Marcello is an Italian. Just like Lovino, just like Feliciano.
As such, he must live up to his brothers' standards, Italy's standards.
And he has done his best, so far; he gets good grades in college, is nice to ladies, doesn't start fights, the works.
But it's not enough anymore.
Because Italy is the country of romance. And Marcello is useless at that.
And that's fine. Romance is a skill.
And skills can be taught.
"What're we working with, 'cello?"
Lovino and Feliciano show up at his door one morning just like that. And they do it really early, too. It's hardly even four forty. And when this happens, he does the thing any sane Seborgan citizen would do when two relatives show up unannounced and uninvited into his driveway early in the morning.
He shuts the goddamn door.
And that doesn't work out too well, Lovino's never liked being denied what he wants. In a matter of seconds, Marcello is missing a doorknob and his newly knobless door is swinging open and admitting the two people he just kicked out.
"Okay, bene. That's what we're workin' with, an inconsiderate bastard who likes to leave family out on the cold porch 'stead'a giving them food like I taught." Lovino growls and peels off his leather jacket, hands it to his brother. Feliciano hangs Lovino's and his coat on the rack and stuffs his hands in his pockets, admiring his little brother's house. It's hard to see much, he knows, in the streetlight that peeks through the stained doorway window. Feliciano can probably only see the pale yellow walls and wooden flooring. He taps a sneaker against the floor.
"Mahogany?" Marcello nods yes.
"Sexy. See, fratello? He does know something about appeal!" Feli gestures his hand at Marcello who, in his ducky boxers and socks and with a vague need to scratch his right testicle, feels like appeal is a foreign word.
"Ey! Quanto sei bono! So very sexy this one is! Wearing underclothes with animals on them. Whatta catch!" It's very clear, even when he's damn near sleepwalking, that Lovino is being sarcastic. And loud. And because it's already been established that four o'clock in the morning is just not sexytime, he scratches his balls.
His brothers look vaguely disgusted and he does not have it in him to give a fuck so early in the day.
He hobbles back down the hall and into his room to sleep. As he's going, Feliciano's cheery voice speaks up again.
"I think he's got potential."
He wonders if it's an omen of what's to come that they let him sleep.
The next time he wakes up, it's to the strong smell of quality coffee. The occasional snatch of Italian floats from the kitchen and his cast iron cookware clanks as quietly as cast iron can. The clock says ten twenty. Marcello thinks they've had plenty of time to start making sense and gets up to take a shower. By the time he gets out and pulls on a shirt and sweats and not ducky boxers, the clanking is gone and Feliciano is kneeling on the hard floor, screwdriver in hand and reinstalling his brass doorknob and ignorant of his presence.
"Grazie." Feliciano jumps, big clumsy hands fumbling with the screwdriver, trying to keep it in his hands before it drops and rolls towards Marcello's feet. He crouches down, sitting on the floor and rolling it back toward his brother. He's really hoping to leave it at that- no pouts or bear hugs. Just a simple thank you for a lot of things. Visiting, repairing his doorknob, letting him sleep. His brother, though, has never let him get through a greeting without a big hug before, and it won't start now. In a split second, Feliciano is hugging his little brother and it's nice. Very much so. The weight of his brother is comforting and Feliciano always smells like citrus and leather. And then comes the customary look over. Feliciano always does it like something might have changed about him.
"Sei tutto bello."
"Si, si. You say it every time." Feliciano beams brighter because it always makes him happy to hear that he spoils his family with affection. The clanging in the kitchen returns with a vengeance.
Feliciano smiles almost absurdly wide now and waves Marcelllo forward and forward again. He rolls his eyes because Feli probably has some absurd secret to share, but it's one that he always wants to know for reasons that he doesn't. His older brother isn't content in the proximity until Marcello can feel the whispery uneven breaths that make it seem that Feliciano is perpetually giggling. A warm palm settles on his lower back and that's different from the fraternal actions before even if he's not sure who's made it more erotic like this, the way that Marcello can feel the spread of his fingers and that it pushes them closer still until his Adams apple moves and he swallows a desert the second Feliciano's breath fans over the shell of his ear.
"Lovino's not very good at eavesdropping, is he?" And it really could just be something he ate, couldn't it, that would make him aware that beneath citrus and leather, Feliciano smells like something else, something that almost makes him fall forward to bury his face in it. He catches himself just in time to avoid doing it and Feliciano gets up with a spring in his step and damn near skips into the kitchen.
He left the screwdriver.
Marcello stares at it like it holds the meaning of life and gets up like the world is liable to be ripped out from under his feet.
He's had erotic thoughts about his older brother.
That's a no no.