Chapter Text
Timmy had been looking forward to today.
It isn’t often he gets to hang out with Stella lately. After all, it’s summer, which means just about everyone in Turin is trying to get as far away from the city as possible, for as long as possible. He figures he can’t blame Stella for having enough money to actually do it.
Still, he can’t quite see the appeal in a month-long vacation. Spain may seem nice, at least judging from Stella’s hundreds of Instagram stories and posts, but he’s sure he would get tired of any place that wasn’t home if he had to be there for more than a week.
Four weeks? Now that’s just torture.
Thankfully, that period of suffering that Stella dares call a vacation came to an end yesterday night, meaning they can finally see each other.
Timmy checks his phone for what might be the fifth time in the past ten minutes, ignoring the way his mother glares at him from the other side of the table. He can almost hear her recite the “no screens while eating” mantra in his head, but she thankfully doesn’t say anything. And anyway, his cup of coffee shouldn’t count as eating, he thinks.
Stella’s last message stares back at him unchanged. A simple “on my way!” that was sent almost an hour ago.
He half-wonders if he should call her at this point, to make sure she’s okay. Sure, he doesn’t live in the city center like she does, but he’s not a whole hour away either. Then again, no bus in this damned city is particularly reliable.
He mentally chastises her for failing her drivers license test two times a year ago before eventually giving up on it entirely. He doesn’t even mind driving her around, it’s the insane amount of time it takes for her to go from one place to another when he’s not there to do so that annoys him most.
With a long sigh, he leans back in his chair and finishes his coffee with one long sip.
Just then, the doorbell goes off and he almost drops the cup to the ground. Damn this stupid apartment complex and its ridiculously loud door chime.
He sets the empty mug down on the table and hurries to get up.
The doorbell camera is set ridiculously high, so what greets him is nothing more than the top of a blonde haired head. Still, he knows damn well who it belongs to, so he buzzes her in, watching the head disappear before he opens his apartment’s door.
Unsurprisingly, he can see the elevator button light up, meaning Stella has no plans to go up the single flight of stairs she would need to get through otherwise.
“Timmy! Don’t leave your dirty dishes on the table!” His mother calls behind him.
“I was going to wash it as soon as Stella got here!” He defends himself, but rushes to grab the cup and wash it in the sink anyway.
By the time he sets it on the drying rack and wipes his hands on a dish towel, the elevator delivers its familiar ding. Then, shortly after, the unmistakable sound of high heel shoes on tile.
“Lina!” Stella squeals, hugging his mother as though she’s the one she came all the way here to see. “Hi! Timmy didn’t tell me you were home!”
“Where else would she be?” Timmy crosses the room, arms folded.
Stella pulls away from the hug. “I don't know. Work?”
“It’s summer.”
She shrugs. “Does that mean she can't work?”
“Well,” Timmy blinks, “She’s a teacher. Schools are closed. So, no?”
“Okay, Mr. Know-it-all.” Stella rolls her eyes at him, then opens her arms expectantly. “Where’s my hug? Did you not miss me?”
“You act like you’re not the one who abandoned me.” He still steps forward nonetheless, allowing her to squeeze the living daylights out of him as much as she wishes.
She squeals triumphantly and pulls him in with enough force to rock him a step forwards, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders.
“You survived,” She sighs dramatically into his shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”
He snorts. “Barely.”
His mom chuckles softly at their antics, slipping her purse over her shoulder. “You two catch up.” She says, already heading for the door. “I’m gonna run some errands. Behave.”
The last word is mostly aimed at Timmy, even though he's far from the one most keen to stirring trouble of the two. He doesn't argue though, just pulls away from Stella and waves her goodbye as she leaves.
Stella plants her hands on her hips and gives the living room a sweeping look, like she’s judging it for sport. “So,” she says, squinting dramatically, “same old place. Same old furniture. Same old tragic little Timmy.”
He groans. “You were gone for four weeks and this is how you greet me?”
“Let me get to the point.” she shoots back, completely unbothered. “While on vacation, I have been thinking.”
Timmy raises both eyebrows. He’s not sure he likes where this is going. “Rare.”
She doesn’t address the comment. Just points at him with an accusatory finger. “You need a boyfriend!”
Scratch that, he definitely doesn’t like where this is going.
“What?”
“I’m serious!” Stella says, and the worst part is, she sounds serious. “I mean, I have known you for… what? Six years?”
“Seven.” He corrects.
“Whatever!” She waves his words away with her hands. “You have never had a boyfriend all this time! Obviously I tried setting you up with Tecna that one time, but… well, we both know I got that a little wrong.”
Timmy grimaces a little at the memory. It’s not even like it was a bad day, he had a good time with Tecna. They do have a lot in common, after all. Still, when he thinks back to it, all he can think of is the horrible dread at the pit of his stomach that had formed ever since Stella proposed the idea, and that he only got rid of when he finally told her why he didn't think a follow-up date was a good idea.
He supposes his coming out should be a good memory. Stella was super supportive of him, it was everything he could have hoped for, but the fact he burst in tears when he told her makes the memory more shameful than anything else. He makes a conscious effort to push the thought of it far, far away from his mind.
“I haven't tried setting you up with a boy though!” Stella adds brightly.
Timmy feels a wave of nausea at the thought, somehow. “I really doubt that's a good idea.”
“Of course it's a good idea!”
Before he can make a case for all the ways it is, in fact, absolutely a horrible idea, his phone rings.
He’s grateful for the interruption at first, but the feeling fades as soon as he sees the contact name: ‘dad’ in white letters staring back at him.
“Sorry, I have to get this.” He mutters apologetically to Stella, before tapping the answer button.
He’s about to bring the phone to his ear when Stella decides she, too, wants in on the conversation, and she presses the call to speaker instead. Timmy doesn’t find it in himself to mind it.
“Hey dad?” He starts. “Stella’s here and you’re on speaker, don’t say anything weird.”
“Oh,” his father says, surprise audible even through the speaker. “Hello, Stella.”
“Hi Francesco!” She greets him with an obnoxious smile on her face, even though he can’t see it. Timmy’s half-convinced she likes his parents far more than she likes her own. Not that he can blame her.
He clears his throat. “Uh, anyway, what’s up, dad?”
There’s a shuffling sound on the other end of the line, a metallic clang, and then a sharp sigh. “I need a favor.”
Timmy closes his eyes. He knows what’s coming before he hears it. “Dad, please don’t tell me–”
“The fridge at a bar in the city center broke down this morning,” his father interrupts. “They need it fixed today. Normally I’d take it, but I’ve got a backlog from hell. I can’t get away.”
“Dad,” Timmy pinches the bridge of his nose. He should have expected this. “I told you I had plans today, with like two weeks in advance too… and I’ve worked at the repair shop for over half of my summer at this point. I asked for one guaranteed day off.”
“I know,” To his credit, his father has the sense to sound genuinely apologetic. “But they’re willing to pay well. Very well. You can use your half for whatever you want, as usual.”
Timmy frowns. The money does sound tempting: he’s got a few upgrades he wants to get done on his computer, not to mention the long list of books he wants to read. But on the other hand, he hasn’t seen Stella in so long, nor has he had any fun the past few weeks.
His father must be able to tell he isn’t particularly convinced yet by the long silence, because he keeps going. “You can bring Stella along, if you want. It’s a music bar and they serve juice or something. It could be fun.”
“So she’s supposed to just… sip juice by herself while I work?” Timmy scratches the back of his neck. “Doesn’t sound–”
“Wait!” Stella — somewhat rudely — interrupts. “It’s a music bar? In the city center? That makes juice? Is it the Frutti Music Bar? In Garibaldi Street?”
“Yes, that one.” His father confirms.
Stella squeals. She grabs Timmy’s arm and shakes him enough to rattle his glasses off center, almost sliding off his nose. “Say yes! Say you’ll take the job!”
“What? Why?” Timmy’s eyebrows furrow.
Stella gives him a stern look that he isn’t sure he deserves. “Because if you listened to me, which you never do, you would know that’s where Brandon works!”
“I do listen to you, I–”
“Just take the job!” She interrupts.
Timmy sighs in defeat. He figures this isn’t the worst outcome: he will get the extra money while also getting to hang out with Stella afterwards, plus he has a guarantee she won’t be bored to death while he works. Even if the entertainment being offered is some guy she never actually talked to’s biceps.
“Okay, alright.” Timmy concedes. “Send me the address, dad.”
“No need, I know where it is.” Stella beams.
Timmy huffs. “I don't trust your sense of direction.”
Stella makes a displeased face at that, but is self-aware enough not to argue against that. She has gotten them lost in this city more times than he can count, more often than not even when she had the help of Google Maps by her side.
“I’ll send you the address.” His father says. “Thanks Timo.”
The call ends with a soft beep.
Timmy lowers the phone and just stares at it for a second, already regretting everything about today. Mostly the part where he picked up.
Stella, on the other hand, looks like she’s just won the lottery.
“Well!” She claps her hands together excitedly. “This is perfect. You get paid, I get Brandon, the universe is clearly rooting for us–”
“I don’t think the universe cares about your delusions.” Timmy mutters, pocketing his phone and walking across the room to go grab his car keys and his — or, well, his father’s — tool bag.
She ignores him completely. “Oh! And maybe we could find you that boyfriend there. You know, Brandon’s not the only guy working there. I’m pretty sure Riven is, too.”
Timmy grimaces. “Musa’s ex boyfriend?”
Stella nods.
“I’m not interested in that.”
“Okay,” She snorts. “You’re right. Not him. But I was just saying! There’s boys our age working there… so it's a perfect opportunity to find your guy.”
She raises her eyebrows suggestively and he can’t help himself: he actually does chuckle. “I’m sure I’ll look really hot while fixing a fridge.”
“People like handy guys!” She argues, following as he reaches for the front door.
He twists the handle open, then gestures for her to go first in a mock-gentlemanly way. She does.
They walk down the hallway towards the elevator, Stella’s heels clicking loudly with every step.
“Also,” She says casually as she presses the elevator button. “you didn’t deny wanting to find a guy. Progress.”
Timmy scrunches his face. “I didn’t confirm it either.”
The doors slide open. They both make their way in. Timmy still isn’t sure why they’re taking the elevator at all, given he lives on the first floor.
“Mhm.” Stella hums, making a show of how unconvinced she is. She presses the ground floor button.
Timmy leans back against the elevator wall, shifting the tool bag to his other shoulder. “You know there’s a pretty big chance no one working there is gay, right?”
Stella shrugs. “Riven is bisexual, I think.”
He glares. “Again, no.”
“Yes, he is!”
“I’m sure he is, but I’m saying–” He shakes his head, exasperated. “Nothing’s happening with Riven, of all people.”
“I didn't say it had to!” Stella argues.
The elevator dings.
She walks out first. He follows and wonders if he always looks like a lost puppy treading on her heels or if it’s just a today thing. “Then stop bringing him up.”
“I was just saying. Someone’s gay.” She shrugs, pushing the apartment complex’s door open. She doesn’t bother keeping it open for him like he expected her to and it almost hits him in the face.
Like the evil best friend she was born to be, she laughs at him.
Timmy narrows his eyes at her as the door swings shut behind him. “You know, one day the door actually will hit me in the face, and you’ll be responsible.”
“I’ll live with it,” Stella says airily, already marching down the sidewalk.
He hurries a couple steps to catch up, adjusting the strap of the tool bag so it doesn’t dig into his shoulder so painfully. He’s not particularly successful. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet you keep me around.” She replies with a grin. “Interesting.”
Timmy doesn’t bother with a reply. He’s just glad that his red jeep — his most prized and well-kept possession — comes into view soon enough. He mentally thanks a god he’s never believed in for the fact he found a parking spot close enough to home the day before, because the bag is already feeling far too heavy.
Timmy clicks the key fob, the car’s locks chime in response, and he throws the bag onto the back seat with a little more force than necessary, the straps slapping against the upholstery. Sliding into the driver’s side, he glances over at Stella, already stretched out on the passenger seat like she’s prepping for a cross-country road trip instead of a fifteen-minute city drive. Heart-shaped sunglasses perched perfectly on the bridge of her nose, seat leaned back, one leg casually draped over the other. She catches his eye and smirks.
The engine rumbles to life under his hands, the vibration crawling through the pedals and steering wheel. It’s comforting, grounding: a small piece of predictability in a morning that’s been anything but.
Stella flicks on the stereo, phone already connected to the aux. A pop song he’s never heard before floods the cabin, bright and infectious. Despite himself, Timmy taps his fingers against the wheel, letting the rhythm sneak into his shoulders. She hums along beside him.
He seizes a moment of calm as he drives through the familiar street he grew up on to pass her his phone. “Can you pull up Maps and set the route for the bar?”
With a quick nod, her fingers dance over the screen to type in his password — the name of his favorite videogame — like it’s second nature. He doesn’t remember when exactly he told her what it was, but she’s known it for years now. Once the destination’s set, she places the phone in front of him, barely pausing her sing-along session.
The drive unfolds surprisingly smoothly. Even with Stella in charge of directions, they glide through streets without incident, aside from one wrong turn she blames, theatrically, on the stubborn glare of the summer sun.
When they’ve almost reached the city center, he chooses to park a few streets away from the bar. He’d much rather endure a little whining from his best friend than give up half the euros he’s earning on a parking spot in the part of Turin that’s most glad to steal his money. Stella pouts audibly, protesting every step as they walk, but her complaints quiet when they reach the streets lined with the high-end boutiques she loves so much.
Glittering mannequins and perfectly folded displays glint in the sunlight. Stella’s eyes light up, fingers reaching instinctively for the closest window, drawn into the fashion like a moth to flame. He has to nudge her sharply when they finally get to the bar in order to bring her attention back on topic.
“Hey,” He cocks his head towards the colorful sign spelling out ‘Frutti Music Bar’ with various fruit drawings all around it, “We’re here to see the ‘love of your life’, remember? It’s not shopping hour.”
She spins around dramatically. “It’s always shopping hour!” She corrects, but he definitely managed to switch her focus because she’s already busying herself with fixing her already perfect hair. “How do I look? Girlfriend material?”
Timmy chuckles. “Sure. I’d be going crazy if I was straight.”
“Oh, I know!” Her smile stretches across her face, bright and victorious. She grabs his arm and practically drags him toward the entrance. He stumbles slightly, trying to keep up with her stride.
The second they step inside, the chilled blast of air conditioning hits Timmy square in the face like divine intervention against the heat outside. He can’t help himself as he exhales in relief.
Stella, on the other hand, is too busy scanning the bar for the man of her dreams to care about silly things like the melt-worthy weather outside.
The bar is a riot of sensory overload: neon menus pulse overhead, fruit displays spill vibrant colors across the counters, and a wall mural features a giant cartoon strawberry sporting oversized sunglasses. Music hums faintly through the speakers, mingling with the chatter and clatter of the lunch crowd. It’s a lot. Cheerful, sure, but definitely a lot nonetheless.
Just as Stella starts rising on her tiptoes to peer over the crowd in search for the brunet boy of her dreams, a purple-haired head pops up from behind the counter. Quite literally pops, because Timmy’s almost sure no one was there a second ago.
“Hi!” The girl chirps, sweeping a few loose strands of dyed hair behind her ear as she straightens up from whatever she was picking up off the floor.
She can’t be more than fifteen. Pink tank top, jean shorts, colorful bracelets all the way up one arm, a name tag that clearly used to say ‘Rossana’ but was corrected with cheap sharpie to spell out ‘Roxy’ instead.
Timmy would wonder how she’s allowed to be working here at that age, but he recalls helping around his father’s repair shop when he was much younger than that, so he figures it’s not his place to judge.
“Welcome to Frutti Music Bar! Do you need a table, or– oh!” Her eyes widen as they land on Timmy’s bag. “Wait, you’re the repair guy, right? You know, for the fridge?”
Timmy nods, forcing an awkward smile. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Perfect!” She beams. “I was supposed to call my dad when you got here, but he’s kinda… drowning in orders right now. So, uh, follow me.”
She gestures down the narrow corridor behind the counter. Timmy shoots Stella a warning glance.
“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m working,” he murmurs.
“Never!” she gasps, feigning offense.
“Mhm. I’ll be back as soon as possible.” He doesn’t bother pretending to believe her.
With a final wave, he steps into the back with Roxy.
The kitchen is somehow even busier than the front of the bar. Pots clatter, a blender shrieks loudly and, as if that’s not enough. there’s the obnoxious sound of footsteps and chatter from the employees, who seem to be mostly men. Maybe all men. Timmy is pretty sure he spots Brandon for a second, before he rushes out the door with a tray full of smoothies in his hands.
“This way!” Roxy calls over the noise, weaving through the mess with little effort.
Timmy dodges and sidesteps behind her, focusing hard on not making eye contact with anyone but her.
She finally leads him to the back-of-the-back, where a bulky industrial refrigerator sits. A sad puddle of water has formed underneath it, dripping steadily, and the floor of the entire room is damp where someone clearly tried to dry the mess with a mop and ended up just spreading it everywhere near-by instead.
“There it is.” Roxy sighs, planting her hands on her hips.
Timmy crouches down to inspect the leak. He feels the fabric on his knees get wet. “When did it start?”
“This morning. Nabu — our employee — opened it to get strawberries for a smoothie, and bam!” She waves her hands over her head for effect. “Water everywhere. Dad kind of freaked out.”
Timmy hums, already mentally cataloguing the possible issues. “Okay, I’ll need to pull it away from the wall.” He grimaces at the sheer size of the fridge in front of him. “Would you happen to have anyone around that could help me do that? You know, it doesn’t look particularly light.”
Roxy opens her mouth like she’s about to yell for someone, but she doesn’t get the chance.
A shadow falls across the doorway, and a voice answers for her. “I can help.”
Timmy looks up to the kind volunteer.
He’s met by shoulder-length blond hair pulled back into a loose half-bun, blue eyes, a polite smile and a dish towel slung casually over one of the tall stranger’s broad shoulders.
Well, okay. Timmy’s throat goes dry. He can admit when a guy’s handsome. Jesus Christ.
“Oh, Sky!” Roxy lets out a relieved breath. “Perfect timing. The fridge guy needs help.”
If he was not actively trying to will himself into thinking about how unlucky he is to find the prettiest boy in all of Turin when he’s kneeling into a puddle, he would wonder who the Hell in this God-forsaken country would name their kid that. Not that it’s an ugly name, just awfully uncommon.
Either way, Sky steps inside the room fully, drying his hands on the towel, as Roxy leaves with a simple ‘I’ll leave you to it!’.
Timmy immediately straightens up, pressing both hands firmly against the cold metal of the fridge’s left side. The moment he shifts his weight, Sky mirrors him on the right without a word, his grip firm but casual, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
“Alright, uh…” Timmy licks his lips that suddenly feel too dry. “Three, two, one…”
They pull together. The fridge resists at first, whining against the tile floor with a loud, grating screech that makes Timmy flinch. He fights not to grimace, bracing every muscle in his arms and back. Heat blooms across his neck, not just from exertion. His shoulders ache, and the floor under his knees is slick from the water, but at least it’s a welcome distraction from the ridiculously pretty guy next to him.
The appliance finally gives way with a heavy, echoing thunk, sliding just far enough from the wall for Timmy to duck behind it. He exhales, pushing a loose strand of ginger hair off his forehead before it can stick there.
“Thanks.” He manages, trying to force his voice into a semblance of steady, hoping the hitch of breath he feels doesn’t betray how winded he actually is.
“No problem.” Sky gives him a small, easy smile. He steps back, arms loosely crossed, watching Timmy maneuver around the fridge as he starts to assess the next move. “Let me know if you need me to lift it more.”
“No need, just…” Timmy pokes his head out and points at his tool bag on the floor. “Can you just pass me that, please?”
“Of course.” Sky nods and makes quick work of grabbing the bag, then handing it to him.
If their fingers brush for a second and Timmy feels like he’s going to faint, that’s nobody’s business but his own.
He mutters a ‘thanks’ again, ducking back behind the fridge before Sky can notice the way his ears are undeniably, humiliatingly heating up.
He kneels on the damp tile again, unzipping the bag with practiced ease.. Familiar weight. Familiar metal clinks. Something normal to ground him. Good. He needs normal.
He adjusts his glasses, squinting at the coils and piping on the fridge’s back, muscles tensed for the inspection. The hum of the appliance, the scent of damp tile, and the faint tang of refrigeration oils fill the space.
“So, what’s the issue?” Sky’s voice floats from behind him, curious
Timmy swallows, tracing the pipes with careful fingers. “Uh… hard to say yet. Could be a clogged drain line, maybe the compressor, or one of those really dumb problems that feels embarrassing to fix because it takes thirty seconds.”
A soft laugh drifts through the kitchen. “I kind of hope it’s the embarrassing one. Klaus has been miserable all morning.”
Timmy nods even though he knows Sky can’t see it from where he’s standing.
“Well,” Sky adds, breaking the quiet again. “If you don’t need anything else, I’m gonna go.”
Timmy hums. He busies himself with loosening screws, tries to be his most casual self. “Alright. Thanks again… uh, for the help.”
He peeks from the back just in time to see Sky shrug. “Really no problem.”
He peeks from behind the fridge just in time to catch Sky shrug, casual and unbothered. “Really no problem.”
And then he’s gone just as quickly as he came, leaving Timmy behind with his work.
He exhales, hands already returning to the coils. He needs to find the issue fast. After that, he’ll either seek out Stella to gush endlessly about this guy… or hide all knowledge of him so she can’t tease him for the next century. He’s not sure what the best course of action is, there. Not yet, anyway.
The decision can wait, he figures. First, he’ll need to fix this damn fridge.