Lovino sat in stony silence before the dark screen separating him from the priest. His heavy breathing sounded loudly in his ears, and the heat was suffocating within the closed confessional. The urge to escape was overwhelming, but Lovino drew a shaking breath before beginning his confession.
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned." Lovino stopped to steady himself before continuing. "It has been…" How long had it been? He used to come every week, but ever since Lovino met him six months ago, he hadn't come a single time. "It has been… a month since my last confession." Lovino felt sick for lying in church. Yet another sin to add onto his ever growing list.
Lovino was startled out of his thoughts as the priest coughed quietly, the screen muffling the noise. What was he supposed to say? Years of confessions flew out the window as Lovino found himself at a loss as to what to say. His breathing speed up as he suddenly felt lightheaded. He knew that the thoughts he was having were unnatural, that they should be reserved only for women, and only after marriage, at that. He knew that confession was what he needed to do. But as he opened and closed his mouth, no sound escaped. The wooden walls of the confessional seemed to close in on him as they attempted to pry the confession out of him. The small enclosed space seemed to heat up even more as drops of sweat appeared on his brow. Suddenly, Lovino wasn't in the church anymore as his feet carried him down the streets of Paris. He ignored the confused looks of passersby and the angry yells of drivers.
His feet carried him to the base of his apartment building, but as Lovino stared up at the cold marble façade of the building, he found himself unable to enter. Instead, he found his way to a small, bustling café and ordered a sandwich after seating himself at a small table, back faced to the wall. Everyone in the café seemed to be minding their own business, the lighthearted atmosphere a welcome change to the silence of the church. As he waited for his food to arrive, Lovino flipped open his sketchbook. The first page held the image of a slender young ballerina, forever frozen in a graceful arabesque. It was the first drawing he had done at the Paris Opera Ballet, completed moments before he had met Antonio.
Antonio. The charismatic Spanish dancer whose easy smile and careless laugh had unknowingly condemned Lovino to a life of shame.
It was six months ago when they met. Lovino had finally given into the pleads of his French friend and reluctantly accompanied François to the dance school to "watch the beautiful young ladies", as François had put it, and to meet a Spanish friend of his who had recently moved to Paris after obtaining a prestigious scholarship.
Prior to that day, Lovino had been sure that he would one day marry a nice young woman and have a family of his own someday. He was popular among women, and he wasn't afraid to flirt shamelessly with them, although he was careful never to go any further. His Catholic upbringing had ensured that.
Lovino flipped to the second page in his sketchbook. The smiling face of a dark haired young man stared back. This drawing had been made as he sat inside a practice room, pretending to be attentively watching and sketching the young ballerinas that twirled and leapt across the room. Lovino traced the smudged pencil marks where he had attempted to erase the drawing, face burning red as he realised the subject of the sketch.
That day, he had sulkily followed François down the halls of the dance school, slightly overwhelmed by the commotion in the halls as dance classes let out for the day. François, seemingly unaffected had winked at a couple of girls before pulling Lovino with him into a closed classroom. Piano music greeted the two men's ears as they watched the ballerinas dance, faces twisted into frowns as the teacher refused to let them leave. Lovino got out his sketchbook, absentmindedly sketching one of the girls as François made his way to the teacher. Moments later, the teacher finally set the dancers free as she turned to address François.
"You're looking for Antoine, I presume?" The woman stared pointedly at François.
"Oui, maman." François looked sheepish as his mother's stern gaze seemed to bore holes into his head.
"You know better than to interrupt me when I have a class." A stream of apologies came from the Frenchman, and Lovino couldn't resist smirking a little at his friend's misfortune. "He should be on the second floor, probably still practicing in one of the rooms." At this, François' mother nodded approvingly before shooing the two men off.
Lovino flipped to the next page, which held the dancing form of the same dark haired man as before.
Lovino had followed François up the marble stairs of the school, and watched disinterestedly as François threw open every door in search of his friend. Finally, at the end of the hall, Lovino heard a quiet 'ah!' as François practically ran into the room. Whoever this 'Antoine' was, Lovino had to respect him his ability to make the usually suave Frenchman act like a young child.
As he entered the classroom, he was greeted by the sight of his French friend embracing another man. Lovino stepped cautiously into the classroom, feeling rather awkward. Suddenly, François jerked back from the hug and rushed over to Lovino, dragging him over to the other man.
"Antoine, this is my friend. You know, the Italian one I've written to you about." Lovino's cheeks coloured as he wondered what François could have written about him.
"What did you say, you baguette eating bastard?"
A small chuckle came from Antonio. Lovino turned on him angrily, demanding, "What the hell did that vain bastard say about me?" Just as he finished his angry accusation, Lovino's eyes widened as hazel met green. He suddenly felt an urge to paint, to sculpt that face. His eyes probed every detail of the man before him, from his curly, sweaty hair to his animated eyes to the battered ballet shoes the other wore, a shade too light for his tanned skin. Lovino suddenly felt rather inferior as he gazed upon the other, who seemed blissfully unaware of the discomfort he was causing Lovino.
"He didn't say much, really." A heavy Spanish accent tainted his French. "He just told me that you were his friend, you're Italian, and that you are angry a lot." By this point, Lovino just wanted to hide. He had proven François' words right within five minutes of meeting Antonio.
A sultry French voice interrupted before Lovino could begin yelling. "Anyways, whatever I said in my letters are not important. What is important is that you two have met. Now, let's leave this place and go to the restaurant." François was referring to his own beloved restaurant. Antonio nodded agreeably before heading off to change, while Lovino and François headed off down to the main gate of the school. As they walked, Lovino held his sketchbook to his side while images of future paintings and sketches shot through his brain, each one involving the charming dancer. Lovino shook his head to rid himself of the blasphemous thoughts, but Antonio's infectious smile was seemed to be imprinted in his mind.
He had François waited in silence at the gate, and eventually Antonio appeared, hopping on one foot as he struggled to get his shoe on. François had laughed before assuring his friend that he wasn't in a rush. As the trio walked to the restaurant, Lovino could help but sneak glances at the Spanish man every few steps, quickly glancing away any time the other caught his eye.
Lovino glanced up from his sketchbook as the waiter appeared with his sandwich, carefully setting it upon the table before rushing off to serve more customers. After uncharacteristically devouring the sandwich, Lovino snapped closed his sketchbook before paying for his food and strolling slowly down the street. When he passed a church, his heart seemed to stop for a second before he continued on his journey home. An unfinished painting greeted Lovino when he opened the door to his tiny apartment. The painting was of a dancer, just like almost every painting he'd made in the past couple of months. However, this painting wasn't made to be sold, nor was it made for anyone but himself. This painting wasn't of elegant young ballerinas, but of a tanned young dancer, facing away from the audience. Although the dancer wasn't facing the audience, it was obvious who the subject was. This was Lovino's masterpiece, the painting he poured all his time and love into, as an attempt to recreate his secret love in paint. Lovino's fingers twitched as he contemplated picking up his paintbrushes and continuing to work on his masterpiece. After deciding against it, he threw his notebook onto his bed before throwing himself facedown onto the unfolded sheets.
Lovino knew that he was walking a precarious path; someday, someone was going to find out about his sinful thoughts. For now, he took comfort in knowing that although his love was unrequited, at least Antonio was oblivious towards his longing.
(…)
Many thought Antonio to be clueless, a man with a one-track mind that thought only of ballet. Although it was true that he spent perhaps too much of his time at the school, Antonio was by no means simple. Antonio was well aware of the Lovino's infatuation with him. How could he not? Ever since the day they met, Lovino had been stealing glances when he thought Antonio wasn't looking, and Antonio had caught the younger man sketching him when he was dancing. Although Lovino tried desperately to hide his feelings by saying spiteful things to Antonio and denying any notion of friendship between the two, Antonio knew of the other's hidden love. The spiteful words meant nothing, and despite his constant complaints that the Spaniard was clingy, Lovino was reluctant to let even a week go by without visiting, either at the dance school or at some café.
Antonio felt much the same way as Lovino did, yet also hesitated to act upon his actions. He knew of Lovino's strong dedication towards his religion, despite the man's coarse speech and rough manners, Antonio knew that he prayed every night for forgiveness. Although Antonio was Catholic himself, the days of daily prayer and confession were gone, replaced by a firm belief that as long as he didn't harm anyone, he was fine in God's eyes. In spite of his beliefs, Antonio respected Lovino's beliefs and although it pained him to see the Italian tense up every time they walked by a church, he decided not to intervene with the other's internal crisis. He wasn't one to get involved with others' business. Besides, he had problems of his own.
The streets of Paris rushed by in a blur as Antonio rode around the city aimlessly on his bike. He was a little lost, having made a wrong turn somewhere and was now in the middle of a jungle of twisting cobblestone streets. It didn't concern him that the sun was quickly setting— he would make it home safely somehow. If he didn't, he'd just sleep on a bench somewhere. It wouldn't be the first time. Nor the second.
The sun had completely set by now, but Antonio was still far from home. The streetlights glowed dimly as the streets began to empty. The quiet residential neighbourhoods were soon void of people, save for Antonio and his bike.
Half an hour later, he found himself still lost. It seemed quite obvious that he wasn't going to find his way home anytime soon. With a small sigh, Antonio eventually located a bench that he deemed comfortable enough to be a bed. The cool autumn air was pleasant enough, and the thin jacket he was wearing proved to be a suitable blanket.
Just as he closed his eyes, a familiar Italian accented voice startled Antonio awake.