Chapter 172: The Boy Behind the Bravado
Noel perched on the only clear patch on the edge of the bed, knees tight together as if avoiding the tangle of hoodies that claimed the rest of the mattress.
His posture was stiff, as though the chaos might swallow him whole.
Luca leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching with an amused smirk. "You look like you’re visiting a crime scene."
"It feels like one," Noel replied, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his jeans. "I think the socks are plotting something in the corner."
Luca chuckled and crossed the room, nudging aside a sneaker with his foot before collapsing onto the mattress beside Noel.
The bed dipped sharply, forcing Noel to lean toward him.
"Relax," Luca said, stretching out on his back like he owned the chaos. "It’s just a room, not a trap."
Noel glanced around again, lips twitching. "Debatable."
Luca rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand so he could watch Noel more directly. "Admit it—you kind of like it. It’s got character."
"Character?" Noel echoed, raising a brow. "That’s one word for it."
Luca grinned wider, closing the space just slightly between them. "C’mon. Bet it feels more like me than my spotless condo does."
Noel’s gaze softened despite himself. The room was a whirlwind of fabric and forgotten things, yes—but it was honest.
It was Luca, completely unpolished and unfiltered, and that was somehow a relief.
Noel exhaled slowly, letting his shoulders ease. "You might be right."
"’Might be,’" Luca repeated with mock offense, nudging Noel’s knee. "I’ll take it."
The sound of their laughter—low, unguarded—filled the space, cutting through the emptiness of the big house in a way no tidy room ever could.
Luca heaved the suitcase onto the only clear corner of the bed, flipping the latches with a definitive snap. "Alright," he declared, dragging open a drawer and dumping a mound of shirts onto the mattress, "let’s turn this disaster into art."
Noel caught one before it slid to the floor, giving the wrinkles a flat, unimpressed look. "Art? This looks like evidence from a crime scene."
"Please." Luca scooped out another pile, grinning. "I’m an innovator. Clothes are freer this way."
"Freer?" Noel snorted, folding with sharp, deliberate precision. "This is a hurricane that forgot what direction it was going."
Luca leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, watching Noel’s steady hands with a lazy smile. "You fold like a machine. It’s almost scary."
Noel pressed down a stubborn crease, not glancing up. "That’s called being civilized."
"Civilized..." Luca slid closer, brushing his elbow against Noel’s and plucking the shirt from his hands mid-fold. "Or obsessive?"
"Give that back." Noel reached for it, but Luca dangled it high, grin spreading.
"See? One wrinkle and you’re already unraveling."
Noel rolled his eyes, lunging for the shirt. Luca twisted away, laughing, his voice bouncing off the walls.
"You’re impossible," Noel muttered, though his lips threatened to betray him with the faintest curve.
"Impossible," Luca echoed, lowering the shirt just enough to hold it between them. His grin tilted, eyes glinting. "Or irresistible?"
Noel finally tugged it free, folding with exaggerated precision, as if to erase the moment. "Irresistibly annoying," he corrected, stacking it neatly into the suitcase.
"Uh-huh." Luca leaned closer, voice dipping like a dare. "You keep saying that, but you don’t sound all that convinced."
For a beat, the room held its breath—the shuffle of fabric faded, shoulders brushed, and Noel’s ears flushed despite the calm precision of his fingers.
Luca noticed. Of course he noticed. His grin softened, quiet mischief giving way to something warmer.
But instead of pressing, he let his hand linger just a breath too long near Noel’s before scooping another heap of clothes and tossing them into his lap.
"Fine, boss," Luca said, smirking. "Show me how it’s done."
Noel sighed, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curving just enough to soften his scolding.
He took the next shirt Luca tossed at him, shook it out, and folded it with patient precision.
"Watch and learn," Noel murmured.
"Oh, I’m watching," Luca said, leaning in shamelessly, chin nearly on Noel’s shoulder. "I think this counts as hands-on training."
"More like invasion of personal space." Noel pressed the crease firmly, sliding the shirt into the suitcase with exact placement.
Luca grabbed one from the heap and tried to mimic him, slapping the fabric flat against the bed. His folds were crooked, uneven, the collar sticking out like a defiant wing. "See? Nailed it," he announced proudly.
Noel gave him a look. "That’s not folding. That’s... strangling cotton."
"Strangling cotton," Luca repeated with a laugh, dropping the mangled shirt on top of Noel’s perfectly aligned stack. "Sounds like a band name."
"You’re hopeless," Noel muttered, reaching to rescue it. Their fingers brushed, and both of them froze for just a second.
The air held still—quiet, close—before Luca pulled back, feigning nonchalance. "Fine, fine. Teach me again, sensei. Enlighten me with your mystical folding arts."
Noel tried to stay stern, but his voice softened. "It’s not mystical. Just... respect the fabric." He took Luca’s shirt, guiding his hands over the corners, showing him how to line them up.
Luca didn’t look at the shirt—he looked at Noel, watching the way his lashes dipped, the concentration in his brow, the gentle patience in his touch. "Respect the fabric," he repeated quietly, though his smirk told a different story.
Noel glanced up, caught the way Luca was staring, and his ears burned. He dropped the shirt quickly into the suitcase. "There. Better."
"Better," Luca agreed, though he hadn’t really seen the fold. His eyes were still on Noel.
Noel rose slowly, his gaze catching on the picture frame resting on the shelf.
For a moment he just stood there, rooted, before stepping closer.
His fingers hovered, hesitant, then brushed lightly against the corner of the frame—as though even the smallest touch might leave a mark.
The photo held Luca and his father alone this time—shoulder to shoulder, both with matching grins.
The resemblance was unmistakable; the same eyes, the same stubborn tilt of the jaw.
Behind him, the soft hum of the hair dryer filled the silence, then cut off with a click.
Luca turned just in time to catch Noel lingering there.
"You spying on my embarrassing archives?" Luca teased, towel draped over his shoulder. His tone was light, but his eyes flicked to the frame, and something quieter slipped beneath the surface.
Noel didn’t flinch away. "Not embarrassing," he murmured. "You look... happy here. Both of you."
Luca stepped closer. He glanced at the photo, his grin smaller now, touched with nostalgia. "Yeah... Dad insisted on that shot. Said I couldn’t run off into the world without proof he survived raising me."
A faint smile curved Noel’s lips. "He looks proud."
"He was," Luca admitted, voice softening in a way Noel rarely heard. He tapped the frame gently, almost reverently. "Still is, I think... even when I screw up."
For a beat, the room held its breath—Noel watching him, Luca suspended between bravado and a rare, raw honesty.
Then Luca shook his head, forcing brightness back into his voice. "Anyway, don’t let this fool you. Two seconds after that photo, I probably tracked mud all over the living room."
Noel’s laugh was quiet, but warm, carrying the weight of understanding more than amusement. He placed the frame back carefully. "Somehow, I’m not surprised."
Noel lingered by another frames, his gaze drifting from one photograph to the next.
Luca in a cap and gown, grin too wide for his face, his arm thrown around a tall man with the same sharp jaw and eyes.
Another frame showed him younger—ten, maybe—his hair a shade paler, dark catching the light, a boy caught between mischief and innocence.
And again, the same man stood beside him, steady, anchoring.
But what struck Noel wasn’t the smiles. It was the repetition. Every picture—Luca and his father. No one else.
He hesitated, fingers brushing the glass before his voice slipped out, softer than he meant. "It’s always just you and him?"
The shuffle behind him stilled. Luca froze mid-step, the hair dryer dangling loosely in his hand. His usual quip didn’t come. When he spoke, it was quieter than Noel had ever heard him.
"She’s not with us."
Noel turned, waiting, offering silence instead of questions.
Luca set the dryer down on the dresser with a soft thud, the sound too loud in the sudden quiet. He rubbed the back of his neck, then let out a crooked laugh with no real humor. "My mom... she left when I was ten. She and my dad divorced. She remarried not long after—to a Japanese guy. Moved away."
Something in Noel’s chest tightened. He had always thought of Luca as reckless—loud, spoiled, a storm that refused to still.
But standing here now, he saw the gaps between the noise. A boy who’d learned to fill silence with laughter because it was easier than letting it echo.
"You okay?" Noel asked carefully.
Luca’s mouth curved into a smile, practiced, bright as ever. "Of course. Look at me."
Noel shook his head, stepping closer. His tone gentled. "I didn’t mean now. I meant... back then."
Luca’s smile softened, faltered. His eyes darted away before meeting Noel’s again, unguarded for once. "Well... my dad never left. He was always there. My uncle too. Then I met Jordan. And now—" He shrugged lightly, lips twitching upward. "Now I have you. I’m more than okay."
The words landed heavier than Noel expected, warmth laced with something aching. He smiled back, quiet, the kind that lived more in the eyes than the lips.
As if to shake it off, Luca grabbed his phone with sudden energy. "Besides—guess what? I’ve even got siblings." He unlocked it, scrolling quick before holding up the screen.
A photo glowed between them—his mother, older now, standing with two children. A girl, around ten, her straight hair shining like ink. Beside her, a boy no older than seven, clinging shyly to their mother’s arm.
"This is Aiko, my little sister. And that’s Yuki, my little brother." Luca’s voice softened, tender in a way Noel rarely heard.
Noel leaned in, studying the photo. His lips curved faintly. "She looks like you—Aiko. You both have your mom’s face."
Luca blinked, then laughed, surprised. "You’re the only one who’s ever said that. Everyone else swears I’m my dad’s copy."
Noel’s gaze lingered on him, seeing past the practiced grin to the boy in the photographs. His voice was barely a whisper. "I see it. Maybe because I’m looking closer than most."
For once, Luca didn’t joke back. He just held Noel’s stare, and in the quiet between them, something unspoken settled warm and steady, like a promise that didn’t need words.