I woke up to the sound of thunder and wind. Chilly morning air was sliding over my naked skin, painting it with goosebumps. My hands crawled through the sheets in panic, searching for Marcel’s warmth that was nowhere to be found now. A few seconds passed before my sight stabilized enough to notice his silhouette looming by the window. His fingers were clenched around the open shutters, and he was smiling ecstatically. 

It took me quite a while to understand the reason behind his sudden cheer. When the first droplets of rain silver-plated his cheeks, I already knew what was going on.

“We'll have one more day,” he gasped out, turning his face towards me. “Just for ourselves.”

The works were postponed. There was no point in shooting outside unless the weather improved. Mom and Marco took advantage of the opportunity and left to visit friends in Lucca.

“You won't be joining us today, will you?” asked mom by the breakfast table. 

There was a tint of understanding in her smile, telling me she knew exactly what was going on between me and our handsome tenant. And it didn't seem she had anything against it. 

“Have fun, dear.” She kissed me on the forehead later when she was leaving with the same mild expression on her face.

We've never really had the big talk about my sexuality, the great “uncloseting”. I grew up in a melting pot of Milano, full of people with different backgrounds. During mom's work at the studio, during parties, during runway shows I was surrounded by eccentricity, extravaganza, controversy. And most importantly - with queer. It didn't take me long to realize it was guys that turned me on. And it had never occured weird or unnatural. Different people are into different things. Same with sexuality. I quickly accepted my queerness, took it as a fact and lived on. Although I came out to my closest friends, I never felt the need to talk about it at home. I was sure mom knew anyway. She must have known for a long time. Maybe even before I knew it myself.

“You've got the coolest mom on earth,” noticed Marcel, putting the vinyl on the player's plate in the living room. 

“I know.” 

I shut the door and it was just the two of us. Close. Intimate. Skin to skin, breath to breath, in the coziness of our tuscan hut.

I adored the heavy skies of navy blue that day. I adored the sounds of droplets hitting the window sills, the sparks jumping over the wood in the fireplace, the crackling of an old vinyl spinning in the record player. I adored Marcel's fingers going through my hair. I adored his pearly laughter when we were playing scrabble on the living room floor. I adored the gentleness of his embrace when we snuggled under the blanket on the couch. 

When we were lounging in the evening, I got a call from mom. She asked me to keep the house closed, cause they weren't coming back for the night. It seemed they were having fun. I could hear the sounds of the party in the background. 

“Do you think she knows?” Asked Marcel, pouring us two glasses of wine when I hung up. 

“Certainly.”

“I wish my parents were so cool about it,” he let out a heavy sigh. “About me...”

“Did you come out?” I asked, taking the glass.

“Yeah, biggest regret of my life.” Marcel twisted his face, sipping his wine. 

I felt like we entered some dangerous territory. Maybe I should have changed the subject. Maybe I should have just backed off with some stupid joke.  But I really wanted to know. To learn something significant, anything that would grow us closer. That would make it special. That would proclaim me the knowing one among the oblivious. 

“I'm sorry...”

“It's them who should be sorry.” He shook his head. “I have spent most of my life loathing myself. Kids are like little mirrors walking around, you see? They take for granted anything their parents believe is true. Too bad mine believed I was worthless.” 

A pause. He was wondering about something intensively, biting his lips and wrinkling his forehead before finally sighing and finishing his thought. 

“And then we grow up. With all those ugly things scratching our heads from the inside until… you know.”

He shrugged and finished drinking the wine with his eyes fixed on the floor. His fingers were tapping nervously against the surface of the glass he was holding. 

“There are just two ways to go about it.” He continued. “You can either move on, or…” the words stuck in his throat.

“Or what?” I whispered. A cold shiver came down my spine when I realized what he was referring to. “Don't you dare...”

I put my palm on his knee, squeezing gently, as if my touch could break him out of the depths of these dark thoughts, scare the demons away. He looked at me with a blank stare. Those were the eyes of a dead man. In a blink of an eye he stopped being the cheerful boy. As if a mask fell down.

“Oh my God, Marcel…” I moved closer, grabbing him by the shoulders. “You can't think about these things, you can't…”

He shook his head, and the shiny pearls appeared on his cheeks, leaving salty trails of sorrow on his skin. His stare felt empty, his voice dangerously calm. 

“I'm just so tired of running away. Of doing things I no longer know are good or bad.” 

“There's nothing wrong with who you are.” I frantically wiped the tears away from his face. 

“You don't understand. There's this darkness inside of me. Like a knot, like a fist squeezing my lungs, my heart. It's suffocating.” He pressed his hand to the chest, breathing heavily. A quiet, bitter laugh left his lungs. “God, I'm pathetic.”

“No, you’re not…”

I embraced him silently, not knowing what else to say. His body was shaking uncontrollably. The throbbing sobs entwined with the cracking of the wood burning down in the fireplace. We sat there still and silent for a longer while until his trembling eased a little.

“I'm sorry you had to see me like this.” He whispered with his face hidden in the folds of my shirt. 

“Marcel...”

He pushed me away, trying to wipe his eyes and put on a happy face, as if nothing had happened. The real Marcel was slowly disappearing under his usual facade. He had deceived us all, I thought.

“Please don't do this.” I shook my head. 

“We don't have much time left. I don't want you to remember me this way.”

“For God's sake!” I grabbed his hands. “You’re not taking me seriously, are you?”

“No, that’s not...” he stuttered, shocked with my sudden anger.

“Yeah, I may be younger. But that doesn’t make me any worse, or stupid. Fuck the great pretender, just give me the real you. You’re carrying so much pain you’ve nearly drowned in it. Share it for once, and help me help yourself. You don’t have to talk, we can sit in silence. Let me just be there for you, when you need it, and I clearly see you do. So please...” 

I had no hopes of saving him, fixing him. Chances were we would never meet again anyway. Why did I want to know the guy so bad? Out of curiosity perhaps. Out of my selfishness. Out of my utter need to smile when he laughs, and to suffer when he bawls his eyes out. 

That night he clinged to me like a little child. By the way he was holding me, I understood he needed me in all those fragile ways. As if my embrace was powerful enough to protect him against the evil of the world he came from. 

He was careful with words. It felt as if he didn’t want to overshare all the negative emotions he was bearing. And I was slowly putting together scraps of information about his childhood, his parents, his siblings. He told me how they used to treat him like trash, how they tried to convert him, how they were ashamed of him, and how it all became irrelevant, as soon as he started to earn good money. One toxicity smoothly shifted into another. His dough couldn’t make them love him, but it could buy mild tolerance to his preferences at least. Indifference and pretended oblivion were better than constant shaming. And so he started to believe that more money meant more regard from his relatives. He was spiraling out, working nights and days, ready to do anything for a better gig. He was rushing all the time, pushing his career forward at all costs, getting better contracts, working with more and more prestigious companies. Until he set his foot in our house, and all the uproar of his busy world fell silent. The fever stopped. Suddenly he had time for himself, he had people who accepted him the way he was, he had everything he had ever dreamed of. And amidst all that, he had me.