if you’ve been looking for me and wondering where i disappeared to - i got completely swallowed by la bbanda brainrot 🫠
currently deep into writing a carletti neighbors AU, while also half-stepping into a kind of japanese mystical au where filippo is an enchanted Nara deer… yes. that is where we are.
and mentally i’m already somewhere else entirely: carlo as a young farmer, scandro as his patient dog, and filippo as a very sassy lil sheep. don’t ask me where the marauders energy came from. but these three have such strong animal vibes it’s actually unstoppable at this point.
special thanks to @dwarvie for enabling this descent I’m so glad to be here yay
i ended up in a courtyard where filippo and scandro live. there was some kind of small chaotic party happening: people talking, vague energy.
i claimed a couch in the corner and three cats immediately surrounded me like they legally owned the place.
and then filippo appeared and started explaining to me - very seriously - that he’s been doing music since he was 13 and hanging out with some directors and big people from the industry.
and dream-filippo was so annoyingly smug about it that i woke up genuinely offended.
which is upsetting because now my brain has created a version of him i don’t like. so now i have to rehabilitate filippo through writing?
He pushed the apartment door open with his shoulder, guitar case still hanging from his back, eyes half-closed from the early morning light. The hallway smelled faintly like coffee and detergent. His brain was still somewhere between the last set of the night and the after-party beer he probably shouldn’t have had.
Then his foot caught something solid.
“—shit.”
He stumbled forward, barely managing not to hit the wall. The guitar case swung sideways and knocked against the doorframe with a hollow thunk.
Filippo looked down.
There were boxes. Three of them. Maybe four. Stacked unevenly in the hallway like someone tried to be organized and then gave up halfway through.
He squinted at them.
“What the hell—”
The kitchen door creaked open.
Scandro appeared with a mug of coffee, leaning against the frame like he had been awake for hours and this chaos was entirely expected.
“Ah,” he said calmly. “You survived.”
Filippo dragged a hand over his face.
“Why are there boxes in our hallway?”
Scandro took a slow sip of coffee.
“For dramatic effect.”
Filippo stared at him.
“Did you start moving out and forget to warn me?”
That finally earned him a small smile.
“You forgot again, didn’t you.”
Filippo blinked. Scandro lifted the mug toward the boxes.
“New roommate.”
There was a pause.
“Oh,” Filippo said.
Right. That.
Now that it was mentioned, something in the back of his sleep-deprived brain shifted into place. The conversations from a few weeks ago, Giulio moving out. The vague agreement that they needed a third person unless they wanted rent to eat them alive.
Filippo remembered saying something like yeah sure, you handle it while packing cables for a gig.
He looked back at the boxes.
“He already moved in? It’s he, right?”
“Yes and yes.”
“And I missed it.”
“You miss a lot of things.”
Filippo stepped over the boxes more carefully this time and drifted towards the kitchen. The sunlight through the small window made everything look slightly too bright.
He reached for Scandro’s mug without asking.
“Don’t—”
But it was too late, and Filippo took a long drink. Scandro exhaled through his nose.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Filippo handed the mug back like nothing happened.
“I’ve been awake for twenty-six hours.”
“Whose fault is that.”
“Music,” Filippo said solemnly.
Scandro rolled his eyes.
“The guy’s name is Carlo, by the way.”
“Carlo,” Filippo repeated, like he was testing the sound of it. “And where is Carlo?”
He leaned against the counter. Scandro shrugged slightly, lifting the mug.
“Some errands, apparently. He came early this morning, dropped half his life in the hallway and mentioned something about studio, and then disappeared again.”
Filippo glanced toward the corridor, doing a quick mental calculation. It wasn’t that early anymore. For most people the workday had already started.
“Right,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fair enough. So he’s a musician too?”
Scandro gave him a look over the rim of the mug.
“Obviously. I’m not letting a non-musician into this apartment. That would completely destroy the ecosystem.”
Filippo nodded slowly.
“Yeah, that checks out.”
If Scandro chose him, it was probably fine. Scandro had a weirdly good instinct for people. Also a weird instinct for chaos, but that was a separate issue.
“You look dead,” Scandro said finally, and Filippo considered this.
“Yeah.”
“Go shower before you collapse on the floor.”
Filippo pushed himself off the counter.
“Wake me if the building catches fire.”
“No promises.”
—
Filippo slept through most of the day.
When he woke up again, the light in the room had shifted to the soft orange of almost evening and his brain felt like someone had replaced it with warm static.
He shuffled toward the kitchen in socks and a t-shirt, and halfway down the hallway he noticed the boxes again.
Some of them were gone, a new one had appeared.
“Interesting,” Filippo murmured.
In the kitchen there was a pot on the stove.
Filippo paused in the doorway, frowning at it like it might disappear if he looked too closely. He walked over, lifted the lid, and stared inside.
Pasta. Actual pasta. With sauce.
He leaned back a little and squinted at it.
Scandro didn’t cook much. Not unless something had gone terribly wrong.
Right on cue, Scandro wandered in from the living room, so Filippo immediately pointed at the pot.
“What is this supposed to be?”
Scandro glanced at the stove, then back at him.
“Food, Filippo. I know you don’t see it often in this apartment, but it does exist.”
“You made food?”
Scandro looked genuinely offended by the suggestion.
“Carlo did.”
“Oh.”
Filippo lifted the lid again, like maybe the answer would change if he checked twice. Then he grabbed a fork from the drawer and poked around the pasta with mild suspicion.
“He was actually here?”
“For a bit,” Scandro said, leaning against the counter. “Came in around midday, moved a few boxes into his room, cooked that, and disappeared.”
Filippo glanced down the hallway toward the closed door.
“Again?”
“Again.”
Filippo leaned his hip against the counter.
“What is he, a ghost? Appears briefly, leaves food offerings, and then vanishes?”
Scandro snorted quietly.
“He’s busy. Studio sessions, apparently some gigs. Maybe some studying, I'm not sure.”
Filippo let out a low whistle.
“Okay. That’s… ambitious. And mysterious.”
Scandro studied him for a moment.
“You’re weirdly interested for someone who forgot he existed this morning.”
“I didn’t forget,” Filippo protested.
He twirled a forkful of pasta and finally took a bite.
“Okay, wow.”
Scandro raised an eyebrow.
“Right?”
Filippo chewed thoughtfully, still staring at the pot like he was reconsidering several life decisions.
“Alright,” he said finally. “I like him.”
“You haven’t even met the guy yet.”
“Still counts.”
—
Later that evening Filippo grabbed his jacket again.
Another show. Another club. The last one for this week, finally.
On his way out he slowed down near the closed door of the room. Carlo’s room.
He stopped for a moment, eyeing the handle like it might answer a question if he looked at it long enough.
Technically nobody was home. Technically it would take about two seconds to peek inside.
His hand even reached for the handle before he really thought about it.
“Okay,” he muttered quietly to himself. “That is cringe.”
Even for him.
Before he could decide whether he cared about that or not, Scandro’s voice drifted in from the living room.
“Filippo.”
Filippo froze with his hand still hovering near the door.
“Yes?”
There was a short pause. Then Scandro said, very calmly:
“Don’t.”
Filippo exhaled slowly and let his hand drop away from the handle.
“Fair,” he admitted.
He grabbed his bag from the chair instead, but when he reached the door he hesitated again, half turning back toward the living room.
“One question,” he called.
Scandro looked up from the couch without much interest.
Filippo tilted his head slightly.
“Is he cute?”
Scandro’s expression shifted into a very particular kind of smile. The kind that usually meant he was about to enjoy this far too much.
“Oh,” he said slowly. “Yeah.”
Filippo considered that for a second. Then he nodded once, satisfied.
“Alright. Good to know.”
He stepped over the last remaining boxes in the hallway and disappeared into the night.
—
The next time Filippo came home, it was morning again.
At least this time the light felt different. The week of shows was finally over.
Tomorrow there was nothing. Tomorrow he could actually rest.
On the way up the stairs he checked his phone and saw a message from Scandro.
scandro: had to leave early, kid. enjoy the coffee. and try not to scare carlo if he’s around.
Filippo snorted quietly.
“Why would I scare him,” he muttered, unlocking the door.
The hallway greeted him with silence and, of course… a box. This time he managed not to trip, though his foot still nudged it with a dull scrape.
“Seriously,” he murmured to nobody.
Only one box remained now. The rest were gone, which meant Carlo had actually been unpacking while Filippo kept missing him like some kind of terrible timing experiment.
Filippo glanced automatically at the closed door next to his own. Quiet.
He tilted his head like that might somehow help him hear through the wood. Nothing.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Still a ghost.”
He poured himself the coffee Scandro had left on the stove, drank it slowly while leaning against the counter, then dragged himself to the bathroom to wash his face. The cold water helped a little, but the exhaustion sat deeper than that.
By the time he reached his room, the bed looked dangerously inviting.
“I’m sleeping,” he told the empty apartment. “Nobody talk to me for at least six hours.”
The apartment did not argue.
—
When Filippo woke up again, the room was bright enough that he knew he had slept for a while.
He blinked up at the ceiling, trying to decide if he was actually awake again or still somewhere in the middle of a dream.
Then he heard it.
Click.
Tap-tap.
Click.
A short pause.
Then a faster run of sounds.
Click–tap–click.
Filippo frowned into the pillow.
It took a few seconds for his brain to process the rhythm.
Click. Tap. A faint mechanical clack again.
Filippo squinted toward the ceiling.
“Scandro,” he mumbled to the empty room, his voice rough with sleep. “I swear to god—”
Scandro made noise when he was home, sure, but it was usually things like doors, loud sighing, or complaining about cables.
He dragged himself out of bed, pulled on a pair of shorts, and shuffled into the hallway in his socks, scratching lazily at the back of his head. His curls were doing whatever they wanted.
The sound was coming from the living room, so Filippo walked toward it slowly.
“Scandro,” he started, his voice louder now. “You know this week has been a disaster and—”
He reached the doorway, and stopped.
Someone was sitting on the couch. And that was definitely not Scandro.
A guy. The guy, probably.
For a second Filippo just stood there, mid-sentence, completely frozen.
A small keyboard rested across the guy’s lap, cables trailing toward the floor. A pair of headphones covered his ears while his fingers moved quickly over the pads and keys, working through something with surprising confidence.
Tap. Click. Tap-tap.
He was leaning forward slightly, completely focused.
Filippo stood there for another moment, the rest of his sentence hanging uselessly in the air.
He was looking at the hair.
Dark. Thick. Slightly messy, falling forward when the guy dipped his head toward the keyboard.
Okay.
Scandro hadn’t been lying. The guy really was…good-looking.
“…okay,” Filippo murmured quietly to himself.
That had to be Carlo.
The guy kept playing, clearly hearing something through the headphones that Filippo couldn’t. Which meant he definitely hadn’t heard the attempted conversation.
So Filippo walked closer, still a little foggy from sleep.
“Well,” he muttered under his breath, “this is already a weird first impression.”
He reached out and tapped the guy lightly on the shoulder.
The reaction was immediate.
The guy jolted, his fingers slipping off the keys. The small keyboard let out a startled electronic chirp as he pulled the headphones down around his neck.
For a moment they just stared at each other.
Then recognition flickered across the guy’s face.
“Oh,” he said, catching his breath. “You must be Filippo.”
“…Yeah,” Filippo managed after a moment.
The guy pushed the keyboard aside and stood up, offering a small, slightly sheepish smile.
Filippo blinked. Jesus. The guy was tall.
“Right. I thought that might be you.”
He brushed a hand through his dark hair.
“I’m Carlo,” he said. “And it seems like I’m going to be living here now.”
(random, because they are the softest boys, but i feel strangely angsty with this song; because I do see fil as a drama queen sometimes)
🎶’
The rehearsal room always feels bigger once everyone leaves.
Cables sleeping on the floor, amps still warm, the air heavy with stale beer and something unfinished.
Carlo stretches across the couch like he belongs there more than the furniture does, one arm thrown behind his head. His shirt rides up when he moves, exposing a narrow strip of skin. Filippo notices without meaning to. Then keeps noticing anyway.
He takes a slow sip of beer just to give himself something else to do.
Carlo’s phone lights up again. A message, another one. He laughs under his breath, his thumbs moving quickly, eyes soft in a way Filippo suddenly dislikes seeing directed somewhere else.
“Who’re you texting?” he asks, aiming for casual and missing.
Carlo shrugs.
“Ah. Nobody.”
The answer lands wrong, too light and too easy.
Filippo looks away, jaw tightening, pretending interest in a pedal left unplugged near his foot. The room hums quietly around them, evening pressing against the windows.
Carlo notices. He always does.
He pushes himself upright on the couch, already setting his phone aside without another glance at it. His hand taps the cushion next to him.
“Come here.”
Filippo exhales through his nose, like surrender annoys him, and walks over anyway. He sits close enough that their knees touch.
Carlo turns slightly toward him.
“You tired?”
“Yeah,” Filippo says. “Just a little.”
Carlo hums, like that confirms something, then leans in and presses a brief, absent-minded kiss to his cheek, then leaves another one somewhere in his curls.
The city keeps going. Filippo feels the tightness in his chest loosen, replaced by something safe.
