A/N: This...this surprised me, frankly. I've been feeling kind of unappreciated lately, and this is what happened. Possibly one of the most mature things I've ever written, and boy am I proud of it. Scenarios stolen from the movie Cloud Atlas and the play Pyramus and Thisbe.
Characters are not mine, I would be rich if they were.
Doesn't everyone deserve a happy ending? Apparently not him. The gun was cool against the roof of his mouth. There was no note; he had never gotten around to writing one. He had passed his entire life- no you couldn't call it a life, more like existence- without caring about a single person, and he planned to die that way. Therefore, no note. Nobody had ever given a damn about Lovino Vargas, and nobody ever would. That was the point of this gun, resting coldly against his teeth like a winter morning slipping in between warm sheets.
Not even Tonio would warm his heart today. Nope. Tonio was far, far away. Lovino had broken nearly all of his personal codes to get him out of the way. He told Feliciano to take Ludwig, his disgusting, sadistic boyfriend, and Ludwig's brother and pervy friends, to a bar.
In Germany.
One thousand, five hundred seven kilometers and three hundred ten meters away.
That's 936 miles and 3,168 feet for you dumb Americans.
One of those pervy friends just happened to be Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo, the unrequited love of Lovino's life. He had held that title, since, I don't know, the third grade?
Someone as perfect and as loved as Tonio would never be able to even remotely care about someone as fucked up as Lovino Vargas. Tonio was at a bar with his friends, Francis and Gilbert, Gilbert's little brother, the Nazi-bastard, and his own dear little brother. The only person besides Tonio he had ever loved. No, not like that, don't be disgusting. Feliciano was so innocent and happy that everyone fell in love with him. His fucking name meant "happy one." Kinda like Tonio.
Except Tonio was straight. Maddeningly so. He loved his Lord. He went to Mass five thousand fucking times a week. He woke up and went to work at the cute little Spanish café just across the street from Lovino's house. Then, in the late afternoon, depending on his shift schedule, he would pop out of the café with a pretty girl in tow. Sometimes more than one, if he was in the mood.
He had been doing this, almost exactly the same every day, for the last two years. He should have been graduating with Lovino. Smiling cheerfully at everyone while Lovino melted in his gown. He had chased his Spaniard from 3rd grade, when he realized he existed, all the way until the end of sophomore year, when he said he wasn't coming back. He was going to start working like his parents wanted him to.
Lovino knew his schedule by heart. Right now, at 11:36, Antonio would be kissing his girl-of-the-night goodbye, or dragging her up the stairs to his apartment after him. His apartment was across the street, just above the café.
"I graduated today. I'm so proud of me." Lovino muttered around the gun in his mouth. Antonio wasn't there. Feliciano told Lovino that he had to work. He sent his congratulations, as if that would make him feel any better. Feliciano, who was now done with his third year of high school, had been failing everything except art and music for the last eight years. All his teachers loved him, though, so he danced through school without a fucking care in the world.
Lovino got held back in ninth grade. They told him he wasn't applying himself. He had decided to show those bastards, and he did. 4 point fucking 0. Not that it mattered now. Nobody cared what he did, he would always be a dark cloud compared to his shining brother.
He closed his eyes and smiled. He had been planning this all day. No one was going to interfere. Curled up between the washing machine and the wall, he probably wouldn't even be found for the next few days. Perfect. They would feel horrible that they didn't notice he was gone. In the hand that wasn't holding the gun, he held his stack of collage acceptances. Three of the top universities in Italy, two in England, one in Spain that he had applied to on a whim, and one in America. Why had he applied to that one again? Oh, because his fratello had told him he would love it. Brown University. Sounded pretty gay.
He leaned back to keep the gun in his mouth while he fidgeted with a lighter. His original plan was to burn the letters, but thinking about it now, he realized he was too proud. His eyes popped open as he got a brilliant idea. He threw the lighter down and fished his knife out of his pocket. Putting the gun on the floor next to him, he quickly slashed the knife across his forearm. It made an angry red line that glowed in contrast to the faded pink ones that were already there.
He smiled grimly as blood spurted from the wound. He rubbed his thumb in it, wincing slightly at the pain. The first acceptance letter was Oxford University. Oh, this would be fun. A manic, almost silent laugh escaped him as he slid his thumb across the page, making no noise as the blood smeared in crimson streaks.
Look what I did. Proud of me yet?
His handwriting was perfect, as it usually was. You could barely read his brother's at the best of times. He wiped the rest of the blood off of his thumb by signing his name with a flourish. Wouldn't do to die with dirty hands.
As he tossed the knife across the room and traded the papers for the gun, he felt strangely calm. There were no voices in his head. His neighbors weren't shouting at their children, and even the damn cars on the street seemed to quiet a bit for him.
"Well," he half-laughed, "I think this is the first time in my life I've felt peace. Only took you eighteen years, bastard." Oh course he referred to himself as bastard, he always did. What else was he? Devil spawn? Some would say that.
The gun had gotten cold again. He had wondered if he would feel nervous, as he stood in line to graduate earlier that day. Was he? No, he decided, slipping the weapon back into his mouth. He was surer of this than of anything he had ever been in his entire life. Wasn't that ironic.
Close your eyes, Lovino. Just like going to sleep. Oh. The voices were back. Only this time, they weren't harsh and sarcastic, critiquing everything he did, thought, or thought about doing. They hummed in his ears like a mother's lullaby. Sleep now, Lovino. Everything will be all right. You were born to die. Lovino smiled, his eyes slipping shut. Born to die. Didn't that sound nice? He flicked the safety off and leaned back.
Tonio's face appeared in his mind's eye. A shock ran through Lovino, and the gun jerked in his mouth. Tonio. Tonio would cry.
No he won't. Tonio doesn't care about you. The voices were scathing, the shrill and painful sound rubbing against his eardrums like sandpaper. Get it over with, Lovino Vargas!
"Lovi?" Footsteps. There was only one person in the world that could get away with calling him Lovi. "Lovi? Where are you? I'm sorry I couldn't see you graduate! I need to talk to you."
Now! Do it NOW! He's just pretending! Your brother put him up to this! He wanted to scream, to call out to Tonio, let him know that he was there. His voice wasn't working. Panic welled in his heart as he watched his finger pull the trigger. His voice finally came, as the bullet shot through his head. He was not proud of the fact that his last words were a strangled yelp. Fuck.
Antonio burst into the laundry room of Lovi's apartment. He had run up the stairs and through the door at the sound of a gunshot. The sickening smell of blood permeated the air. His breath caught in his throat when he spied a neat stack of papers smeared with red. As he moved closer, a sob rose in his chest.
Look what I did. Proud of me yet? Signed Lovino Vargas.
It was written on an acceptance letter from Oxford University.
One sneaker poked out from around the side of the washing machine. It was still, still as if it had never once moved. Antonio knew better. Lovi loved those sneakers. He had been wearing them since he got them for his birthday in eighth grade. The only item of clothing that he had ever kept for more than a year. On the side, written in fading red ink, almost pink with age, was Antonio's name. He had signed it, upon request, on the last day of school.
Antonio fell to his knees, wishing the blood trickling out of Lovi's mouth was just tomato juice.
"Lovi." His voice was choked with tears, and his Spanish accent was thicker than usual. He doubted that even if Lovi were still here, he would be able to understand him. "I want to tell you something. I fell in love with you in the fifth grade, when you fell off the swing, and you broke your arm. Your eyes were filled with so much pain. I ran to you, wanted to hold you, stop the tears that were already forming. The moment you saw me, your face went blank. The tears were gone, and you looked like you didn't care about anything.
"That's why I admired you. You were so indifferent. I was an open book. Everyone could see what I felt. All except you. The mask you wore to protect yourself ended up hurting you. I loved you, Lovi. Why couldn't you see that?" The last bit was a shouted question, to no one in particular. Antonio grabbed Lovi. His head flopped onto Antonio's chest like a rag doll. Blood coated the back of his head, making his soft brown hair sticky and dark.
"I have to tell you this." Antonio found the gun on the tile, glinting with a cryptic light. He picked it up; it was still warm. With a shaking hand -he could never be as brave as Lovi- he lifted it to his head. "See you soon." He said, and pulled the trigger.