso. When his hand reached Marco’s waistband, Fabio clutched the fabric tightly and pulled Marco flush against him.

"I want you," Fabio murmured, his voice a low, gravelly hum that sent a shiver down Marco’s spine.

Marco’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the sudden, blunt intensity of the demand. But the surprise was fleeting, quickly melting into a wicked gleam of amusement. He leaned in close, his lips hovering just a fraction of an inch away from Fabio’s. He waited until Fabio’s eyes fluttered shut in anticipation of the kiss, and then, at the very last second, Marco shifted his trajectory. He leaned past Fabio’s lips, brushing his mouth against the shell of Fabio’s ear.

"Until your injury is fully healed, you don’t get anything," Marco whispered sweetly.

Before Fabio could even process the absolute betrayal, Marco pulled away, spun on his heel, and casually returned his attention to the stove to check on the food. Fabio stood completely frozen behind him, utterly bewildered. He looked like a man who had just been slapped with a wet fish. The words were completely stuck in his throat. Unable to formulate a comeback, Fabio said nothing. He silently retreated back to his stool, sitting there quietly, staring blankly ahead as he heavily reevaluated every life decision that had led him to this miserable, sexually frustrated moment.

Not long after, the meal was finally ready. The fragrant smell of the food had drawn the rest from the living room, and now everyone, save for the still-absent Orso, was seated around the large dining table.

Marco carried the serving dishes out and began distributing the portions. He scooped a generous serving of food onto a plate and set it down firmly in front of Fabio. Ever since the devastating kitchen incident, Fabio had not spoken a single word to Marco. He was employing a masterclass in brooding.

As Marco placed the plate on the table, he leaned over and murmured, "What’s with the silent treatment? Are we pouting now?"

Fabio merely glanced up, shot Marco a dark, silent smirk, picked up his fork, and began to eat without uttering a single word. Marco stared at him for a long moment, trying to decipher the look in the man’s eyes, before he finally sighed, took his own seat, and focused on his dinner.

For a few minutes, the only sounds in the room were the clinking of silverware against porcelain and the quiet chewing of food. It was an unusual, almost eerie domestic peace.

Tony was the first to crack. He dropped his fork onto his plate with a sharp clatter and looked around the table. "I’m not used to this."

Marco didn’t even bother looking up from his meal, though he cast Tony a mocking side-eye. "What? Having a quiet family moment? I didn’t know you were this love-starved, Tony. But don’t worry, I still like you, even if you are a pain in my ass."

Tony slammed his hand flat on the table, huffing in immediate frustration. "Not that, you dumbass. I mean the silence. I severely dislike the silence. It’s unnatural for me."

Marco snorted lightly, taking a sip of his water. "Of course you do. You have the attention span of a concussed golden retriever."

Tony rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle he didn’t strain a muscle. He leaned forward, crossing his arms over the table as he fired back. "And so do you, as far as I remember. You never used to shut up. Or has being so desperately in love taken a toll on your usually charming personality?"

Marco was just about to take a bite of his food, but the words made him freeze. He stopped midway, slowly lowered his spoon back to his plate, and looked directly across the table at Tony. "In love?" Marco repeated, his voice dangerously calm. "With who?"

Tony matched his energy, dropping his own spoon and crossing his arms firmly over his chest. He looked at Marco, then exaggeratedly turned his head to stare pointedly at Fabio, who was still casually chewing his food, pretending not to listen, and then turned his gaze back to Marco. Tony flashed a deeply annoying, triumphant smirk. "Do I really have to say it out loud?"

Marco stayed perfectly silent, rolling his tongue thoughtfully over his teeth as he calculated his next strike.

Tony, mistaking Marco’s silence for a victory, decided to press his luck. "It’s been what? Three, maybe four months now? For you, it has always been a one-night kind of deal. Now look at you, playing house..."

"Since you are suddenly so incredibly invested in my love life," Marco interrupted, his voice slicing through the air, "how about we talk about yours?"

Marco’s lips curled into a wicked smirk. Tony’s smug expression instantly faltere. He opened his mouth, entirely ready to refuse the change of topic, but Marco was ruthlessly fast.

"How are things going with James?" Marco asked casually, leaning back in his chair. "Still licking each other’s boots? Or are you two finally... uhm... boyfriends?"

Marco’s voice was kept low, but it was dripping with taunt. His smile grew even wider as he threw a blatant, cheeky wink across the table at Tony. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ

Tony’s jaw clamped shut so tightly his teeth audibly ground together. He glared at Marco with murderous intent but found himself completely robbed of words. Unable to retaliate, Tony shifted his glare toward James, who was sitting quietly at the end of the table. James, who had been watching the entire exchange, simply offered Tony a calm, unapologetic smile.

Tony grew even more frustrated. A quiet but highly visible blush began to creep up the back of his neck and spread across his cheeks. Desperate to hide his flustered state, Tony aggressively picked up his fork and resumed eating, staring intensely at his vegetables as if they had personally offended him.

Marco threw his head back and let out a genuine, victorious laugh. He opened his mouth to deliver one final, crushing comment to seal his win against Tony, but suddenly, his expression turned entirely rigid.

The laughter died in his throat. His breathing slowed to a sudden halt.

Marco slowly turned his head to the side. He looked over at Fabio. The man was staring straight ahead, looking the picture of perfect innocence as he continued to eat his dinner. However, beneath the concealing shadow of the dining table, Fabio’s hand had clamped firmly onto Marco’s thigh.

And it was slowly, deliberately advancing upward.