Manutentore.

2.

All three at this point were sitting at the table, which was now stacked with food and cutlery. Feliciano tapped the armrests of his chair, as Rome started to act more and more irritated with the wait, sulking next to his son.

"Where is he? You told him this was important right? We both did?? Do you think he's doing this just to be a bitch? He's 15 minutes late, this is ridiculous, we should start eating without him." Rome slapped the table while he spoke, the rings on his fat fingers made the table shake. He squeezed the bridge of his nose and leaned over towards Antonio now, sighing out apologies to his guest. This was clearly more about just his son being late.

"Oh it's fine, it's fine! I don't mind the wait at all." He was starving. "The food looks great though." He stayed casual, attempting to practice his Italian with the little ginger kid, which made Feliciano snort back a laugh and mumble out a single "Thanks" back.

In front of them all, laid many types of dishes. Roasted tomatoes braised the shells and tails of different shellfish sticking out of pasta, Several antipasto salads glistened in olive oil, with sides consisting of olives, vegetables, and steaming hot bread in quaint, colorful bowls.

Music from the vinyl record filled the silence between waiting, some 50's Italian big band artist with dreamy guitar chords strung like awkward elevator music throughout the wait. Potted plants sat near the patio door with them, and an old copper shotgun that caught Antonio's eye was racked to the wall, next to nailed crosses on the wall.

Antonio sat back and took it all in; as Rome seemed to be contemplating throwing himself off the balcony over his son's absence.

It was the moment the old man shrugged, reaching for his plate and pair of tongs, that the front door slammed open.

The sound of work boots stomped through the living room behind them. Whoever came in seemed pissed, stomping past the entrance of the red dining room, only too abruptly stop when he was met with three sets of eyes glaring at him, wrapped around the full table, gawking at him.

The man was covered from head to toe in a powdery, drywall-like substance. It was embedded in the thick hair of his arms, dredged all over his toothpaste green work get-up as if he was rolled in flour. All kinds of tools were slung around his waist and attached to his pockets. It was painfully clear he was Rome's son with the strong, angled features they shared, but much younger, darker, and obnoxiously handsome. His deep set eyes glared over the entire table like this was some kind of test.

"What happened to you? Also why the hell are you so late? Did you forget we were doing this today?'

His father's questioning began, yet his son didn't care to answer, sucking in his frame to scoot around the table and decor to get to his harmless younger brother. Pulling his electrician gloves off, he shook whatever the substance was from work off onto Feliciano's head, grinning evilly while he did this, as Feli tried slapping him away

"Well, the dinner you made doesn't look too bad. You didn't fuck up the seafood, right?" Like father, like son. His own instigating began.

"Ughhh, Roma- What is this stuff? Are you going to answer dad? What happened to you-" He continued the harassment, tilting his brother's chair back while the man scoped out the table more. Genuinely, he only seemed to care about the food.

"It's efflorescence, it's just salt buildup that's in the walls. Now about dinner, you made sure to throw out the dead mussels before cooking right? You don't want to make our guest sick-- even if that would be kind of funny." He pointed across the table at the new face, Feliciano smacking his hand down to avoid their dad saying anything.