Buon Compleanno, Bastardo
"What the hell? No way am I wearing that, you pervert!"
"Ah, come on, Lovino," Antonio coaxed, thrusting the ridiculous outfit – which had far too many ruffles for the Italian boy's liking – closer to Lovino's face. Lovino batted the monstrosity away in disgust. "You promised!"
"The hell I did!" Lovino fixed the older boy with a glare that could have curdled milk, but the bloody Spaniard merely grinned all the wider, waggling the costume and his eyebrows in unison. Lovino growled.
"But Lovino," Antonio sang. "It's my birthday, so you have to do whatever I tell you."
"The hell I do," Lovino muttered, but he grabbed the costume from Antonio's fist anyway. The damn tomato bastard had a point. "Fine, I'll play your stupid game. But I don't see why I have to wear this stupid thing," he added, holding up the revoltingly frilly skirt as though it were a particularly hairy spider.
"Because I'm the handsome prince," Antonio said matter-of-factly, shaking his dark, unruly hair out of his eyes, standing with legs akimbo and chest puffed out as far as it would go. Lovino had to admit – albeit grudgingly – that he did look very much the part, wearing that magnificent tricorn hat Francis had given him, and with Arthur's gift, a beautiful wooden sword, belted around his waist. He also couldn't help but feel a little… jealous. Not that he would ever admit it. The last thing the damn bastard needed was his ego stroked. "And you, chico, are my damsel in distress."
"Whatever." Lovino turned away quickly, before Antonio could construe the pinkness rising in his cheeks as anything more than the mortification of being forced to wear girl's clothing. Because that was all it was. It was absolutely nothing to do with the look in Antonio's eyed when he called Lovino 'his damsel'. Nope, absolutely not. Lovino clutched the dress to his chest and strode from the room with as much dignity and spite as he could muster. "Damn jerk."
It was only once he was safely shut in his own room that Lovino allowed himself to smile.
.
Some years later…
.
Lovino wasn't nearly drunk enough for what he was about to do. Having stowed himself at the far end of the bar, he had managed to avoid most unwanted attention, and on the odd occasion that someone did happen to stray too close to his hiding place, he sent them packing with a well-honed glare. While the fiesta climbed steadily towards a drunken crescendo in the cantina behind him, Lovino sat alone, sculling back whatever appeared on the bar before him without bothering to taste it, trying to figure out what exactly he was doing here.
"That damn jerk," he slurred to the glass in his hand, as a particularly loud burst of laughter rose behind him. "Acting all cool, with his friends and his laughing, and, and his hair. Makes me sick." Lovino drained the glass, slammed it back to the bar-top and gestured for another. The bartender gave him a measured look.
"I think you've had about enough, sonny."
"Vaffanculo." Sighing, the man filled Lovino's glass and obediently fucked off. Lovino knocked the drink back, slammed the glass down again, spun unsteadily to face the bulk of the room, and lurched to his feet. Fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck everything. He was going to do this, before he regained his sanity and dropped this whole, mad idea.
"Hey, bastardo!" Lovino shouted, swaying slightly.
It was a strange feeling, having the room quieten as what seemed like every eye in existence swung round to rest on him. Or rather, it might have been, if Lovino hadn't been so utterly pissed, or so utterly focused on finding one very specific pair of eyes.
It did not take him long to locate Antonio; as expected, the floppy-haired Spanish bastard had been right in the middle of the action, and now he was gazing at Lovino, the ghost of a raucous laugh still lingering in the curve of his lips, and God, he was so fucking gorgeous…
Right. Now or never, Lovino. "I have something for you, tomato bastard." Lovino kept his eyes fixed on Antonio as he slowly started to unbutton the long coat he had been wearing all evening. Someone – Francis? – whistled. Lovino ignored the laughter; it didn't matter. As far as he was concerned, he and Antonio were the only ones in the room – and if the look Antonio was giving him was anything to go by, Lovino would have bet his right hand that the Spaniard was in a similar state of mind. As Lovino undid the last button and let the coat slip to the floor Antonio's eyes widened in recognition – and Lovino, dressed a very familiar, very frilly ensemble, began to stalk towards him.
To say that the room erupted would be an understatement of the grossest proportions. The sheer volume of the cheers, whistles, and catcalls quickly surpassed deafening and approached apocalyptic. Someone – Francis again, probably – made a grab for Lovino's skirt. Without looking the Italian stomped down, hard, on the perpetrator's foot, and was rewarded with a fluent string of French curses. Yeah, definitely Francis.
"Serves you right, du Scheiẞkopf," Gilbert's voice rose above the laughter. "He's Antonio's tonight, not yours."
"What's happening?" Shit! That was Feli's voice. Lovino almost stumbled, his cheeks flaming. Oh, God, the others he could stand, but if Feliciano saw this he'd never hear the end of it. "Move your hand, Ludwig, I can't see!"
"I-I don't think that's a good idea." God, he could practically hear the blush in the big German's voice. He might have laughed if he hadn't just realised that he would probably have to thank Ludwig later. Damn potato bastard.
It might have been this momentary lapse in concentration that did it – or perhaps that final glass of whatever-it-was had finally hit his bloodstream. Whatever the cause, Lovino actually did stumble this time – badly. When his addled senses returned, he found himself sprawled rather gracelessly across Antonio's lap, with the green-eyed Spaniard gazing down at him as if he were seeing him for the very first time – and liking what he saw.
"Hola," Antonio spoke in a low voice, quirking an eyebrow. "Mi damisela en apuros."
My damsel in distress. Lovino's cheeks blazed as he hurried to push himself into a more dignified position, and somehow he ended up straddling the Spaniard, who was looking more amused with every passing second. Lovino gave him a withering look, before wrapping his arms around Antonio's neck and leaning in to whisper against his ear.
"Buon compleanno, bastardo." Antonio's breath caught and Lovino felt a shudder run through the Spaniard. Ha. Not so amusing now, am I? Jerk.
Gilbert cleared his throat and Lovino nearly jumped out of his skin at the unexpected sound. Just when had it gotten so quiet?
"Uh, Antonio? You gonna unwrap your present, or what?"
Antonio just looked dazed. Lovino leaned around him to shoot a glare at the smirking Prussian.
"Not in front of you assholes, he's not! You can just go f– hey, what the-?"
Ignoring the enraged Italian's protests, Antonio stood up, scooping Lovino into his arms in the same not-so-fluid movement. As soon as he lurched to his feet it became clear that he was at least as drunk as Lovino, and the two of them spent an ungainly moment reeling for balance, Lovino clutching Antonio's shoulders and cursing him - he was going to fall damn it! - and Antonio laughing and telling him to stop squirming, or he would drop him. By some miracle they managed to stay upright, and Antonio, having found his feet, shook his hair out of his eyes. The familiar movement sent a jolt through Lovino's gut, and his breath caught when Antonio's eyes met his, so green and clear and God, so Antonio…
"Gentlemen," Antonio addressed the room, his eyes never leaving Lovino's. "I trust you will be able to enjoy the rest of the evening without me."
With that the room tilted and blurred, and before Lovino knew what was happening Antonio had swung him up over his shoulder as easily as he might a sack of tomatoes. Lovino's scream of rage and indignation was drowned out by the unanimous cheer from the dubiously-named 'gentlemen' as Antonio crossed the room with his prize.
Lovino pounded furiously on Antonio's back as the Spaniard bounded up the stairs at the back of the cantina, and he was still cursing the damn bastard when Antonio kicked open the door at the end of the hall and threw him unceremoniously onto the bed within.
"You damn jerk!" Lovino yelled, scrambling to right himself, eyes and cheeks burning. "What the hell was-"
And then Antonio was there, pulling Lovino close and crushing their lips together, and any anger Lovino might have felt at the infuriating Spaniard was swept away in the flood of having him so close, so rough, so real.
"Lovino," Antonio breathed against Lovino's mouth, and Lovino gasped.
"Say that again," he whispered, teasing his way with teeth and tongue down the side of Antonio's neck.
"Ah! Lovino," the Spaniard moaned all too willingly, fingers tangling in Lovino's hair. "Lovino…" His other hand began to slide up Lovino's thigh, pushing beneath the ridiculous skirt. Lovino abandoned Antonio's neck and reclaimed his lips, kissing him fiercely, hungrily, while his hands worked at the Spaniard's belt buckle – which, in Lovino's opinion, was just as annoying and unnecessary as the skirt. With the help of some divine providence Lovino finally managed to unfasten the damn thing, but before he could move to unlace his dress Antonio's hand shot out and seized his wrist.
"The dress stays," Antonio growled, his breath hot against Lovino's ear. "Mi corazón."
Lovino wouldn't have argued even if he'd been able to, and when Antonio released his wrist he draped his arms about the Spaniard's shoulders and let him lift him into his lap.
They were both too drunk, and it was over too quickly. But as he arched against Antonio, Lovino's every sense was overwhelmed by the blinding joy of feeling him everywhere at once, and the world sharpened and fell until everything was Antonio – Antonio's hands, Antonio's skin, Antonio's voice, Antonio's heat inside him – and when Lovino's name tore from Antonio's lips in a broken prayer, Lovino was so far gone, so lost that he was barely aware of crying Antonio's name in breathless unison. And when they were both completely spent, and they collapsed against each other, trembling, panting, a tangle of glistening limbs and damp, dark hair, it didn't matter that the little room above the cantina smelled of cigarettes and cabbage, or that the bed was lumpy and too small. It didn't even matter that Lovino was wearing that stupid dress. Because Antonio was here, and Antonio was everything.
Lovino lay back with a contented sigh, pulling the Spaniard with him.
"Lovino," Antonio murmured against Lovino's shoulder. "Te quiero."
Lovino tried not to smile. "Go to sleep, bastard. You're drunk."
"I don't care. I mean it."
Lovino's heart leaped, and for a moment he was torn between telling Antonio he was a bastard and telling him that he loved him, too. Then he realised that it didn't much matter which he said, because somehow, somewhere along the line, the two had started to mean exactly the same thing. He tried to recall a moment when that might have happened, but found he could not. Perhaps there had never been any real difference between them at all.
So when Antonio's breathing slowed and deepened, Lovino finally allowed himself to smile. And, kissing the sleeping Spaniard's dark curls, he whispered:
"Ti amo, bastardo."