Title: It Takes Two — To Keep A Secret (Chapter 1)
Pairing: Spamano, just shōnen-ai again.
Summary: By pure coincidence, Lovino finds a journal of Antonio's, detailing his —supposedly secret — love for him. Intrigued, Lovino, of course, chooses to read on. . .
Warning: Contains country personification implied boyxboy, a.k.a. B.L. or yaoi. Human names used.
Rating: T for Lovino's lovely lingual repertoire.
Word Count: 3,521
A/N: Words in italics are what Antonio originally wrote, words in regular text are revisions added later, and text in parentheses () are words he crossed out. On deviantART, it shows up better. ^^; I'm sorry... thanks to Skyebyrd for suggesting I relocate this clarification.
limbo [LIM boh] — (n.)
1. a place or state of oblivion to which a person or thing is sent, esp. when forsaken or cast aside
2. a transitional or middle place or state of being
3. a place or state of imprisonment or confinement
(XX XX 15XX) — XX XX 2012
"Antonio."
Over the years, I have accumulated a rough handful of nicknames, all from one person.
"Lovino."
Bastardo, tomato bastard, idiota, dumbass, asshole, SOB, etc. . .sometimes it seems the list could go on and on. I guess it doesn't help that you can swear in (two) three different languages whenever you want.
To tell the truth, Lovino, if someone asked me how many times you've leveled that dirty mouth of yours at me, I'd have to say that even if I had tried to, I would've lost count so many generations ago. But, mi querido Lovino, (I don't think I ever cared much about that.) I still don't, actually. Although foul language in a child may be considered unhealthy, even if my boss had ordered me to, I wouldn't have been able to wash your mouth out with soap. If I had, you probably would've choked, cried, and screamed until your voice was hoarse, and hated me even more.
I wonder every now and then, mi tomate, what (did) do I look like to (those young eyes) you? I would ask you today, but I know that at the last possible moment I will always falter, and never succeed; you might get suspicious and ask me (why what the hell are you talking about?) what's up. I'll even tell you why:
It's because I'm (in love with you) a coward.
Perhaps it's a good thing, that I can finally admit that after ages of trying to ignore(ing) it.
In the eyes of regular people, this love I have for you would probably be labeled "incestic." (They don't understand what it is to be one of us.) In a way they're probably right. How could I fall in love with someone that I helped to raise from childhood, who considers me a big brother (or maybe just a convenient someone to insult)? Does that make me a pedophile? Does it, (Lovino) mi amor? Maybe it does, and maybe you'll think that there's something wrong with me if you (found) find out that I love you.
But, Lovi, that part inside of me that screams "te amo" every time I see you, it doesn't "give a (crap) shit," as you would (probably) put it, what those people think or say. Solo tu, mi pequeño Lovino. (Only you.) The rest of me tells myself that I should hide this love away from everyone, especially you.
I (don't) never want to see the look on your face when you discover how (twisted) I really am.
The Italian stared wide-eyed at the travel-worn book sitting in his hands. He was visibly shaking, the errant curl on top of his head bobbing up and down. He read it once, twice, three times, but every single time he was done reading that last line, he still found himself standing there, conflicted over what to do next. He wanted to cry, to scream, to curse at the bastard until he couldn't think of new ones, and he was of a mind to go and do that right now. But he didn't. Instead, he sat down on his — Antonio's — bed to muse over the chain of events leading to this startling revelation.
Today had begun innocuously enough. He'd come for a visit without calling first, like he usually did. No matter how many times he didn't give warning, though, the Spaniard never seemed to mind, always greeting the younger man with a smile on his face. Which was why, each time he came over unannounced, he made Antonio dinner. This time's penne, and I finished that early, so. . .that's right, I came up here. He was going to wake the idiota up from his regular afternoon siesta, but Antonio had already woken up by himself and was taking a shower. Deprived of his chance to see a sleeping Spain for today, and with no other recourse, the auburn-haired man had flopped down on the bed, deciding to take a quick siesta of his own until Antonio was finished. Yeah, that was when I almost hit that book. Lovino had discovered an object lodged between the wall and the bed. Plucking it from its predicament, he'd almost dismissed it as insignificant and was about to put it aside, when he froze, eyes darting back to the faded gold letters on the front cover:
"To Lovino Romano Vargas"
Intrigued now — what the hell is a book with my name doing here? — Romano had cautiously cracked it open a tiny bit, as if waiting for some invisible trap to spring. There was none. Just the slightly musty scent of aged paper. And the words. Dio, his words. . . Those achingly honest, simple, almost heartbreaking words. I wanna strangle the bastard. Dammit, Antonio. . .
Lovino sat up. As far as he could figure it, he had three options:
1. Confront Spain and cuss his ass out for not telling him sooner. He sure deserves it.
2. Say nothing, make like he didn't know anything was wrong, and keep reading what Antonio had written, a little at a time. What the hell has he written in there, anyway?
3. Ignore this and pretend it never happened. My usual modus operandi.
But. . . Lovino thought to himself as he carefully re-lodged the book as he'd found it. That accomplished, he rolled over to the other side of the bed and shut his eyes. . . . .I'm tired of this. We're stuck, and there's no time for this shit already. Yeah, he decided, curling more securely into the pillow, it's not time to talk to Antonio yet. I need to know more.
Antonio Férnandez Carriedo stood in the doorway of his bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, eyes feasting on an uncommon sight. I thought I smelled Lovino's cooking, but it could've just as easily been the power of wishful thinking. . . Running a hand through still-damp curls, he smiled. He was happy that Romano still felt the urge to drop in every now and then. After all, it's not like I can hang out with Gil and Francis all the time. Recently, Gilbert had been restless, and Francis. . .well, France was busy just being himself.
Walking over to his bureau to take out a shirt, Spain kept stealing glances over his shoulder at the sleeping Italian. What about him now makes it when he's sleeping makes it different than from when he was a baby still? the Spaniard mused as he pulled the shirt over his head. When Romano was younger, he used to sneak away to get out of doing chores, and hide. Inevitably, he'd fall asleep curled up somewhere, and Antonio would just about turn the house and its surroundings upside-down, frantically searching for his young charge.
Fully dressed now, Antonio stood over the bed, uncertainty clouding his face. He sat down softly next to Lovino, so the latter wouldn't wake up. You're not my niño anymore, Romano. You don't need Boss to come find you and put you in bed before you catch cold now. Spain sighed. This reminiscing wasn't gonna get him anywhere, and he was hungry. If I can't have Lovino, I'll have the food that he makes for me. But of course he had to wake its creator up first, or the younger man would hit him for eating the food he made without him. Besides, as cute as Lovi looks while sleeping in my bed, it's dinnertime. And dinner was extremely uneventful without someone to share it with.
Antonio sighed again, and reluctantly nudged Romano in the ribs. The nudge was ignored, and the other man flipped over to face the opposite side. Antonio attempted to shake Lovino's shoulders, but the Italian only nestled deeper into the pillows. Exasperated now, Antonio mentally flailed about for ideas. . .coming up with nothing, until he saw the curl.
¿Qué? Spain stared at it for a second, looking away, then returning to where it was. Madre de Dios, I can't actually be considering THAT. It was tempting. It was very tempting. But. . . Ah, what the hell. Desperate times call for desperate measures, right? He reached over and took a hold of the object in question.
From a distance, Lovino had heard the bathroom door opening, and felt the steam dissipating. He imagined Antonio exiting the bath naked except for a towel, and his heart sped up. Che palle. Damn fantasies. That, however, was before he heard Spain rummaging through drawers. Are you friggin' kidding me? He really was naked? His inner pervert nagged and screamed at him to take a peek and LOOK, dammit! when a weight settled on the edge of the bed, clamping all of Romano's pervy thoughts down with it.
The Spanish man sighed ruefully, and Romano felt a poke on his ribcage. The smaller man let out a mental snort of disgust. You'll have to try better than that for making me wait, dumbass. And for making me miss the opportunity to see you na— NO! He shook off the thought, and then rolled over unto the other side of Antonio's bed. The pillow smells like him. . . In response to Spain's shaking, Lovino simply gripped said pillow tighter, and smirked to himself. He could just imagine Antonio throwing his hands up in frustration. What now, pomodoro bastardo? Spain would have to come up with something more creative.
Creativity was exactly what he got. The first pull on his curl was like getting the wind knocked totally out of him. The second tug had him taking a deep breath before he forgot to breathe. The third deft stroke forced the Italian man's eyes open and with it, the oxygen that he'd just breathed in out into an involuntary low moan — "Chigi. . .—" Upon seeing the administrator of these attentions, Lovino immediately snapped his mouth shut in horror.
The bastard was smirking. Romano could feel heat flowing up his neck, into his cheeks, not stopping until it reached his ears. Still holding the pillow, his hands curled into fists, creating angry furrows in the pillowcase.
Despite what people may have thought, Antonio Férnandez Carriedo was no fool. After all, he hadn't known South Italy for this long for nothing, thank you very much. Hastily, the Spaniard backed away from the bed, hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Lovi, before you say anything, I—"
Romano snapped. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, you pedophile? Last time I checked, you weren't France!"
"But Lovi—"
"Don't you 'but, Lovi—' me, asino! It's bad enough that he's your freakin' neighbor, but that doesn't mean you have to absorb his sick habits! How could you stoop to his level?" He paused, sides noticeably heaving as his lungs seized the chance to intake more air. Pale green eyes narrowed, focusing their rage on the still-standing Antonio. But Lovino wasn't done yet. Flinging an accusatory finger at Spain, he lashed out once more: "How would you fucking like it if I came in here and woke you up by groping you?"
Antonio couldn't help it. He tilted his head to one side, the question triggering a thoughtful look that overtook his normally cheerful face. How would I like it. . .? Well, I probably would like it, even though there isn't a snowball's chance in hell that Lovino would actually—
Spain's thoughts were abruptly interrupted as he was hit in the face. With one of his own pillows, no less. "VAFFANCULO!" Romano stormed out of the room in a towering fury, still clutching one of the pillows from Antonio's bed. Belatedly, the older nation followed him; guessing correctly that Lovino was headed to his old room down the hall, he got there a mere fraction of a second after the angry Italian slammed the door shut.
"Romano!" Knowing that it was futile, the Spanish man banged on the door anyway. "You didn't even give me a chance to explain!"
"Spiegare? Explain what? That you're a goddamn pervert?" Spitting out the words, Lovino leaned against the other side of the door, still breathing hard. Hugging the pillow tighter to his chest to muffle his racing heartbeat, he cursed silently to himself as he slid to the floor and curled his body around it. Dio, it feels so loud that Antonio can hear it from the outside of the door. . .
"Mi pequeño Lovino, what else did you want me to do? You weren't waking up with anything else I tried!" Antonio touched his forehead to the door, eyebrows furrowing in exasperation when he heard the younger man's reply:
"That just proves that you weren't trying hard enough!" He should know. He felt all of Spain's attempts to "wake him up" because he wasn't really sleeping in the first place! Not that he'd tell Antonio that, of course. Sighing, Spain let gravity hit his head against Romano's door. Ay, mi querido Romano, if I'd known it would have been so effective, I wouldn't have done it. . .— is what I'd like to think, but would I really have chosen to?
He gave his head a little shake, still-damp curls kicking up a fine spray of droplets. No. Lovi. "Lovi, what about dinner? Aren't you hungry?"
"How dare that bastard mention dinner?" On the inside of the door, the personified nation known as Southern Italy was fidgeting. That thought should've been occupying his priorities right now. Instead, he was also blushing. Goddammit, why the fuck am I blushing like a friggin' middle-school girl who's just talked to her crush for the first time? Lovino fumed. Because Antonio just called you 'mi pequeño Lovino,' you dumbshit, he sniped back at himself. But he couldn't help it. When he heard Spagna call him that, his mind flashbacked to what the curly-headed man had written. Damn him and all his stupid nicknames. The Italian buried his face into the stolen pillow, and frowned. "Aren't I hungry"? Of course I am, dumbass! And who the hell d'you think I was waiting for? "Screw you! Go eat by yourself!"
Still leaning against the outside of the door, Antonio whacked his head against it once more. "But I don't want to! Eating alone makes Boss lonely!" Realizing what he'd just admitted aloud, the Spaniard's hands flew to shut his mouth before he said anything else that might be too revealing. Damn it, Lovino, if you weren't so — cutely — difficult all the time, I wouldn't have said that!
A pause. Then: "Cos'è. . . stato?"
Oh crap! Antonio quickly changed the subject before the Italian man could proceed further in that particular line of questioning. Quickly putting his whining voice on, he scratched at the door in what he hoped was an appropriately pathetic-sounding manner. "Lovi, if you're not gonna come out, can I at least have my pillow back?" Anything to lure him out of there. . .
The smaller man stewed. Damn it Spain, just answer the damn question like a normal person! So. He had the nerve to throw out a tidbit like that and then change the subject, too? "No! Go the fuck away already!" Well. Learned something new today, for good or for bad. . .but that still doesn't excuse the bastard from touching my curl again! Like the other times!
"Lovino Romano Vargas, I'm staying right here until I get it back." Antonio smiled a little to himself. At least Romano wasn't really yelling anymore. Even if the only person who can tell the difference is me.
Said nation cursed silently to himself again. Damn stubborn streak of his. . . Well, fine. South Italy stood up and stalked over to his bed. Plucking a pillow at random off it, to replace it with Spain's, he stalked back to the door. In tre, due, uno. . . Recklessly, Lovino opened the only barrier separating the two countries to hurl his only projectile at Antonio.
For the second time today, Spain got a faceful of pillow. Ay, all I did was look up when I heard the door open. . . "Lovi, I'm sure Boss didn't teach you to return people's possessions by throwing them in their faces." No muffled reply came from inside the room's interior, not even an irritated "You're not my boss, bastardo." Shaking his head dejectedly, he trooped back to his bedroom to put the pillow back properly. Doing just that, Antonio pattered down the stairs to face down dinner alone. He probably won't be coming down this evening anyway.
Glossary of Non-English Words and Phrases
(arranged by order of appearance)
Bastardo/idiota ➔ "bastard" and "idiot," respectively, in both Italian and Spanish.
Mi querido Lovino ➔ "My dear Lovino" (Spanish)
Mi tomate ➔ "my tomato" (Spanish)
Mi amor ➔ "my love" (Spanish)
Te amo ➔ "I love you" (Spanish)
Solo tu ➔ "Only you" (Italian)
mi pequeño Lovino ➔ "my little Lovino" (Spanish)
Dio ➔ "God" (Italian)
modus operandi ➔ "mode of operation," or a specific way/method of doing something; also, cop-speak, "M.O." (Latin)
niño ➔ a "child," specifically, a male one (Spanish)
¿Qué? ➔ "what?" (Spanish)
Madre de Dios ➔ "Mother of God" (Spanish)
Pomodoro bastardo ➔ "tomato bastard" (Italian)
Che palle ➔ literally translates as "that balls," but actually means something like "what balls" or maybe "what a drag" (Italian)
asino ➔ "ass" as in "donkey" kind of ass, not butt kind of ass, OK? (Italian)
Vaffanculo ➔ literally translates as "fuck your butt," but used here it means "Fuck you."
spiegare ➔ verb form of "to explain" (Italian)
Spagna ➔ "Spain" (Italian)
"Cos'è. . . stato?" ➔ "What. . .was that?" (Italian)
In tre, due, uno. . . ➔ "In three, two, one..." (Italian for the numbers)
To be continued in Chapter 2 of It Takes Two, titled "It Takes Two - To Keep It Hidden."
I DO NOT CLAIM TO OWN THE CHARACTERS USED OR HETALIA. I just borrowed them from Himeruya-sensei. c: Same goes for the rest of this series.
Also, if I have misused any words in Spanish or Italian, please leave a review telling me and I will fix it.
Reviews/criticism are welcomed. In particular, I would appreciate it if you told me which lines were your favorite, and why, instead of just saying something really short, like, "oh, this is cute!" c: (I mean, it's nice of you to say so, but that doesn't really help me with anything.) =_=