Feliciano whimpered as Ivan drew closer. "Please," he whispered, backing away until his back met the trunk of a tree and he could go no further. "I have some money. I have food. I can give it to you, please, please don't hurt me-"

Ivan's hand shot out and Feliciano found his chin being forced up. "I don't want your food, little Red," he growled. "I want to eat you."

Tears began to run down the smaller man's cheeks. Ivan chuckled and undid the clasp of the wolfskin coat draped over his bare torso. "You should not have strayed from the path, my child," he said. "It would be a difficult thing indeed for your father to find you now." He swooped down and captured Feliciano's lips in a bruising, biting kiss.

Feliciano sneezed.

"Cut!" Arthur ran both hands over his face. "For God's sake, Vargas, can't you control your bloody sinuses for twenty bloody minutes?"

Romano Vargas flipped him the bird. "That's what you get for using your grandma's Sunday furs, buttface. I have allergies."

Ivan furrowed his brows and patted his pockets for a pack of tissues. "You okay?"

Romano took them and blew his nose loudly. "Peachy. Could you dust yourself off or something before the next scene so I don't start blowing snot everywhere? Hard to get all weepy when your nose itches."

Arthur cleared his throat from the director's seat. "Take two!"

"Fuck you, I need a latte," Romano called back.

"If we don't stick to schedule then we're not going to be able to finish this in time to start shooting Saucy Chefs II. Get your arse back to work or you can bloody well do the rest of this barmy porno on your own!"

"Hell, I'd do a better job than you. I wouldn't be fucking anyone with fucking tree branches, how do you even come up with this stuff-"

"That's a dildo, you twat, if your precious bumhole is too good for rubber then you can take it up with Props."

Romano sneered but let it go, because if the unassuming branch next to Ivan really was made of rubber, then it was a mark of real craftsmanship. Also, Berwald scared the shit out of him so it was probably not a great idea to complain about the guy's handiwork.

Ivan scratched the back of his head shyly. "Well, we have been shooting since this morning. Maybe a break wouldn't hurt."

Arthur's jaw slackened, albeit minutely. "Fine," he replied grudgingly, "but only because it's you."

"Excellent." Romano gave Ivan a friendly smack on the rear and made for the refreshments. "Good work out there. Slavic accent's really coming through. Might be a good idea to lick your lips a little, though. Maybe right before the kiss."

"Okay. Thank you," Ivan replied, taking the advice down on a napkin and stuffing it into his back pocket. Little ticks like growling and lip-licking had to be scripted because being a general mother defiler didn't come naturally to him. He still tended to get nervous about the idea of sex in general when he wasn't on camera. Still, Ivan the Terrible was popular enough. Six and a half feet of blonde Russian male tended to go down well with most audiences, especially when Ivan had the ability to go a full octave lower than his normal speaking voice. In a couple of years he'd be able to finish paying for college and wouldn't have to fuck dudes for money ever again (unless he wanted to). Until then Romano would have to be liberal with the lube, because Ivan had a dick roughly the size of a salami.

Unlike Ivan, Romano wasn't very hard-up. His grandfather had left him with a hefty inheritance when he croaked, so Romano mostly starred in adult movies for the hell of it. He'd picked the stage name Feliciano on the advice on his agent, who'd wisely said that actually calling himself Fellatio may have been laying it on a bit thick. Getting paid to have sex on his own terms at a bona fide studio (quality wank material, not the sort of crap you got from a hack in his parents' basement) was actually not a bad way of making a living. Plus, he got free lots of free pornos, which he proudly displayed on a shelf at home to shock the neighbours.

Romano finished his coffee and made a face. "Cheap crap comes straight out of a packet," he muttered, tossing the paper cup into a bin. The next scene would involve getting manhandled onto a fallen oak, fingered, fucked with a rubber dildo which was apparently shaped like a branch and then fucked by Ivan's salami dick. After that a burly lumberjack with an axe (played by a handsome Danish upstart) would jump in and rescue him, and then there would be more sex.

"Right." He squared his shoulders. Time to get his sexy on.

They finished filming about three weeks later. Once the post-production team had worked its magic, cast and crew gathered at Francis's place to watch a private screening (which was really only an excuse to party hard).

They suffered for it the next day, naturally. Francis had to drink twice his weight in alcohol before he got hammered enough to clamber onto Matthew's shoulders and demand they go to the beach, but he had been known to do that on occasion. Romano, on the other hand, had no such luck. He'd woken up with a raging hangover on the morning of a convention gathering and showed up fifteen minutes late with Starbucks. Arthur had glared daggers at him and he'd been intimidated for a whole minute before remembering that he had to meet legions of annoying fans, and then his mood soured even more.

He would have skipped it entirely, but Gilbert insisted that it would be good for publicity. The guy acted a bit like a teenager sometimes, but he'd proved to be a very capable agent. As much as Romano hated to admit, he'd never have reached this level of success without his advice. Then again, he probably wouldn't have become a porn actor without Gilbert egging him on either.

The convention was being held at the ground floor of some building specialising in COMECON-type things. Romano didn't much like the look of it, but then again he was picky with where he hung out. Ivan was absent (he rarely went attended gatherings like these, preferring instead to study in his dorm room), but a couple of lesser names were there. Romano spent the better part of an hour answering questions from fans, and then the remaining two signing autographs and taking pictures.

Maintaining Feliciano's cheerful demeanour was torturous. He was genuinely polite to the nice young ladies who'd giggled as they asked for photos (sly old Francis really knew what girls liked to see), but more than once he was groped by creepy old men, and all he could do was act meek and try to wriggle free. What he really wanted was to punch one of them and teach him a lesson, but Gilbert gave him a warning look the one time he raised his fist threateningly. Luckily, Alfred and Matthew, the two-man camera crew, eventually noticed his distress and acted as temporary bodyguards.

Eventually the crowd began to ebb. Romano's face hurt from smiling. He quietly slipped away to get a couple of minutes to himself. Unable to stray too far for fear of being caught and dragged back, he sought refuge behind a couple of speakers.

He stood rubbing his face for a couple of minutes before he heard a yelp, and got a face full of ice-cold coffee.

Predictably, he shrieked. Few people could screech quite like Romano could, being the red-blooded Italian that he was. The entire assembly ground to a halt, and heads whipped to his direction. Silence fell.

The man who had caused the scene was flat on his stomach, having apparently tripped. Romano stared at him, and the man stared back, face going from white to an interesting shade of red. He stood up.

"I am so sorry-"

Romano remembered at the last minute that he was supposed to be Feliciano today. "It's okay!" he blurted out, inwardly grinding his teeth at the loss of a perfectly good white shirt. "Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?"

The man stared at him for a minute with his mouth open, and then seemed to realise that a response was expected. "Of course not! I, uh, I tripped over one of this, wires, I think, I am so sorry, I completely ruined your shirt, if you give me a minute to find a cloth or something I can help you to clean up?"

The words came out in a barely intelligible string. Romano forced a laugh. "It's okay, at least your coffee wasn't hot," he said. "It's just a shirt. I'll live."

The man winced. "You're taking this awfully well." He cast around guiltily for something to help him. "I'll pay for the dry cleaning bill, or buy you a new shirt or something." Snatching a marker pen off a nearby table, he scribbled a number onto his plastic cup and thrust it at Romano sheepishly. "Just call me when you want me to pay you back and I'll give you a check. Is it okay?"

Romano's smile was beginning to crack a little around the edges. "Yeah. Yeah, I think that would be a good idea," he said, taking the cup.

The man laughed nervously and didn't meet his eye. "Sorry again. I'll just, uh, I'll go ahead and leave," he said. Without waiting for a response, he scarpered.

Elizabeta, Francis's lovely secretary, came to Romano's aid with an armful of napkins to dry him off. Romano allowed the smile to fall off and scowled at the rest of the world, hoping that he'd saved a receipt. His shirt had been new.

He glanced at the cup still in his hand. Antonio, it said.

"You have to admit, though, the guy was cute," Elizabeta said the next day.

They were in Francis's private bungalow, seated on a plush cream sofa. Francis's house, when he bought it from its previous owners, had been half wood, half glass. To some, it had been the perfect blend of rustic and modern. To others, it was architectural schizophrenia. Under Francis's capable guidance, however, it morphed into exactly the kind of chic one would expect from a rich blonde airhead who'd shag anything with a heartbeat.

Romano sipped his drink (Francis may have been a bit unstable, but the man had excellent taste in wine). Even though Little Red had only just been released, Francis was already in the process of coming up with new ideas. Wandering around the indoor garden, he bounced his ideas off a tree. His sleepy-eyed co-producer, Herakles, sat on an ornamental stone and nodded sagely. Arthur offered his two-cents from across the hall where he was buried in the fridge, because for some reason he seemed unable to feed himself when Francis wasn't around to look after him.

Francis was more succubus than man, and liked his plots slightly thicker than cardboard. Between his writing and Arthur's eye for direction, Red, White and Blue Movies had become a pornographic giant. Arguably, the two of them were the backbone of the company. Romano figured this was because of their combined sexual repression and inability to admit they wanted to bang uglies when no one was looking.

"He was an idiot," Romano snorted. "I mean, what kind of moron falls flat on his face and spills coffee on a porn star?"

Elizabeta stared at him as though he was being needlessly thick. "That just makes him endearing, stupid. Did you see those eyes? That hair?"

Romano hummed. Antonio had indeed had very nice eyes. And very nice hair. And a very nice ass. Very nice everything, really.

"Are you going to call him?"

"Hell yeah, that shirt cost me a hundred dollars. I want my money back."

Elizabeta rolled her eyes. "I meant, are you going to call him?"

"Eugh. How about no. He looked mentally challenged. Besides, I dunno about you, but I ain't too big on the type of creeps that go to a porn convention, you know?" He sloshed his drink in her direction.

She stared at the ceiling and said nothing.

Romano grinned. "Dirty bitch."

Arthur and Francis had started bickering like the pair of old queens they were. "I'm not saying they were bad, I'm just saying, maybe we need to go bigger next time around."

Arthur huffed. "The thing with the branch got rave reviews! How much bigger are you thinking?"

"Big enough to beat Yao's merry band, at least. I mean rubber branch dildos are all very well and good, but did you see the thing with the mechanical squid?"

"We're not going to be getting any mechanical squids unless you actually manage to poach Honda."

"Maybe we should. While we're at it, maybe we should try to recruit that other fellow too-"

"The German bloke? The one with the," Arthur waved his hand vaguely, "the one with the dogs?"

Francis paused. "How will that fare, do you think?"

Arthur raised his impressive eyebrows. "I think there's no bloody point in trying. Have you seen the stuff Yao comes up with?"

"He does cater to very…select audiences."

"Select? He's utterly mad!"

Francis rounded on Herakles. "What do you think? Dildos or mechanical squids?"

Herakles considered this deeply for a moment. "Yes," he said finally.

Francis sighed. Herakles did not have a very difficult job. Being a creative sound board consisted mainly of nodding at appropriate moments and not going to sleep in an obvious fashion. However, at rare moment such as these Francis needed as many opinions as possible.

"And what about you, Pierre?" he asked. Pierre ate a sunflower seed placidly. He seldom had very strong opinions.

"You're talking to a bird, Francis," Arthur pointed out.

Francis ignored him and offered finger for Pierre to hop onto. "We already have a very nice scene- I did tell you about it, right? Ivan had this great big tree branch and- oh, I'm sorry, this must be distressing, I forgot you like trees. Don't worry, it was only made of rubber- so it's that or mechanical cephalopods, really, I'm not sure which would work out for us…"

Pierre rubbed his feathered head against Francis's cheek. If anything, his job was the easiest of the lot, because he only caught one or two words every twenty minutes.

Eventually, Romano did call. They agreed to meet at Armani (Antonio had originally suggested they meet at Starbucks, but Romano did not trust him around coffee for obvious reasons).

"I'm really sorry," said Antonio for about the fifth time. He had a pair of sunglasses perched on his head, which annoyed Romano somewhat, but Romano took satisfaction out of the fact that Antonio did not look at home among brand names. His teeth were very white, though.

"It's alright," he said sweetly. "It's nice of you to pay me back like this." He picked up a crisp white shirt and considered it for a moment before putting it back. Not expensive enough.

"It's only proper. Ah, I'm sorry, but I never did get your name."

Romano blinked. "Pardon?"

"Your name! You never told me."

"I'm Feliciano," Romano said, and then waited for a sign of recognition.

Antonio beamed. "That's a nice name! Like gelato."

Romano canted his head inquisitively. "You've never heard it?"

"I don't think so. Why, should I have?"

There was a pause. "What were you doing when I met you?" he asked, not unkindly.

"I was on the way to work," Antonio explained. "I do interior design. Somebody wanted me to spruce up their office. Why, what were you doing?"

Either Antonio was a very good liar, or an oblivious fool. Despite himself Romano figured it was probably the latter. "I was at a porn convention."

Antonio blinked. "Oh. Ah. Okay. That's…very interesting!" he laughed nervously. "Meet anyone you liked?"

"No, but I did sign a few autographs."

Antonio's eyes widened almost comically. "Are you famous?"

"Well. In a sense. I'm a porn star."

Antonio went very quiet after that. Romano patted him on the shoulder and continued shopping around until he finally found a shirt he liked (slightly more expensive than his old one, but Antonio didn't have to know that). He made a show of twirling around once he came out of the dressing room and then headed straight to the counter.

Antonio stayed silent up until the point when they parted ways, but on the bright side he had turned quite a spectacular shade of magenta.

"Alright, you sods, time for lunch. Be back in an hour," said Arthur. Almost immediately there was a mad scramble for the cafeteria because Francis had apparently got it into his head that he would do the catering for the week, and thus both cast and crew were spared the customary burgers with patties harder than a pornstar(e.g. Romano)'s dick. Romano had bullied him into setting aside a doggy bag so he wouldn't have to get in line and could instead bum around on set in his dressing gown with some of the crew.

He tugged on his pants and perched on the edge of the stove specially ordered for Saucy Chefs II (a travesty, his grandfather would have said), where he would make a ridiculously pornographic pasta dressed in naught but one of those cheesy "Kiss the Cook" aprons. Afterwards Arthur and Francis would probably want to film him fucking himself on the pepper grinder, which he didn't particularly look forward to.

Elizabeta drew up a chair next to him. "How was your date?" she asked without any preamble.

"It wasn't a date, stupid," Romano said affectionately.

"But he was cute, and he bought you a shirt that I believe you were wearing when you came in."

Romano snorted. "I spend so much time naked I forget to do the laundry sometimes. And besides, it's not like the bastard's tried to call in the past two days."

"Gone are the days when the man had to make the first move," said Elizabeta wisely. "You're allowed to get the ball rolling, you know."

"I don't even like the guy-"

"Ooh, of whom do we speak?" said Francis, suddenly appearing behind them (and for some reason, with Arthur in tow).

"Make way for the elderly homosexual brigade!" Romano said by way of greeting.

Arthur flipped him off, and Francis set a paper bag on the table. Romano opened it up and took a whiff, and then sampled one of those fiddly starter things .

"How is it?" Francis asked.

"Like the jizz of an angel."

"You shagging someone in your own time, then?" Arthur asked, helping himself to Romano's food and deftly avoiding his fist.

Romano scowled. "The last person I shagged, if you must know, was Ivan, on your set, and he got all shy and apologised afterwards. So no, I am not shagging anyone that you don't know about."

"But he wants to shag Antonio," said Elizabeta helpfully. Romano pinched her.

"Was Antonio the idiot from the convention?" Arthur asked. "He had a nice arse."

"He did. I still think you should call him," said Elizabeta.

"I am not going to call him, or text him, or use a smoke signal!" Romano snapped. "There will be no contacting of Antonios! I will not stoop to that level!"

"I will," said Elizabeta, promptly sticking her hand in his pocket to divest him of his phone. Less out of any real inclination to help his love life and more because they were bored, Arthur and Francis decided to sit on him so he couldn't snatch it back.

"Get your fat asses off of me!" he roared, trying to snatch his phone back even as Elizabeta sent the fateful text. She giggled as she pressed send and tossed it back to him. Arthur and Francis stayed where they were. Romano stopped trying to push them off.

"It has a winky face!" Romano accused. "I sound like a horny twelve-year-old!"

He whined for twelve more seconds, during which Arthur helped himself to the rest of Romano's doggy bag. The phone went ping.

They crowded around it. "That was fast," Francis said.

Antonio's reply, it turned out, was very long and riddled with spelling errors and slightly maniacal exclamation marks. He had been worried, he said, that it would have been creepy if he had called after the coffee incident because that would have made it seem like some sort of elaborate ruse of Unsavoury Intentions, which was further complicated by the fact that Feliciano was a porn star and not a regular mortal man. Which was why he was so relieved that Feliciano had texted first, because that meant that Feliciano actually wanted to talk to him and Antonio wasn't being a creep. Incidentally, he had seen a few of Feliciano's works, and they had been fascinating.

"You told him your name was Feliciano?" asked Elizabeta incredulously.

Romano was stunned that Elizabeta's plan had worked. "I was at a convention, I had to stay in character."

"You should probably tell him the truth," said Francis.

"Should I text him back?"

"Of course you should text him back, it would be rude not to," Elizabeta nudged him.

"I can't with you fuckers all watching me," said Romano helplessly.

"I expect to hear how this goes," said Elizabeta with a large smile. She left, dragging Arthur and a reluctant Francis with her. "If you have any freaky wild sex I want to know!" Francis called. Romano waved a hand noncommittally.

He texted back. And the conversation kept going until lunch break was over and Arthur called them back to the set. Only just before wrapping up for the day did Romano notice that someone had eaten his lunch. He wasn't as annoyed as he should have been.

He was mysteriously silent about it the next day. Neither Francis nor Elizabeta could get a word out of him regarding Antonio. Arthur found Romano worked much harder than usual, to the point where they were able to wrap up earlier than normal. Feliciano was more coy, more sensual, more horny.

"You're thinking about him, aren't you?" Arthur said when Alfred and Matthew were busy packing away. Romano said nothing, but stared back defiantly.

Arthur shrugged. "Hell, I don't care. As long as it works."

That evening Romano drove home faster than usual (which was alarming, because to him speed limits were more guidelines than laws), showered and put on his best cologne. He decided against a suit in favour of a powder blue button down and his shiniest shoes (Italian leather, naturally). He got a pizza going in the oven (because regardless of Francis's weird love of food porn, Romano's cooking tasted fabulous, thanks). He selected a wine, put it back, chose another one, put that back, took the first bottle back out, and then changed his shirt to something pink. His doorbell buzzed.

He opened the door, sweet smile in place. "Antonio!" he chirruped.

Antonio stepped in. He had one of those smiles that never really left his face. Everything amused him, and even when it didn't, his mouth still curved up at the edges like he was quietly delighted at the world. His hair was still a mess, but he'd dressed up, in a bright yellow shirt. He looked like a happy daisy with mismatched socks.

"Hi, Feliciano! I brought you a wine," said Antonio, not waiting for permission for a hug. "I was wondering if I should bring food, but you were already cooking, so I figured it might be some overkill." He beamed. "I'm a really good cook. At least, my mother says it."

Bitch, please. "I made pizza! It's still in the oven, though, so we'll have to wait a bit. But it was my grandpa's recipe, so it's really good," Feliciano said, leading Antonio to the couch. "Let's talk."

Antonio laughed. "You have a really nice apartment. Very chic. "

Romano snorted inwardly. Have you seen the owner? Feliciano, on the other hand, smiled. "Well, you're an interior designer, right? I bet your house looks just the same."

Antonio shrugged. "It's got lots of colours. I like colours."

"I figured."

Antonio grinned. "What's your favourite colour, then?"

Blue, like Artie's balls. "Green! Like your eyes, a little bit," Feliciano said with a little nervous laugh. "But anything is fine, really. As long as it's happy."

This response seemed to delight him. "When I was little I really wanted to be a painter, but I realised I was terrible. So I figured I'd do décor instead! I'm glad I chose it. I don't think I'm cut out to be a painter. Too cheerful," he laughed. "But I'd be able to spend a lot more time with my dog, though."

Feliciano lit up. "You have a dog? That's so cute! I love dogs, especially the little fuzzy ones. I'd always wanted one but Grampa wouldn't let me."

"Grampa? Who is your Grampa?"

Feliciano cast around for a photograph. He found it and brought it back triumphantly. "That's him! Romulus Vargas. He looked after me when my parents died. He was really nice and gave me lots of sweets and taught me how to paint, but I've forgotten most of it by now."

Antonio took the framed photo and studied it carefully. "He was very handsome. What happened?"

"He was old," Feliciano drooped a little.

"I'm very sorry."

Feli smiled. "It's alright. It's weird, I guess, but sometimes, I think he's watching over me. Taking care of me."

Antonio's smile became, if possible, even warmer.

They ended up burning the pizza. Romano was furious, but Feliciano almost cried. Antonio gave him a hug and ordered Chinese food. That night, they went to bed.

In the morning Romano discovered that it took an armada to get Antonio to stop rolling around and actually get himself up. Eventually, though, he did, and he made them breakfast. It wasn't burnt.

He was, quite honestly, happy. He didn't argue with Arthur. He didn't antagonise Francis. He didn't tease Ivan at the company picnic. Elizabeta grinned at him from across her potato salad. He grinned back.

He got a text from Antonio that evening.

Hi, Feli. Last night was really fun! We should meet up again. Free this weekend?

Romano thought about correcting him. He didn't.

He talked about Antonio a lot, he realised. About his big smile. His stupid hair. His slightly garbled grammar.

They met up that weekend.

A week turned into a month.

Antonio was, Romano could tell, enthralled. He leaned forward when he talked, listened attentively, never took his eyes off Feliciano's face.

It was almost too easy.

And yet.

"You have to tell him."

"I don't have to tell him anything."

"He doesn't even know your name."

Romano contemplated his espresso in stony silence. Elizabeta sighed.

"You like him, don't you?"

Romano shrugged.

"And he likes you."

Romano said nothing. Neither did she. He took a sip of his coffee and looked out the window.

"He likes Feliciano," he finally said.

It's not like he changed dramatically, or anything. He didn't skip work. He kept on producing hits. He did everything perfectly; even better, in fact, that he usually did.

But he didn't argue with Arthur. He didn't antagonise Francis. He didn't tease Ivan at the next company picnic.

Elizabeta smiled tentatively at him from across her coffee. He didn't really smile back.

He should probably just come clean.

Antonio, bless him, seemed to think he'd done something wrong.

"Feliciano?" he'd asked, when Romano had showed up at his door.

Romano said nothing, but sat down on a bar stool in Antonio's colourful kitchen. Antonio drifted to him and put a hand on his forehead.

"You seem sick. You've been a bit… different lately. Are you okay?"

Romano stared at him. He was suddenly unsure of what to say to the sweet fool standing in front of him. He realised with a pang that this would probably be the last time Antonio looked at him like that.

Wordlessly he pulled out his wallet and handed over his driver's license.

Antonio looked at it, brows furrowed. "What's this? Is it your brother?'

"No." Romano didn't meet his gaze. "That's me."

Antonio went quiet. "It says here you are Romano Vargas."

"I am Romano Vargas."

Antonio smiled uncertainly. "No, your name is Feliciano! You told me so."

Romano gave him his ID. Antonio's face fell.

"My name is Romano Vargas. I'm a porn star. Feliciano is my stage name. My favourite colour is blue, not green."

One part stunned, two parts hurt. Antonio allowed the cards to be gently taken from his grasp and inserted into their owner's pocket.

"I don't understand," he said weakly.

Romano squeezed his hand and left.

If Gramps had been around, he would have called him a coward.

He was a coward, really. Antonio, poor Antonio, had tried to call him every day for a week. Romano never picked up. He considered getting an entirely new number, but figured it probably wasn't quite worth the trouble.

Arthur, in his own gruff way, had been concerned, watching Romano closely with eyes lightly chilled so nobody would notice. Francis, more clever than he seemed, had picked up that something was wrong. He'd told Romano to go on holiday for a week. Get his mind off things. Come back re-energised.

Romano didn't bother. He showed up to work even though there wasn't much to do, and spent most of his time looking over the shoulders of the camera crew while they filmed Ivan and Toris doing the nasty. Elizabeta tried to talk to him. He ruffled her hair.

Every day, without fail, his phone would ring. Every time it did, he ignored it. Elizabeta made to snatch at it a few times, but Romano looked at her so despondently that she never actually picked up the call.

Eventually she, Francis and even Antonio gave up.

Arthur, strangely enough, didn't.

Romano got a call on Wednesday from his agent.

"You need to come in to the studio tomorrow," Gilbert said. "Arthur needs to go over some stuff with you. He tried explaining but it was pretty technical, so I didn't get it." He barked out a laugh.

Romano went. He'd heard that a third Saucy Chefs might be in the making.

Arthur didn't really look up when Romano entered his office. "Oh, it's you," he waved a noncommittal hand. Romano sat down. Arthur told him to wait. He left.

Five minutes later, the door opened.

"Why am I here?" asked Romano.

Perhaps entirely predictably, it wasn't Arthur who answered.

"You tell me," said Antonio.

Romano drew in a sharp breath, but said nothing.

Antonio sat on Arthur's desk so that Romano couldn't look away from him. He reached out to grasp Romano by the chin (although gently), and tilted it up so their eyes met.

"Why did you do that to me, Romano?"

His voice was steady, as though he'd been through anger, grief, loneliness and come out the other side.

Romano sighed. "I did a lot of stupid things, Ton- Antonio. You're going to have to be more specific."

"Let's start with the most recent. Why did you ignore all my calls?"

"Because." Romano sighed. "There wasn't really any point in answering, was there? You wanted to talk to Feliciano. I'm not him."

"Why did you lie to me?"

"We met at a porn convention. Feliciano is my stage presence. I had to stay in character."

"Why didn't you tell me after? When I was buying you the shirt?"

Romano faltered. "I don't know. I didn't think there was any point. I didn't think we were going to see each other again."

"But you texted me first."

"That wasn't me. That was my friend."

Antonio let go, wounded. "So you never really wanted to talk with me?"

Romano, irrationally, got angry. Not so much at Antonio but at everyone. At his grandfather for being a dick to him all the time. At Gilbert for getting him into the sex industry. At Feliciano for being a nicer version of himself. At himself for fucking up royally. At Antonio. Just because.

"Stop being stupid. Of course I wanted to talk to you. I kept talking to you all day. I invited you to my house, didn't I?"

"Where you slept with me." Antonio's eyes were hard. "And I didn't even know your name."

Romano stood up and made for the door. "I'm a porn star. It's what I do." He tried the door handle and found, to his bewildered fury, that it had been jammed with a chair from the outside. "Arthur! Let me out, you limey son of a bitch!" Ha banged on the wood for a few minutes. When it didn't open, he thumped his head against the door.

Antonio's voice was quiet. "Did you think I was only after you because of your…job?"

"You don't have to make it sound so dramatic." Romano sighed. "You're a nice guy. I can see that. And you liked Feliciano. I figured that if I could be Feliciano, we'd both be happy. It'd work out. Win-win."

"Win-win," Antonio echoed. "Except, Feliciano wasn't real. He's make-believe, to get your audience off."

"…yeah, that's about right."

"I am not your audience."

Romano laughed hollowly. "After everything that's happened I wasn't really expecting you to become a fan."

He felt a hand on his elbow. Somewhat reluctantly, he was turned around to face Antonio.

"I never wanted to be your fan. I only wanted to be your boyfriend. Why didn't you let me?"

This was what kicking a puppy felt like. "It went on for so long…I wasn't sure how to stop it."

Antonio let go. "You lied to me. I don't even know who you are. I only know who you pretended to be."

"I don't think you would have liked me if you had known me," Romano croaked.

"You didn't give me a chance."

Grown men didn't cry. Romano wanted to. He walked around Antonio, back to the desk, and slumped forward in the seat he'd previously left. Antonio folded his arms and watched him.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Romano Vargas. 27. Porn actor," was the quiet response.

"Your relationship with your grandfather."

"Cantankerous old bastard hated me. Never abused me or anything, but never paid attention to me either. He had to take me in because my dad was in jail and my mother kicked it."

"Do you like dogs?"

"No. I'm allergic."

Antonio sighed. "You're not Feliciano."

Romano stared at his knees. "Nope. Just me."

There was a terrible, uncomfortable silence for a while. Romano grit his teeth and refused to allow himself to be upset. Antonio was lost in thought, quiet.

Eventually, a pair of hands made their way onto Romano's shoulders. "Romano Vargas." Antonio said it as though he were trying it out, seeing if it would fit. If it suited him.

"Romano," he said again.

Quietly, Romano looked up.

Antonio looked out the window instead of at him. "Were your feelings for me real, at least? Or were you so caught up in your web you couldn't get out?"

Two seconds stretched into five. "I loved you."

Antonio ran a hand through his hair, distracted. "Who was it that I loved?"

Arthur let them out, eventually. The uncomfortable silence reigned until Romano heard the soft click of a door unlocking.

He opened it. Arthur disappeared before Romano's fist could connect with his face.

And that was that, really. Antonio disappeared from Romano's life. Nobody could blame him. Eventually people stopped asking how he was and the world continued spinning. He made more dirty movies. Signed autographs. Did interviews. Shocked the neighbours.

Mind-numbingly, heart-shatteringly empty. An Antonio-shaped hole in the universe.

Romano sat at a table. Cameras were on him (he was used to that). He was fully dressed this time (that was foreign). Francis sat next to him. Ivan sat on the other side. An audience of perverts and the sexually deprived watched him adoringly. Somebody asked him a question.

He shut his eyes to think.

Bizarrely, blessedly, against all odds, he got a face full of ice cold coffee.

This time, he didn't shriek. He sat there in stunned silence and the noise immediately fell away. He opened waterlogged eyelashes.

The man who had caused the scene stood right in front of him. One part nervous, two parts determined.

Romano stared at him, and the man stared back.

"I'm so sorry, I must have tripped" he said, even though he was standing perfectly steady.

Romano remembered at the last minute that he didn't have be Feliciano today. He smiled a wobbly smile. "You're an asshole."

"I ruined your shirt. I'll buy you a new one." Snatching a marker pen off a nearby table, the man scribbled a number onto his plastic cup and set it in front Romano. "Just call me."

Romano's smile was beginning to crack a little around the edges. Tears were hard little bastards to fight back. "Yeah. Yeah, I think that would be a good idea."

The man left.

Romano glanced at the cup on his table. Antonio, it said.

This time, he didn't need Elizabeta's help to call.

So they started over. It was, in the end, without much fanfare. Antonio figured out what Romano was really like. And against all expectations, he didn't seem to mind.

They had a first date. And a second, and a third, until one day finally Antonio stopped thinking of him as not-Feliciano and started thinking of him as Romano.

On their fourth date Romano made a pizza and didn't burn it, and Antonio discovered that Romano had a habit of collapsing bonelessly onto other people as a sign of affection.

That night, they went to bed. Just Antonio and Romano. No Feliciano in sight.

red gi·ant

noun

(Astronomy)

noun: red giant; plural noun: red giants

1.

a very large star of high luminosity and low surface temperature. Red giants are thought to be in a late stage of evolution when a star begins to collapse into itself.