Reasons to Run
A/N: This is odd for me. I was somewhat inspired by the painful writing style of Ernest Hemingway, and the story is based on fun.'s We Are Young. I am extremely bored, tired, and brainless right now, so if this has no point whatsoever, you know why. Happy reading!
Jilted and torn, he walks through the lonely bar. The band, his love, his stupid love, is playing some song he is definitely not paying attention to. The singer seems distracted. He keeps staring at him. Well, let him. He deserved to be ignored. He hurt, intentionally, unintentionally. He cast it off as common error. Brushing it off would not work this time.
Some sunglasses walk up to him by the counter, pointing and laughing at the singer. The singer frowns, not faltering. Romano wishes the fucker would stutter for once. Make a mistake because of him. Sunglasses touches his shoulder, a jolting gesture that tells Romano he has two choices—he leaves with this man or he stays. He stays. To clear his system, he throws an insult or two at Sunglasses. He gives Romano a violent look, puffs out his chest, a look of animalistic superiority. Just a show. Romano turns away, only to have a green bottle smashed on the back of his head. He stumbles, catches himself, sees some man knocking Sunglasses in the jaw. More broken bottles, some familiar, personal words meaning they must know each other, the bartender picks up the phone and mutters something. Antonio looks alarmed, but his bandmates urge him to go on. So he does. Prick.
Romano feels the back of his head. No protruding shards of glass, but a slight wetness. He stares at it and collapses.
Seeing this, Antonio throws the mic aside and jumps offstage. The time lapse between his halted singing and his arrival at Romano's side is blurred. He whispers calming words, apologizes too late, holds him still in his lap. In a harsh, sharp voice, he calls for someone to dial 911. The crowd shuffles awkwardly until the bartender does.
Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry, Antonio says, Romano pretends he has passed out. He hears every word. He revels in the sorrow. He will feel guilty later, but that doesn't matter to him right now; all that is important is right now. Antonio peppers small kisses around his face, and Romano feels a different, cold wetness. His eyes shoot open.
Antonio thanks the God he has neglected for so long and holds Romano until it hurts and Romano tells him so quite clearly. You're okay. You're you. Antonio babbles.
Of course I'm me. Who else would I be?
Ha. That rhymed, Roma.
Shut up. I'm bleeding.
I know you are. I'm holding it in here. See?
Yeah. Blood. Don't get it on my clothes.
Ha, I'll try not to.
You're crying.
I'm sorry.
Why did you ignore me?
What?
You stopped talking to me. After I agreed to fucking date you. You suddenly got "busy" with your band. You're avoiding me.
I'm not avoiding you now.
Fuck you.
I was nervous. I thought I would mess us up.
You certainly did well with that. Jackass.
Hey.
You are.
You might be right. You are right. I did the worst I could have done.
I thought you were the romantic type.
I am. But. I was scared.
Those types get scared?
What types?
Manwhores.
Ha! Ha! You're funny, Roma.
I wasn't laughing.
You're funny.
I thought that's all you wanted.
What?
Sex. You can't like me.
No! What! No! I like you. Why can't I like you?
There's nothing to like.
You're beautiful, Roma.
See. It's sex.
I didn't mean it like that. You know I didn't.
I know.
I'm sorry. I'm glad you came tonight.
I came to make you jealous. But I couldn't.
You couldn't?
I didn't want to.
Oh, Roma.
Shut up.
You're cute.
Shut up, shut up.
The paramedics arrive and check Romano. Cops cuff Sunglasses when the bartender explains what happened. They warn Romano not to provoke people of larger physique. Romano holds back a swear. He feels dizzy. He tells Antonio.
Oh, please, just hold on, babe.
Don't call me that.
You're bleeding more. Please, hold on.
It's on your pants.
I know. Don't worry.
I'm not worried, jerk.
Antonio smiles and holds Romano's hand in the ambulance, a worried smile that droops as Romano's eyes droop.
"He'll be fine, sir," says a paramedic, holding gauze to the Italian's head.
Antonio nods. "I know. I know."
He doesn't sound too sure.
"How do you know him?" the paramedic asks.
"He is…ah…my friend." He is also unsure of how tolerant these people are.
The man nods in apparent omniscience. "I understand," he says.
They pull him out and into the hospital. By then Romano is asleep. They tell Antonio to wait in the lobby. He fidgets and frets and ignores calls from his bandmates until the doctors come back and tell him Romano is okay and he can go see him.
Romano does not look happy when Antonio comes in. He tells him it hurts like hell, and he has a headache, and he would not have been surprised if his brain had spilled out. Antonio gives a disgusted look.
Don't talk like that, please.
Too gross for you? Pussy.
No. I don't want to think of you getting hurt.
Romano gestures to his head. You don't have to think about it, he says. It's right here.
Do you blame me?
What? No. I said that dumb stuff to the guy.
But.
No. It's my fault, and his damn fault for being a violent fucking dickwad.
Romano.
What?
I love you.
No, you don't.
I do. I swear. When I see you lying here, I know.
Romano looks away, red and suddenly embarrassed. Shut up, he grounds out.
You keep saying that. Do you really want me to?
…No.
I love you, Romano.
Romano says nothing. Antonio sits by his bedside, starting to feel the long nights of practice creeping up on him. His shoulders sag and his head lolls to the side.
Just as the tendrils of sleep began to pull him away, Romano said something very quietly that Antonio might have mistaken for a dream.
"I love you too, you stupid bastard."
A/N: The lack of quotation marks and horrific sentence structure are intentional, but depending on your writing preferences, this could have been a train wreck. I apologize for any blood loss via eyeballs. Please review when you get the chance!