Two men who've known each other for twenty years finally confront their long-buried feelings when they compete for the same wedding gig, leading to a race that changes everything between them.
The espresso burns bitter and clean on Matteo's tongue, the third in as many hours, each one a small rebellion against the blue hour's creeping grey. Caffè della Scala sits quiet at 4:47 AM, the marble counter cool beneath his forearms, the barista's radio murmuring news in Italian that Matteo half-understands. Outside, Trastevere sleeps beneath a sky that can't decide between night and morning.
He shouldn't be here. Should be in bed, or better yet, back in the Alps where the mountains still hold snow despite the calendar's insistence on February thaw. But Giacomo called, and Matteo has never learned to refuse him anything.
The door chimes, actual bells, not some electronic chime, and Matteo knows it's him before he turns. Giacomo Santoro moves like he argues, all controlled intensity and coiled spring. He's in running gear, of course: technical fabric that clings to the body he's maintained with the same fierce discipline he applies to everything else. Forty-five and still lean as a whip, his dark hair silvering at the temples in a way that makes Matteo's pulse quicken.
"Matteo." Giacomo's hand comes down on his shoulder, warm and heavy, and Matteo has to fight not to lean into it. "You came."
"I said I would." The words come out rougher than intended. Matteo clears his throat. "Coffee?"
They drink in silence, two men who've known each other too long to fill every moment with noise. The espresso is bitter, familiar, necessary. Matteo watches Giacomo's throat work as he swallows, watches the way his Adam's apple rises and falls, and has to look away before he does something stupid.
"About the wedding," Giacomo says finally. "I know it's awkward."
"Awkward." Matteo lets out a short laugh that tastes like the coffee, bitter. "Giacomo, you and I auditioned for the same slot. The same wedding. The same *day*."
"I didn't know you'd be interested."
"Didn't you?" Matteo turns to look at him properly now, meets those dark eyes that have always seen too much. "How long have we known each other, Giacomo? Twenty years? Twenty-two?"
"Twenty-one years, three months, and approximately…" Giacomo catches himself, a rare crack in that courtroom composure. "Point being, yes. A long time."
"And in all that time, you never once thought: *perhaps Matteo might want this gig*?"
Giacomo's jaw tightens. "I wanted it. I need it."
"Need it?" Matteo's surprise is genuine. "Why?"
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18+, consenting adults, fiction.