The Art of Flying
A/N: To an awesome person, fantastic writer, gifted artist and dearest friend, I say HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Spinyfruit! Thank you SO much for the conversations and memories and gift-fics (we really do that a lot, don't we? xD).
In our grand tradition of gift-fics, this one goes out to you! *Hearts* I hope you enjoy it! Have a great birthday and a wonderful year ahead!
Mild warnings apply for mentions of sexual abuse of a minor, but nothing is explicitly described. (I can't even do a birthday-gift fic without some angst, can I? But I promise, this one is isn't sad!).
The first story Lovino remembers hearing is Jack and the Beanstalk in his mother's vibrant voice. She hadn't read it out to him from a book, but gave it her own twist. There were spectral monkeys and the Green Pea Men and a spell that made little boys into doggies. Lovino doesn't remember how young he'd been, but he does recall going out to the garden with a handful of beans stolen from his dinner plate, and dumping them in the grass.
He remembers being very disappointed when they didn't magically turn into a giant beanstalk.
The next story he remembers is a lot more original. His mother told it to him when he was sick with the flu. She took him on her lap, and between kisses on his head, narrated the tale of little Runs Like The Wind, a caveman's daughter who is separated from her family in a blizzard and must learn to survive and come home, all on her own. His mother had made it up on the spot.
Lovino fell asleep that night dreaming about snow and wolves and brave little Runs Like The Wind, who wasn't afraid of anything. He tried running like the wind the next day. He tripped, fell and scraped his knee. His mother was very amused.
Another story Lovino remembers is when Feli wouldn't stop crying and Lovino was terrified of the thunder outside. Mother cuddled both of them and told them about Zeus. About how this big man in the sky with a lightning bolt weapon was just throwing a bit of a tantrum, and would Lovi and Feli like to hear why he's so angry? She told them something about Apollo the Sun God having eaten too much candy—something strange, something not altogether historically accurate. Lovino knows this because the next day, he went to his school library and looked at the book about Greek myths.
It had fascinated him how his mother's stories could make thunder quiet, or make the flu go away, or simply make going to bed a little more interesting.
Of course, his mother is long dead now.
She died in the same accident that stole Lovino's eyesight. The doctors said it was a head-injury with traumatic effects on his vision.
He had been ten years old.
And he stopped listening to stories.
Then at eleven, after a brief period of tutoring, his grandfather deemed it appropriate to buy him a book in Braille.
…
Lovino loves to read.
There is a blank space that the words can fill. Sound, smell, touch, taste—and then nothing. The picture is incomplete. But words are the great equalizer. Reading is the same for everyone. They're going in blind. It is the words that tell them what they are seeing, what they are feeling, what they're hearing and smelling and tasting. Lovino also loves that a character in a book can be blonde, but he has the freedom to imagine them with auburn, or perhaps black hair too.
Words are versatile, like that. They don't judge him for what he can't see. In fact, they allow him to imagine what he wants, however he is capable of it. It's flimsy, sure. It's not like anything can ever replace sight. But it's better than nothing.
When Lovino reads, he experiences with emotion. That's another great equalizer. Everyone has the same feelings. It's the chemicals in his brain that paint the picture. So when Marianna is feeling blue, or Andrew is painting the town red, what Lovino sees are not colours but feelings.
Which is the point.
So there's sound, smell, touch, taste and words.
If it's not Braille, it's audio books. He owns a special book reading and music device, built for the visually impaired.
Amazing what technology can do these days.
Jules Verne would not have seen this coming.
They're sitting on the bench in the college compound. Lovino likes it here. It's cool because it's near a tree, but there's also sunlight which Lovino can always feel on his skin. From here, he can hear people. It's not too far away from the main building, so he can always hear students talking or running or playing a sport. Sometimes they'll be practicing music in the grass, so he can listen to that too.
Feliciano, a year younger and right beside him, is telling him about how he's received a copy of the college magazine, and would Lovino like to listen? Lovino mutely nods. There's nothing better to do. He's finished his assignments and all his books. A couple of Braille ones he'd placed an order for wouldn't be here until tomorrow morning.
Feli is a good reader. It's a skill he's had to learn. Feli reads the words with the same intensity that Lovino feels them. His voice becomes firm when the language is coarse and soft when the scene is tender. He breathes emotion into the story and that's important. Without emotion, writing is just a collection of letters, symbols. It could very well just be math.
Feliciano reads a few stories here and there. They're fairly amateurish. Lovino listens anyway. It's at the fourth or the fifth entry that Feli pauses for a few minutes—Lovino thinks he might be reading something in his own mind—and says, "I think you'll like this one." And his voice holds a quality to it—an innate sense of wisdom. Quiet, patient, understanding intelligence.
"What is it called?"
"Experience."
"That's the title?"
"Yes. Oh, Lovi, it's lovely."
"It's just a college fiction piece, Feli. Those are seldom ever that decent."
"No, this one's amazing. Here, let me read it out."
It starts out quietly. Lovino feels the word fall silent. The hush is chilling. There's a feeling of comfort, but that's false. Something is happening. Lovino feels turbulence. It's barely there, under the surface of the language. The writer has chosen these words very carefully. They're deliberately misleading. Lovino is not breathing. Something. Is. Happening.
The pace picks up. The writing is choppier now, almost desperate. It's like the language is having an internal earthquake, like it's collapsing into itself. Like a person drowning, clawing for air, Lovino's heartbeat pumps wildly in his ears, thudthudthud. His body feels cold. There are goose bumps.
And it stops.
Like a car slamming into a wall.
Sudden. Climatic. Cathartic. Violently, cruelly, with scarring urgency. Lovino lets out a breath.
Feli becomes quiet.
Lovino concentrates on breathing. On just calming down.
"That was dark, wasn't it?" Feli asks after a moment. "Pretty ambiguous, too. I wonder what this 'experience' was supposed to be."
"Who wrote that?" Lovino turns his head towards Feli's voice, fingers itching to reach out and feel the page. If only the college magazine were in Braille.
"Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. It says here that he's a second year literature student. Oh! Lovi, he must be in your class!"
He is. Lovino has heard that name before. Arthur often mutters in dark undertones about him. Antonio likes all the books that Arthur doesn't, which leads to them having debates. Or arguments. Lovino doesn't pay attention. He wanders off when the yelling gets too intense.
Maybe he'll tell Antonio he liked this piece.
Lovino imagines writers appreciate feedback like that.
That evening, Feli and Arthur take him out to the café nearby, where Lovino drinks something called Iced Strawberry-Lemon Cooler. It's one of those strange but pleasant drinks that Lovino doesn't know how to describe.
It's very sweet.
There's too much sugar and not enough lemon.
"What colour is it?" Lovino asks Feli.
"Pink," his brother replies.
"Okay."
It's been a long time since he's seen the colour pink. He doesn't entirely remember it.
Antonio likes fantasy. To him, a creative mind is one which can take the ordinary—the everyday, the present—and change it, make it grow, use it as a blueprint and then build on it, to make something entirely new. That's what fantasy is, after all. All the magic and creatures and good and evil, all of that has come from somewhere inside the human experience. But it's different. It's not a mirror.
Gilbert is saying something to him, something about going out for drinks and get off that damn computer, but Antonio's mind is elsewhere. Specifically, lost in a world where time is material, solid, space is conceptual and the idea of three dimensions doesn't actually exist.
It's very confusing. He needs to focus. His main character is about to get killed and Antonio's trying to prevent that from happening without breaking the rules of this alternate world. He's been stuck on this scene for two weeks now, and it only seems to get harder by the day. Antonio doesn't believe in the concept of writer's block. That's for children. And lazy people.
"Will you get up? You've been sitting there since breakfast!" Gilbert tells him, but even he isn't brash enough to snap Antonio's laptop shut. Francis did that once. That's how his friends discovered that Antonio does actually have quite a temper and no, he's not afraid of hitting them.
"I just need to figure out this scene," Antonio says with a tired sigh. His eyes hurt.
"Maybe stepping outside will help. Get some fresh air," Francis says from the other end of the room. He's splashing cologne on his face.
"I have an assignment to finish," Antonio says. Maybe that will prompt his roommates to leave him alone to brainstorm. It's not entirely untrue, anyway. He's got three papers due on Thursday, and he's written precisely none of them.
"When have you ever cared about that?" Gilbert asks.
"I need to finish this scene," Antonio repeats.
"Let it go, Gilbert," Francis mutters.
Antonio smiles at them gratefully as they leave, and then turns back to his laptop. He doesn't move from there for the next hour.
He likes blank pages. The moment before writing. It's full of possibility. It's the moment that every single great writer has gone through. That pause. Assessing the words. Measuring the tone of the story. And then typing out that first, beautiful sentence. Antonio loves that. He lives for it.
But this, this just irritates him. Getting stuck on chapter five, page 51, at thirty thousand words in, with half a sentence hanging open and the cursor blinking away. Write, write, write, like the chime of bells.
I'm trying.
But I just can't.
The words escape me.
His eyes and his head hurt, and Antonio is starving. He's rewritten this scene about six times since the morning and has conveniently forgotten to acquaint his stomach with breakfast or lunch. A sigh. Fingers pressing against his temples.
He saves the document and switches off his computer. Their kitchenette is pretty pathetic. Francis usually keeps it well-stocked and is responsible for all the food they eat, but lately he's been busy with his own projects and hasn't gone to the grocery store in weeks.
Antonio can't be bothered to eat packet noodles.
He wears a jacket and steps outside. Maybe Francis is right, and the fresh air will help.
Antonio likes to imagine that when the wind rustles in the trees, the leaves are whispering words. He likes to imagine that when he's walking underneath a tree, he can hear it tell stories. And he knows that stories are everywhere. He can hear them. He understands them.
They're in the water, in every ripple and every drop. They're in the air, in each breath of wind and in the summer stillness. He steps on them as he walks, he can hear them crunch underfoot. He hears them in the pauses between speech and sees them in the distance from one facial expression to another. They're there in every crease or tear in clothing, every sigh or groan. They talk to him. It's fairy language, it doesn't always make sense. But it courts his mind, each mumble and whisper.
But today, the world is silent.
It's unnaturally quiet. What he hears and sees and experiences—people, the surroundings—are soulless. He feels detached from his reality. Nothing speaks to him. It's like the stories have gone to sleep.
He exhales softly.
Maybe he's just tired.
…
Antonio sits at the café, drinks his coffee and eats a sandwich. He tries to brainstorm for his novel, but he keeps getting distracted.
He sleeps early and doesn't wake up until half an hour after he's supposed to.
"I liked your story."
Antonio looks up from his phone. Arthur stands next to Lovino Vargas. They're in class, but the teacher isn't here yet. Lovino is the famously blind guy. Antonio has noticed how other people treat him. Gently. Like he's helpless. Antonio's not sure if that's the right thing to do, but he doesn't know how else to interact with him. So Antonio has simply been keeping his distance.
"Pardon me?" Antonio asks quietly. He looks into Lovino's eyes. They're milky golden. What would they have been like if they could see? Antonio immediately thinks of lighted candles.
Lovino huffs. It's sweet because it's uncalled for, and because he does this adorable pout, sticking out his lower lip. He rolls his sightless eyes. "I said I liked your story."
"Huh? What story?"
"I told you he's sort of thick," Arthur mutters in a flat voice. Antonio just narrows his eyes at him. They don't hate each other. They just don't like each other much.
"The one in the college magazine. I think it was last year's issue. Experience?"
Antonio lets out a short, high laugh. "Thank you. I'm glad you did. I wasn't sure about it."
"It was vivid," Lovino says simply. "And the title was very apt."
"How so?"
"You don't read stories, Antonio," Lovino quips coolly, "You experience them."
Sunset is like a bowl of soup. Warm at first, then gradually colder. Lovino likes walking in sunset, tapping his stick on the ground. He doesn't wear sunglasses, though. It makes him feel a bit ridiculous, besides, he doesn't like the way they rest on his nose. The cane is enough for people to know that he's blind and to leave way.
"Hey! Wait!" someone shouts, and then Lovino lets out a small shriek. Something runs between his legs and now he's falling, falling. Lovino's an expert in letting his body hit the ground. In that split second before collision, he tries to angle himself, shield his face, something—
And then strong arms wrap around his waist and hoist him up. There is no impact. Someone is holding him. Steadying him.
"Let me go!" Lovino cries as he finds his footing. "I'm not fucking helpless!"
"Sorry." The person lets go immediately, saying, "This stupid cat ran between your legs."
"I knew that!"
"Sorry."
Lovino is brandishing his stick around, just to be threatening. "I don't need your help." A pause, and then, "Who the fuck are you, anyway?"
"It's me. Antonio."
"Oh. Yeah, your voice sounded familiar." Lovino stretches his arm out, waving the cane, looking for somewhere to sit.
"Are you searching for a bench?"
"I can find one myself."
"There's one up ahead, Lovino. About—I dunno, ten steps?—Yeah, ten steps away."
"I can find one myself."
Lovino walks slowly, fully aware that Antonio is right beside him, probably to steady him when he trips. What Lovino has learnt is that people love helping him. It makes them feel good about themselves. It makes them feel generous and patient, helping a poor pathetic blind kid do basic things. He's not a charity case. He can take care of himself.
Lovino eventually finds the bench and sits. He can feel Antonio standing in front of him, a sixth sense he's developed. "Well…" Antonio says, clearing his throat and then coughing awkwardly, "I'll just…go."
"Wait," Lovino blurts out and then internally cringes. He can feel the shyness flood to his face, and every part of his body wants to curl into itself and hide. He can hear Antonio approach. The sound of shoes on the footpath and then Antonio's weight lands on the bench beside him.
"Yes?" he asks.
"I—" Lovino bites the inside of his cheek. "Nothing, just go." He's done this so many times, so why is this moment making him feel so conscious?
Lovino understands that emotion needn't have a logical explanation. It comes from somewhere, certainly. It's prompted by a thought process. But that thought process may not necessarily make sense.
"Are you sure?" Antonio asks. He sounds about as uncertain and shy as Lovino feels. Lovino knows he has this effect on people. They seldom know how to act around him.
Whatever. He's just going to say it.
"Can I feel your face? I don't know how you look."
"Oh."
He feels Antonio scoot even closer. "Sure."
Lovino stretches out a hand, exhaling softly. It's not such a big deal. He's done this so many times before, even with strangers. Antonio's just a guy from class. It doesn't matter.
Maybe Lovino's feeling so conscious because he wonders how Antonio will experience it. Someone who can write so explosively must live in a world that is truly surreal.
Antonio's hand suddenly catches his own. It's a little bit rough, but his skin his warm. Lovino finds his palm guided towards Antonio's face.
"I told you, I don't need your fucking help."
"Sorry. I just—I don't—" and then Antonio falls silent.
Lovino rolls his eyes. There's no point in doing that, except that it feels good. He too can roll his eyes. He's just the same as everyone else.
Antonio's face is clear, smooth. His jaw is defined, his nose is sharp, and his eyelashes feel like just the right length. He's got small lips. His hair is feathery.
He looks just like everyone else.
Then, Lovino has an idea.
It's a ridiculous idea.
And it's something any writer could have fun with.
He lowers his hand, places it on his lap, and asks, "Can I ask you something?"
"Okay."
"Can you describe yourself to me?"
There's a slight pause on the other end. "I'm sorry?"
"Describe what you look like."
"Oh. Um. Okay. I'm tanned and I've got green—"
"No. Don't tell me. Describe. If my eyes could see you, what would they feel?"
Lovino hears Antonio suck in air. They're both quiet for a moment. "Can I use colour?"
Lovino shrugs. "I remember some colours. I don't remember others. Do what you want, but make me see you."
He hears Antonio shift his weight, and for one horrible minute he thinks he's overdone it, that Antonio's just going to think he's a freak and walk away. But then he hears Antonio clear his throat. "I'll do it in third person. It's easier that way."
"Fine."
Another silence. Maybe Antonio is finds this whole thing really embarrassing.
"He was a blend of the mundane and the extraordinary."
Lovino feels the corners of his lips tug upwards.
"Average height, just enough to disappear into a crowd and never be seen again. Chestnut brown curls." Antonio pauses, then repeats, "Chestnut brown curls, like steaming coffee on a cold day."
This.
"Skin that has seen sunlight. White but not entirely so. Tanned, crisp, like the heat of a summer's morning. Just enough to be suffocating, but not enough to kill."
I need this.
"Green eyes—birdsong green—usually lost in thought. It makes him look dazed, because when everyone around him is talking about classes or nightclubs, his eyes are thinking about swordfights in the fifth dimension."
Lovino grins.
"He sees greatness in himself. Most people do. It's the everyday glory of someone with ambitions and no finish-line in sight. He's as ordinary as everyone else. But he sees extraordinary things when he looks into the mirror."
There is birdsong in the air.
Birdsong green.
Lovino angles his head towards it.
"I think I like the way you look," he says after a moment.
Antonio laughs. "It's just a description, Lovino."
"It's well-described."
"You like having the final word, don't you?"
"Of course." Lovino plays with his fingers. "Are you really writing a story about swordfights in the fifth dimension?"
"Not exactly. But I tried to, once. I don't understand physics well enough to figure out what the fifth dimension even is."
"So are you working on something now?"
"Yeah. But I'm stuck on this scene."
"What does that feel like? Being stuck on a scene? I read a lot of books but they're always so fluid. Like the writer didn't even pause to use the bathroom."
Antonio laughs again. "It's like you're holding your breath for something big to happen, but all you get is an anticlimax."
"Oh."
"I'll figure it out, though. It's just a scene. I actually thought taking a walk would help, so here I am."
"Is it helping?"
"Not really."
"Is that because I'm distracting you?"
"No. It's because no matter what I do, I can't—" Antonio's voice falls silent. "Never mind. It sounds crazy."
"So what?"
"Fine. I can't hear the…um, the stories."
"What?"
"Forget it. It's hard to explain." And Antonio says it with such crushing finality, that Lovino decides he probably doesn't want to know anyway. "I should go. I need to work on an assignment."
"Is is the one about the Iliad?"
"Yeah."
"I hated that one. It was so fucking boring."
"It's pretty pretentious, I agree. Literature is so pretentious."
Lovino drops his jaw. "What?"
"The subject. Literature. It's annoying."
"It's not!"
"I think it is." Antonio sounds pretty nonchalant.
"Then why did you even fucking take it?"
"Because I thought it would introduce me to good writing. And it has. But I hate analysing everything in different ways. I don't read like that. If a story feels powerful, or invokes a powerful emotion in me, then that is a good story, in my opinion. Discussing the Marxist perspective or symbols or the underlying themes or whatever—it's just irritating and unnecessary."
"…You're fucking weird."
Antonio laughs once more. "I guess I'm just impatient? And all this discussion and analysis and stuff, it's for patient, smart people."
"You're not smart?"
"Not really."
"I'm not smart either," Lovino offers.
"I'm glad we're on even terms, then." Antonio has a smile in his voice. "But I should really go now."
"Yeah. Okay."
"Will you—"
"I'll be fine on my own! For fuck's sake, I'm not helpless!"
"…I was going to ask if you'll be buying the book 1984 or downloading it."
"Oh."
"Yeah." Antonio chuckles. "We're starting on that next week, remember?"
"I have an audio book. And I've already read it."
"Oh, okay. Well, I'll meet you in class tomorrow, Lovino!"
As Antonio runs off, Lovino suddenly realises that he said meet you and not see you. That's rather thoughtful, if a little bit unnecessary.
Antonio doesn't need to feel guilty about seeing Lovino, because he's helped Lovino see things too.
(Lovino particularly likes the term birdsong green.)
"Feli, what colour are Antonio's eyes?" Lovino wants to know how other people see him.
"Antonio from your class? His eyes are green. You want to know how he looks?"
"I already—"
"He's tanned and has brown hair and he's always smiling."
Lovino sucks in air. Antonio hadn't mentioned anything about a perpetual smile.
"I want to hear a story, Grandpa."
"Storytelling was your mother's forte, Lovi."
"I want mama back."
"Lovi—"
"And I want to see."
"Lovi—"
"I feel black."
"What?"
"That's an emotion, isn't it? It's the only emotion I'll ever feel again."
…
…
…
"Lovi, Feli, meet Matthew Williams. Matthew will be your teacher, Lovi."
"Hello, Lovino! I'm glad to meet you!"
"…No, no you're not."
…
…
…
"Braille is difficult. It's fucking difficult!"
"Shh, patience. I know it's hard, Lovino, but I believe in you. You can do this."
"What do you know? What do you fucking know about anything?! You don't know what it's like to be blind."
"Oh, Lovino. Of course I do. I lost my eyes when I was thirteen."
"…What? You never told me that…"
"I know it's hard. But you can do it. Your life isn't over. You have to remember that. Your life isn't over."
…
…
…
"I miss my mama, Matthew."
"I know, Lovi. I know."
…
…
…
"I finished my first book last night. The one Grandpa got for me. It takes away the darkness."
.
"Yes. It does, doesn't it?"
They're having a field trip in Art History, but since a few students dropped out last minute, there are three openings. Since the Art History department's head and the Literature department's head enjoy sharing after-work drinks, the Literature students are asked if they'd like to go along for the trip. It's some museum somewhere, nothing very big. Arthur says he'll go. Lovino initially refuses. What will he do in a museum? But then Antonio says his friend Francis will be there, so he wants to go along. That changes Lovino's mind (though he has no idea why), and that's what he's doing here at six in the morning, exhausted, hidden in a thick sweater and navigating his way down the bus.
If only Feli could come. Even if he studies Art History, this trip is strictly for second year students. It's not open to poor Feli. Antonio sits next to Francis and Lovino sits beside Arthur, and all four of them are promptly asleep.
It's a long drive.
Lovino wakes up to Francis and Arthur bickering in hushed tones, but Antonio stays quiet. He's probably still sleeping. Lovino nods off too. Again.
It's an unusually hot day. Lovino regrets the sweater. He takes it off before stepping out of the bus, and Arthur's voice guides Lovino into the museum with the rest of the group.
This is a dumb idea.
Antonio wanted to come because museums are magical. It doesn't matter what they display—art, artefacts—it could be anything. But there is something otherworldly and powerful about looking at something which has survived the test of time.
This, however, is a disappointment.
Fundamentally, Antonio doesn't 'get' art. He needs Francis to stand with him and explain what he's seeing. The brushstroke, the style, the era, whatever. Chiaroscuro, maniera, contrapposto (that is a thing, right?), Francis uses these big words but then breaks them down, until they make sense with the actual image. It gives personality to the painting, makes it original and gives it an actual voice.
Without Francis, the paintings hang limply on the walls, bleak, mundane and pretentious as ever. Antonio's eyes wander over to where his friend is bantering with Arthur. Antonio's wandered a few steps away from the group.
He's so bored.
And more than that, he's frustrated.
Because he can't even feel the magic of the museum. Forget the paintings. Just forget them. The atmosphere of this museum seems dead to him anyway. He just can't feel the high ceilings and the arches and the gorgeous architecture.
He can't hear the stories.
He can't hear the voices.
He can't feel his reality.
Antonio had once described this to another writer, a friend from high school, Erika. About this sense of being. A presence, a reality. About the necessity to feel aware of where he was, of every thought and every feeling, of being able to sense the beauty and pulse of the moment.
Erika had nodded sagely and said, "Yes, I know what you mean."
Antonio needs that. He needs it, because without that presence, that magic, everything is bleak and dead.
Maybe his friends are right, and he's completely burnt out. Maybe he needs to take a break.
But he can't just stop, can he? Without the words, there is only darkness.
He needs to get out of his head for a while. He needs to distract himself. And this boring, lifeless museum doesn't help. So he wanders off towards the person who is probably enjoying himself even less.
Lovino gropes for something in his shoulder bag when Antonio taps him on the arm. "This place is really dull, isn't it?"
Lovino jumps slightly, but then his shoulders relax and he mutters, "Why did I even come? This is the stupidest waste of time ever. What's a blind guy going to do in a museum?"
Antonio's not sure if he's supposed to laugh at that or not, so he just puts his hands in his pocket and says, "I don't really understand art myself. Though my friend, Francis, loves it. I guess I'm just not that cultured."
"Let me guess, Francis and Arthur are pretending to hate each other, aren't they?"
This time, Antonio does chuckle. "Yeah."
"Does it bother you that your best friend and your worst enemy flirt with each other?"
The bluntness of the question takes Antonio off-guard, but then he can't stop the snort of laughter that escapes him. "Arthur's not my worst enemy. He's just vaguely irritating. Like…like when you go to a restaurant and they don't have your favourite food."
Lovino grins. "Don't tell Arthur that. He'll be very insulted. He expects to be dignified with the proper title—enemy."
"He's hard to please."
"You bet."
There's a sudden, awkward silence. Lovino clears his throat, then quietly goes back to rummaging around his bag. But he stops, lifts his head in Antonio's general direction, and says, "Hey…do you feel like…um, helping me out?"
"Oh. Yes, sure. What's up?"
Lovino is turning steadily redder. "You know that thing you did the other day. Describing yourself?"
That. Antonio blushes at the memory. It had been so…awkward. It hadn't been as much about how he looked, but how he saw himself. It's the only way Antonio knows how to describe. How he sees things. How he wants other people to see things. There is no objectivity with words, that's the problem.
Or perhaps that's the best part.
"Do you…want me to do it again?" Antonio asks in a small voice. "With the paintings?"
"It…would be nice…" Lovino concedes finally, dropping his head, balling his fists, his face now a steady shade of magenta.
"I really don't understand the paintings, though."
"That's fine. I don't either."
This time, Antonio does laugh, and Lovino offers the tiniest of grins.
"This painting…" and Antonio stares at it blankly. "It's…a woman. And her baby."
"Is it the Virgin Mary?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Strange."
"Why?"
"Feliciano is in Art History too. He makes it seem like all they ever painted was Mary and Jesus."
"No, this one's…I don't really know," Antonio finishes finally. He can't figure out how to describe this because finally, to him, it is nothing more than some colour on a canvas. They're only a few short paces away from the group. He can always go ask the teacher or the guide or even Francis.
But that's not the point. The idea is to infuse emotion to this painting. He can always make up some rubbish, it's not like Lovino will know the difference. But Antonio doesn't want to do that. Something about Lovino is very earnest, very trusting. Antonio doesn't want to abuse that.
"It's a woman and her baby. The baby holds on to a lock of his mother's long brown hair, just a lock, looks up at her with this wide, wondrous eyes." Antonio bites the inside of his cheek. Has he said something wrong? He doesn't want to be insensitive.
"And?"
Antonio lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "She looks down at her baby with…" Antonio frowns. "…Anger."
"What? Towards an infant?"
"Disdain. Yeah, it's weird."
"What kind of painting is this?"
Antonio reads the name. "It's called Family. That's kind of sad, isn't it? She doesn't like her own baby. So what's she going to do to it? It was her responsibility. I mean, if she didn't want it, there were lots of ways to get rid of it."
"It's just a painting, Antonio."
Antonio crosses his arms. "I don't like it."
"Okay." Lovino shifts his weight from one foot to another. "Forget it."
"We could do another—"
"No." Lovino unzips his bag one more time, dips his hand in, and with some effort, pulls out some strange black box-like contraption. "This is my audio-book reader. We can share, if you like."
Antonio blinks. "Wow. I've never heard an audio-book before."
"I've got fifty books on this thing right now. I'm listening to The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid, written and narrated by Bill Bryson. I don't know if you've read him, but he's a really, really funny writer."
Antonio's eyebrows shoot up. "Is that smart? Reading an author so hilarious in a hushed museum? Aren't you afraid you'll laugh out loud?"
Lovino's smirk is vicious and sarcastic. "You get away with a lot of shit when you're blind, you know." He offers Antonio an earphone. "Have you read this book?"
Antonio laughs. "It's Bill Bryson, Lovino. He's basically the funniest man alive. Of course I have." He accepts the earphone with a growing smile.
On the ride back to college, Antonio sits next to Lovino and they talk and talk about the silliest things. Mostly about their classmates. Antonio narrates all the crazy things he's done with Gilbert and Francis. Lovino tells him about Feli.
"It's frustrating to have an artistic brother, have the world say he's so great, but have no idea why everyone likes him." Lovino runs a hand through his hair. "To be honest, I'm not surprised. He was born lucky. I'm not special like he is."
Before Antonio can open his mouth to contradict him, Lovino continues, "Well, I am special, the bad kind of special, I guess. And maybe it wasn't easy on Feli to have a brother with a disability. But he's been a good brother to me. Honestly, I'm lucky. My family's really wonderful."
"Hmm," Antonio says to that.
"What about you? Any brothers or sisters?"
"No." But then Antonio's voice becomes lighter, happier. "But I've got the best parents ever. They're a bit protective, but I actually like that."
"Protective, huh? Yeah, my Grandpa's protective too. Especially when we're outside and we have to cross roads. Dio santo! I mean, it's sweet, I guess. And it's reassuring to have him guide me, even though I can do it alone. But it can get really irritating. I'm not helpless."
They have to stop for lunch somewhere, and with the ghastly hot day it is, Lovino asks for a glass of iced water. He sips it in between bites of his pasta. Antonio keeps talking, mostly about how he doesn't like Literature.
"It's just really irritating," he says. "I feel like they encourage the idea of pretentious reading. If you like modern fiction, you're basically an uncultured puta. As though the only things that have any beauty or style have been written by dead people. I mean, come on. That's not just short-sighted, it's just flat out cruel to all the artists and writers that are still alive."
Lovino listens in mild amusement. "If you hate it so much, why did you take it? Seriously."
Antonio lets out a loud sigh. "Because that's what writers do, no?" And then he adds, "I'm a cliché, such a cliché. An aspiring writer who studies literature in college. The only way I could be any more cliché is if I was an anti-capitalist hippie who's obsessed with Beat poetry."
"Well, are you an anti-capitalist hippie who's obsessed with Beat poetry?"
"Lovino, I own an iPhone. Also, except for Ginsberg's Howl, Beat poetry is self-righteous garbage."
"Ah. I see." Lovino eats his pasta with a small smile, and then—just because he wants to see what could happen—asks, "Antonio, what does silver look like?"
"What?"
"I remember grey and white but never silver."
"Oh," Antonio says quietly. He 'hmm's again, then in a quieter, more thoughtful voice, says, "Silver is the colour of ice cold water."
Lovino sits back in his chair. Then, cautiously, he reaches out for his glass and takes a small, experimental sip. Ice cold water. The colour silver had been hiding here all along?
The water is crisp, firm, detached. Lovino can all but see silver.
Lovino needs to try it again, because Antonio's abilities are not entirely human. It takes some sort of genuine gift bring life to his eyes, and Antonio can do that. So Lovino wants more. And more. This time, he asks Antonio to describe Feli.
It's been so damn long since he saw Feli's face.
It's beautiful, what Antonio says next. It's the moment Lovino realises he might be falling in love.
"Feliciano is like caramel. Sweet, sometimes overwhelmingly so. But innocent, too. He has none of coffee's bitterness, none of chocolate's sarcasm. Auburn hair like the smell of rain, warm golden eyes of summer, voice like snowfall and laughter like spring. Feliciano…is like the seasons."
Lovino's heart thumps and thumps and thumps away.
He wants more. More of this. More of Antonio. More of his words. More of this emotion.
He just wants more.
Everything Antonio writes these days isn't good enough, but the one thing stopping him from spiralling into the depths of self-pity is Lovino's little…game. Antonio knows perfectly well that Lovino likes getting him to describe things. How can he make a blind person see? It's always a challenge. Antonio has to be careful to use colour sparingly in his descriptions.
And it's quite exhilarating, the possibilities he finds when he gives up describing through his eyes. A thing is not red, but red like a scream on a silent night. Something is not yellow, but yellow like the taste of an undercooked egg. Antonio is constantly scrambling for ways to describe things, and in that, he finds that words are not merely his tools, but his lenses, too.
Because once he's described silver as the colour of iced water, he can only see argentum as something frigid and distant, yet somehow beautiful. And it's these little things. Associations. They're moulding his world and reshaping it.
Antonio's not sure if this is a good thing, but it's certainly new, and he likes that. What he needs, what he wants, is a little bit of freshness. Lovino's game is reminding Antonio of how powerful words can be. It's quite meditative.
There's that, and then there's the leer Francis gives him when Antonio mentions Lovino.
Antonio tries to ignore his friends' teasing, but it still makes him rather bashful.
Yes. So maybe he likes Lovino. A bit. Yes. So what. So what. It's fine. Why does everyone find it so funny. Shut up, Francis and Gilbert. Shut up and go away!
"I'm quite convinced he likes you back," Francis says absently and with a cheeky smile as they're cleaning up their dorm.
Antonio's hands tighten as he folds the duvet. He then turns scarlet—quite like Lovino—before jumping into bed and burying his head under the covers.
He is aware of Francis's airy laugh, and he doesn't appreciate it.
"What colour is my drink?"
Antonio's pen pauses over his notebook and he slowly looks up. Across him, Lovino is drinking something iced and pink. They sit together these days. In class, on the bench, at the café near college.
"It's pink," Antonio replies simply before turning back to his notes from class.
"Oh." Lovino's voice is unusually subdued.
Antonio looks up again. Studies the drink. "Can I take a sip?"
"Yeah."
It's sweet, more sugar and strawberry than lemon. Antonio puts the glass down and pushes it across the table to Lovino.
"It's pink," Antonio says again, softer, more thoughtfully. "And…shy. It pretends to be tart and acerbic, but it's not. It's the colour of a blush on a lover's face."
Lovino turns an interesting shade of red. "That's a…nice colour."
"Yeah," Antonio says after a moment, studying Lovino's darkening cheeks. "It is."
Antonio writes and writes and writes because it's dark outside and he doesn't know what else to do.
But the words are sand. Dry, lifeless, not a drop of inky emotion, nothing in them. He's so frustrated. Half of him wants to rip his laptop off the table and throw it against the wall. Another half wants to take his shoes and fling them out of the window.
…He just really wants to throw something.
So he throws on his jacket, slips his laptop into its case and marches out of his dorm. Never mind that it's two in the morning. He needs to calm down, or something precious and most likely irreplaceable is going to break.
He's surprised when Lovino opens the door so quickly. He's in pyjamas—sky blue, polka-dotted things (surely a gift from Feli. Surely)—with his cane in one hand. "Arthur, if you're going to stay out so fucking late, don't even bother coming back. You're lucky I was awake, you know. I should have just left you out here."
"It's me," Antonio ventures. He's feeling strangely meek. Shy.
Lovino's jaw slackens for half a second, and then his face becomes pink. This happens a lot, Antonio's noticed. He really likes it. He thinks it's absolutely adorable. "Antonio? What the fuck are you doing here in the middle of the night?"
"I…I couldn't sleep…"
Lovino lets out a very slow, long breath through his mouth. Then he cautiously steps aside, making way for Antonio to enter. "Neither could I. I was studying."
"How do you study?" Antonio asks, genuinely curious.
"I record all my notes," Lovino explains, gesturing vaguely around the room, where Antonio sees a classic old-fashioned recorder, like the stereotypical journalist seems to own. "So I was listening to them."
"That's convenient," Antonio muses out loud.
"Not always. Sometimes the stupidest shit gets recorded. Like last week, when Heracles had that long argument with the teacher about the literary value of Harry Potter, and Arthur got very worked up and people were calling each other 'muggles'. I like Harry Potter and I still thought it was ridiculous."
Antonio laughs. "You have to admit that was a funny conversation."
"Tch. Whatever." Lovino jerks his head away, blushes some more, and carefully taps his way across the room, sitting at the table in front of some Braille texts. "Arthur's out with some friends of his. Some party or club or something. He's got a bit of a punk side, you know?"
"Oh, really?" Antonio raises an eyebrow as he opens his laptop and looks for a charging point. "What about your other roommates?"
"They went with him."
"Why didn't you go? Do you not like clubs? Or is it because…" Antonio doesn't know how to finish the sentence. He wishes he hadn't even started it. He's so terrified of insulting Lovino in some way. He feels strangely timid around him. Lovino's opinion matters to Antonio. It matters a lot. He doesn't want to make it seem like he pities his friend, because he genuinely doesn't. Antonio just isn't sure how he ought to confront Lovino's disability. That's all.
"Antonio, calm the hell down. I've been blind for most of my life. You don't have to side-step it so much." Lovino shakes his head ruefully as Antonio lets out a breath. "I didn't go because I just don't like the whole club scene. And why couldn't you sleep?"
"I was writing, but it was rubbish. That really annoys me."
"Did you ever consider you might be a bit of a perfectionist?"
Antonio laughs. "Of course I'm a perfectionist, Lovi. You have to be a perfectionist if you want to be successful."
"Sounds like the best way to break your self-esteem."
"It's like drinking," Antonio explains. "It's all right if you do it in the right amounts. Go overboard and it will destroy you. Perfectionisms the same. Never take it to extremes."
"Ah." Lovino raises an eyebrow. "A mediocre perfectionist. That's interesting."
Antonio laughs again. Lovino's so smart.
"Would you like me to read out parts of my novel to you?" Antonio asks suddenly.
Lovino's jaw slackens yet one more time. "What?"
"It's fine if you don't want to hear it. It's not complete, anyway. And lately I've been having some trouble with—"
"Shut up."
"Okay."
"Start reading."
Antonio's smile almost splits his face. "Okay!"
"There were once two angels—"
"Antonio."
"And they wanted to fly to the stars—"
"Antonio, calm down. Shh, it's okay."
"But one had a broken wing and the other didn't know the way—"
The man sat down on the bed beside the teenager. Antonio was under the blanket, his knees to his chin, rocking back and forth, whispering wildly to himself. There was a plate of food on the nightstand. Untouched.
"Shh, shh, Antonio, calm down, calm down, kid."
"No! I can't! I have to—I have to finish—They walked around in circles for a while because they didn't know how to leave the ground. The first angel had a good sense of direction but was crippled with only one good wing and the other had two wings but was lost in his own daydreams—"
"Honey, let me try." A woman entered the room. Soft featured blond, short, plump, bespectacled. Her husband stood so she could sit where he was. She pulled Antonio towards her. He still rocked in her arms. "Shh, shh, baby, you're safe."
"—So they realised that one could be the map and the other could be the wheel and somehow they'd reach the stars and that's how they learnt the art of flying."
"That's a wonderful story, baby."
Antonio buried his head in her shoulder, trembling and breathing rapidly. "There once were two angels and they wanted to fly to the stars. But one had a broken wing and the other didn't know the way. They walked around in circles for a while because they didn't know how to leave the ground. The first angel had a good sense of direction but was crippled with only one good wing and the other had two wings but was lost in his own daydreams. So they realised that one could be the map and the other could be the wheel and somehow they'd reach the stars. And that's how they learnt the art of flying."
"Shh, shh, Antonio, darling. Do you feel better?"
His breathing was slower now. Steadier.
"There once were two angels and they wanted to fly to the stars."
"Antonio, I wish you'd eat your dinner. You didn't touch lunch either."
Antonio suddenly broke, the last shred of composure crashing into sobs. He cried desperately. She held him closer, her husband rubbed circles on his back. And when he finally became quiet, he raised his head and looked towards the window. It was night time again.
"I don't like the darkness," he whispered.
The husband ruffled his hair gently. "Then you don't need to switch off the lights."
He watches Feliciano approach from the distance. Antonio knows Feli through Francis. They're both in the art club. Feliciano is alone right now, but he's walking determinedly, like he knows where he wants to go and knows what he wants to do. Antonio sitting under this tree with his laptop, allows himself to take a mental break.
He's been overworking himself. That's what Gilbert tells him. Truthfully, Antonio doesn't feel it. He's making no progress in his novel and he's barely scraping by in class. If anything, he isn't working hard enough.
Feliciano's figure is getting closer. Antonio looks back at his laptop. The cursor is blinking again. Write, write, write. Annoying little thing. He can imagine it has a sharp, childish voice. Like those children in commercials. Those kids grate on his nerves.
He sighs very loudly before typing a sentence.
He stopped to drink water.
Well, well. An entire sentence. Five words.
There was no noise. None at all. Not even the ripple or the splash as the pond stirred. The forest had gone silent. Completely silent.
"Oh for pity's sake," Antonio mutters before deleting the entire paragraph. What garbage.
"Antonio? Hi!"
Antonio blinks and looks up. Feli hovers over him, bright toothy grin and flashlight golden eyes. Would Lovino's eyes look like this if they could see?
"Hey, Feli," Antonio replies, patting the grass beside him. "Sit down!"
"Oh no, no, I'm actually in a hurry. I spotted you here and thought I should ask. Have you seen Francis?"
"He should be with Arthur. Francis was supposedly helping with the cover page of this year's college magazine. Arthur's the editor of that."
"Ah. Okay, cool. Thanks. I'm trying to get through to him but his phone's switched off." Feli's eyes suddenly brighten. "Are you writing anything for the magazine this year?"
Antonio grins and shrugs. "Maybe. If inspiration strikes."
"Good luck! Lovi really liked your piece in last year's issue. And heaven knows he's so picky about the things he reads." Feliciano giggles and rolls his eyes. "Oh, by the way, you're friends with him, aren't you?"
Antonio shrugs again. "Sort of. Why?"
Feliciano's giggle is louder this time. "No reason. Just curious. Anyway, I'll see you!" He turns and runs off down the path. Antonio's eyes follow him until he's out of sight, and then he blinks. He does that deliberately. Blinking. He just wants to know how Lovino must feel, caught in an endless blink.
"Don't panic, Peter. Just calm down. Follow my voice. Come on now, just follow my voice."
…
"Matthew, I can't, I can't do this, I can't—"
"Yes, you can. I believe in you, Lovino. This is your living room. You've seen it a hundred times before. You remember it, don't you?"
"Yes, but—"
"No buts. Together, we're going to relearn how to live. Ready?"
"No."
"Perfect. Now, follow my voice."
"Matthew, it's so dark."
"Take a step, Lovi. Come on. I've outstretched my hands. I'm right in front of you. Just follow my voice. Good boy."
"Matthew…"
"Come on, Lovi. You can do it."
"Ouch! Matthew, I can't!"
"You just walked into the table, it's not a big deal."
"Stop being so heartless!"
"Lovino, like it or not, the world is a heartless place. People like us need to learn how to survive in it. Just feel the table, figure out where it ends, and walk."
"…I'm walking."
"Good, very good."
"I…I'm walking…keep talking, dammit!"
"What a mouth you have, Lovino!"
"Stop laughing! It's not funny!"
"It's a little bit funny."
"It's not! It's just insul—hey!"
"Lovi! You're holding my hands! You did it!"
"I did it."
"You walked across the room!"
"I did it!"
"Yes, you did! I'm so proud! I knew you could. Never doubted you for an instant!"
…
Lovino smiles. He's not been to this place in years. Matthew would tutor him at home, as a special request from Grandpa, so he seldom came to the School for the Blind anyway. But now he's leaning quietly at the doorway, listening to Matthew coax another kid into walking across the room. No matter what, Matthew's voice is always gentle and positive. It calms people down. It's calmed Lovino down so many times.
"Come now, Peter. I know you can do it. It's not that difficult. There you go. Come on."
"I want the stick that blind people get!"
"And I promise, you'll get it. Your daddy has already placed an order, hasn't he?"
"Yes, but—"
"You've got to do this, Peter."
"Are there obstacles?" Peter's voice is so terrified.
"Aren't there always?" Matthew is smiling. Lovino can hear it in the man's lilt.
"I mean in the room!"
Lovino bites the inside of his cheek to stop a laugh, but Matthew giggles good-naturedly.
"Just a few. A table. Some chairs. Go on now, walk towards me."
Matthew keeps talking, giving little pieces of encouragement or just trying to banter with Peter. Lovino remembers this exercise. Matthew taught him how to use the cane, how to feel his way up and down stairs, how to ride a bus, how to cook his food. Matthew taught him how to live again.
There's a shriek of joy and Matthew is clapping and congratulating Peter on his first real achievement, and Lovino finds himself clapping along. "Still doing the same stuff, Matthew?"
"Huh? Who's that?" asks Peter, but Matthew gasps.
"Lovino?"
"Yeah."
"Lovino!"
Lovino can hear swift footsteps—Matthew isn't even depending on the cane for this—and Lovino finds himself caught in a fierce hug. Matthew, Lovino realises suddenly, smells like dog. "How are you, Lovi?" he whispers into Lovino's ear.
"I'm well. How are you?"
Matthew pulls away and laughs awkwardly. "Oh, I'm wonderful. We should catch up. Could you give me a few minutes to wrap things up?"
"Yeah. I'll wait."
Lovino hears Matthew telling little Peter about him. There's a bit of a three-way explanation, with Peter asking the questions and Lovino and Matthew answering them. But it's easy to see why his old tutor would find this work so rewarding. Lovino feels Peter's energy pulsate. There's something quite magical about bringing vibrancy back to someone who has been thrown into darkness.
…
"Matthew, can you tell me a story?"
"I'm no good at story-telling, Lovi!"
"It doesn't have to be complicated or original."
"Hmm. Do you want a magic story or a normal story?"
"Magic, definitely. Magic is the best. I love Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings."
"Okay. I'll tell you a story about a kid named Alfred. He was thirteen, a little older than you. And he had superpowers."
"What kind of powers?"
"Oh, all kinds. He was very strong and brave. Fearless. He knew how to beat up all the kids that bullied his younger brother. But most of all, he could fly, and he helped his brother fly."
"How?"
"Alfred said that the secret to flying was letting yourself feel very, very light from the inside. All the things that weigh you down and keep you chained, they're all in your heart. And Alfred had this superpower that could make the heart as light as a balloon. And when the heart is that light, you magically float upwards and towards the sky. Alfred could do this effortlessly. But his brother wasn't so lucky. His brother was small and weak, his heart as heavy as stone."
"Oh."
"So Alfred taught him how to make his heart light. They floated together, playing in the clouds. They drew graffiti on airplane windows and migrated with the birds. When the wind blew them away, they fluttered along. Things like storms are easy when you're floating, so whenever the sky thundered and lightning crackled, threatening to burn them away, they simply floated and floated higher, right above the storm and into the stratosphere. They sometimes went even higher, all the way into space. Alfred and his brother met aliens out there, fought lots of battles—you know, Star Wars style. And when they had to come back down to earth, it didn't faze Alfred. Or his brother. Because together, they knew the art of flying."
"…That is a really lame story, Matthew."
"Hmm, I suppose it is. I told you, I'm not good at telling stories."
"…But I still liked it."
"Really?"
"Really."
…
Coffee cups. Lovino feels the water vapour on his upper lip as he raises it to drink. It scalds his tongue as it goes down, but it's okay. He doesn't even notice it. Matthew talks energetically.
"I'm training for my own seeing-eye dog."
"That explains the smell."
Matthew's laughter echoes around the empty cafeteria of the School for the Blind. "They want you to train with the dog, under their supervision. And they'll let you take it home after they think you guys are all right together. Mine's called Kumajirou."
"What kind of weird name is that?"
"They call him Kuma, though. His fur is the softest thing, Lovino. I can't wait for you to meet him. Wait, why don't you get your own dog? I can give you the number of the guys who run the program. Yao and his brother Kiku. Here, let me just take out their business card…" There's rustling and the sound of a bag unzipping, but Lovino reaches out to touch Matthew's shoulder.
He misses and ends up hitting him in the face instead, but the basic idea gets across.
"What?" Matthew's voice is nasally. "You don't want their number?"
"I just need time to think about it."
"What's to think about?"
"For one, I don't like dogs."
"You monster."
Lovino chuckles. "They're smelly and they jump."
"Not these dogs. They're as obedient as anything."
"I said I'll think about it."
"All right, all right. So, what have you been up to?"
"Just college."
"Oh. College. How's that going?"
"Monochrome," Lovino quips, and he can hear Matthew snicker.
"Is it really that bad?"
"I guess not. I like what I'm studying. And there's someone I know—"
"Ah. There always is. That's why I loved college. Katyusha, her name was. Sweet girl."
"No, it's not like that. Christ. Let me finish. Antonio's in my class."
"Antonio? Are you—"
"Yes, I am gay. No, this is not a coming out story. Just listen. When did you get this talkative? You were always so quiet and patient."
"All right, all right! I'll shut up. Continue."
"He writes. And…just…his writing…I…I can see it, Matthew. I can actually see what he's describing. I can experience it, like I'm there. It's so powerful. Even when he's describing colour. Even the hard ones, the ones I barely remember. Like pink. Or magenta. Or silver. I find silver so confusing. I always remember white or grey, but I can't get silver, and Antonio—he—god—You know what he said?"
"No, what?"
"Silver is the taste of ice cold water."
"That's…"
"I saw it. Not the exact shade, but I knew how to feel about it. You know how colour invokes emotion? How you like a particular colour but you dislike others?"
"I'm really past that stage in my life," Matthew replies. His tone is rather dry.
"So was I. But Antonio, he…he brings it back. Flashes of colour and the emotion that comes along with it. It's like magic."
"You've always liked words and you've always liked magic."
"Yes, I—wait, what are you implying?"
"I'm not implying anything."
"Of course you are."
"No."
"Unless you want everyone else to see a bunch of blind men fighting it out with their fucking walking sticks—"
"Ah, that would be a funny sight. I'm so wistful now."
"Oh, shut the fuck up."
Matthew laughs. "I'm sorry, but are you hearing yourself? Flashes of colour, emotion, magic, you're so in love. It's like a romance movie."
"Ew."
"Don't diss romance movies, Lovino."
"Why not?"
"Because love will always find a way." Matthew's tone is mock serious.
"Stop it!"
"Don't tell me you're embarrassed."
"I'm not!"
"Of course you are."
"Shut up."
"Okay. Forget it. Let's talk about something else. What are you studying?"
"Literature."
"I see…"
"Antonio doesn't like it but he studies it anyway."
"I see. Indeed. Interesting."
"You know what, fuck you."
Lovino hears familiar footsteps across the room and the warm weight of Antonio flops down on the bench next to him. Antonio smells stale, like he's been in a locked room for too many hours. They're in the library. Lovino's got his fingers over a Braille novel that came in yesterday.
He feels Antonio breathing heavily beside him, but doesn't say anything. Antonio will speak when he has something to say. For now, Lovino just wants to make sure he isn't blushing too wildly. Feli says his face becomes cherry red. And Lovino has tasted cherries. He doesn't like them.
Finally, Antonio shifts his weight and mumbles, "Francis took my laptop away."
"Why?"
"Because I forgot to eat. I was writing."
"Well, that's stupid."
"It's not. Once you get started, it's hard to stop."
"Have you eaten now?"
"Yeah. He stuffed a couple of croissants down my throat."
Antonio is drumming his fingers against the table. "I hope he gives it back after dinner. I like writing through the night."
"Don't you get tired?"
"Eventually, yes. But it…keeps the darkness away."
Lovino sucks in air. "It does. Words do that."
Antonio laughs. "This is going to sound so crazy, but lately I've been desperate for them. Words. Stories. These last few weeks, I don't—it's just—so irritating. Everything has a story. I can hear it. Trees rustling and water splashing and stones and wind and silence and noise and everything, everything breathes to me. I can hear their stories, I know they've got something to say. Doesn't that sound crazy?"
"A bit. But that's okay. Brilliant people are often crazy."
"I'm not brilliant."
"Neither am I."
"Why do you do that?"
"Do what?"
Lovino knows exactly what, though. He doesn't know why he does it with Antonio. Giving self-depreciating comments in response to Antonio's. But hey, if he wants to say mean things about himself, Lovino's happy to give him company.
"Forget it," Antonio mumbles. "What I was saying was, I can hear their stories, but these days, I just can't. It's so annoying. I hate it. There's such…emptiness." Antonio's voice is hollow and exhausted now, devoid of its initial momentum. "If there are no stories, what else do I live for?"
"Aren't you being just a little bit dramatic?"
"No. I'm not." Antonio exhales very loudly, and then Lovino hears something slam against the wooden table. Lovino winces for Antonio's sake. Whatever that was, it must have been painful. "Words only matter when they're real, and I can't hear the stories from all around me. So the story I'm trying to say seems fake and forced. Does that make sense?"
"I guess. In a manner of speaking."
Antonio falls silent. Lovino is torn between reaching out to hold him or going back to reading. He reads. It's easier. But his focus on the book is only partial, because he's soon aware of Antonio murmuring softly, the man's voice just enough to sound like drops of water from a leaking faucet.
"There once were two angels…fly to the stars. But one had a broken wing and the other didn't know the way…while because they didn't know how to leave the ground…only one good wing…one could be the map and the other could be the wheel… the art of flying."
Lovino has to strain to hear him, and still misses large parts of the story. Antonio chants it like a mantra.
"Where did you read that?"
"I made it up," Antonio says quietly. "When I was very young. Five or six. I don't remember now."
"It sounds interesting," Lovino offers. He doesn't like Antonio's tone. It's sad.
"Can I ask you a question?" Antonio blurts.
"Okay."
There's silence.
"What's the question?"
"Never mind. It's inappropriate."
"Tell me!"
"No, really, it's—"
"Tell. Me."
"All right, all right. Keep your voice down, the librarian will throw a fit."
"Whatever."
"Have you ever slept with someone?"
Lovino suddenly wishes Antonio hadn't asked this. His whole body is warm and now he feels defensive, poised to strike. He wants to respond with something confident and acerbic, but fundamentally, Lovino is neither that headstrong nor that brass. Instead, he feels his sense of control breaking away. And that's a horrid, horrid feeling because he knows what it's like to be truly fragile.
It's like he's a piece of tissue caught in a jet stream and he can't stop, no matter what happens. He has absolutely no control over anything.
Lovino doesn't like feeling this way.
He's open and vulnerable and Antonio waits for an answer.
So he sticks with the truth. Because at least there's the security of steadiness there.
"Nobody wants to sleep with a blind guy, Antonio." When he's greeted with silence, he adds, "Why?"
Antonio is silent for so long, Lovino almost wonders if he's stepped up and walked away. But Lovino would have heard the chair moving, so that can't be right. Besides, he feels the other man's presence. Right now, Antonio is like a comma. There is an expectation for more.
"I slept with Francis in first year."
"I didn't know you were gay."
"I…I don't know. Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not. Maybe I'm both. It doesn't bother me, anyway."
"Why are we talking about this, again?"
Antonio drums his fingers against the table.
"What are you so nervous about?"
"Francis was…wonderful. He—he—um, took care of me—helped me feel less tortured at the thought—it's not—I mean—forget it."
But Antonio isn't done. Lovino knows this.
"He helped me realise that sex could me more—more loving, I suppose—you know?"
Where was he going with this? Lovino felt a knot in his throat. He didn't like the sound of the conversation at all.
"I was thrown into an orphanage when I was five. My mom abandoned me. She was an addict and she'd never wanted me." A high, nervous laugh. "If she never wanted me, she could have had an abortion. Happens all the time!"
"Oh, Antonio."
"No, it's fine. I don't care. I don't remember her. Really."
"…Okay."
"But it was bad for a while. One orphanage to the next. People adopted me. Then I was abandoned. Happened a lot." Before Lovino can express any sort of outrage for Antonio, he continues, "I was fourteen. Someone took me in. I—they—you know—" Antonio breaks off again, and Lovino suddenly thinks that he's trying not to cry.
Lovino's hand reaches out experimentally. But he finds Antonio's palm clenched on the table. Lovino holds on to it.
"Rape, it—I—it—it's not—"
"Don't, don't do this to yourself. I get it. Just calm down."
Antonio takes a deep, long breath and lets it out very slowly. "Ever since I was little," he begins after a while, sounding a little shaken, "I told myself the story about the angels, every time I felt alone. And my social worker, she made sure I got into a very secure home after the—you know. My parents," he adds with a sense of finality and maybe even pride, "They took care of me. The first night was bad, though. I was panicking. The story, I kept repeating it, I—basically—basically, it helps me through things."
'Fragility' is an awfully beautiful word. It's like very fine glass. It sounds delicate and charming in the ear, but oh so breakable. Fra-gi-li-ty. The sounds are open and shut, a wide 'fra' and a shyer 'gi-li', ending with one final crashing 'ty'. Then there's nothing more.
The glass has broken.
Lovino knows fragility. But now he learns that so does Antonio.
"Can you tell me the story again?"
Antonio takes a soft, shuddering breath. "There once were two angels and they wanted to fly to the stars. But one had a broken wing and the other didn't know the way. They walked around in circles for a while because they didn't know how to leave the ground. The first angel had a good sense of direction but was crippled with only one good wing and the other had two wings but was lost in his own daydreams. So they realised that one could be the map and the other could be the wheel and somehow they'd reach the stars. And that's how they learnt the art of flying."
"It really is a beautiful story, Antonio."
"It's so childish." Antonio's laugh is back, but it's shaky and lacking any conviction.
"No, it's great. I've got one. It's about a boy named Matthew and his brother Alfred. Alfred has superpowers and he teaches Matthew how to unlock his own superpowers."
"That sounds so cute!"
"I guess it is. Let's take a walk. I'll tell it to you."
It's the sort of night where the moon is a drop of wax and the sky is a yawn. Lovino's fingers brush against Antonio's now and then. The breeze is barely there, but the crickets and fireflies are lively as ever.
"That day, you asked me to describe myself. But I don't think I've ever described you."
Lovino's voice catches in the sweetest way. "Me?"
Antonio takes a deep breath. He sees Lovino's eyes in the moonlight, milk-golden, sightless and dead. But oh, there's so much more to him than that. Antonio sometimes feels like he's losing his superpower because he can't seem to write well these days.
But he knows he's probably just exhausted himself. Knows it'll come back to him sometime.
Lovino's eyes, however, see nothing. They never will.
And yet, Lovino's more than that.
He's…magic.
"I love your eyes," Antonio begins honestly, watching Lovino's lips tighten. "They're sunlight filtering through a thatched roof. I imagine if you could see, your eyes would be so distracting. I'd never get any work done because—like a magpie—I'd be so obsessed with the way they sparkled.
"Your voice. It's deep, and though you seem to be sarcastic, you cuss a lot, there's something so inherently wise about you. Like the echo of an untouched cave. I like it when your hair catches the sun. You may not know, but it makes you look ethereal. Like church music. The hymns. The Latin. You're like a hymn."
"I'm like a what?" Lovino squeaks, bringing his hands to his face, letting his cane clatter to the ground. "Shut up, you're being a bastard!"
Antonio laughs. "I'd like to travel the world with you some day," he muses. "It would be amazing to go to all these places. And you and I, we'd be artists on a great canvas. Because I could describe the Roman Forum and the Taj Mahal and the Statue of Liberty in whatever way that pleases us. I would like that very much. You and I would have an unnatural freedom—you more than me, in fact, because I'm still confined to my eyesight, but you get to see with words."
Antonio stares at Lovino now, who stands with his jaw hanging open and his face deep red in the lamplight, shaking slightly as he twists his fingers. Finally, Lovino mumbles, "…Your words."
"Pardon me?" Antonio leans in closer. Their foreheads are almost touching.
"I get to see with words, right? Your words."
Usually, Antonio describes.
But this time, Lovino wants to. He wants to describe the kiss to Antonio, making sure that Antonio sees, feels, experiences, relives this sensation for the years to come. Because it's very slow, savouring. Lip-on-lip, tongue following. Lovino wants to make Antonio go through the same awareness and thrill that he does when Antonio shows the world to him. So his hands are in Antonio's back pockets and Antonio's got his arms around Lovino's waist.
And the kiss is very tender, protective, almost. And bashful in its emotion but ravaging in its depth. He feels through Antonio's mouth, memorising each detail, and Antonio's grip gets tighter and tighter. They forgo oxygen. For the moment, they simply don't need it.
The cold nervousness in Lovino's chest eases away, replaced by something warmer and softer, more sure of itself, less defensive.
Magic is not a concept.
It is a moment.
This has been about birdsong green and icy silver, of drinks that blush like lovers do, and the fra-gi-li-ty of delicate glass, from the very moment Lovino heard his first story, to his first book in Braille and Antonio's Experience, it's always been about that.
That common denominator.
The words.
Those little sparks of magic that colour Lovino's life as best as they can. In the hands of the best of wordsmiths, kneaded like cookie dough, moulding into something smooth and soft, yet firm and definite.
Words drive the darkness away.
…
Antonio drives the darkness away.
A/N: No plot at all, basically. But I wanted to write a non-angst-focused story with characters who have been through things nobody should have to suffer. Toni and Lovi have moved on, as much as they can, anyway. It's not about their personal emotional battles, it's about how they, as the people they are, fall in love with each other. That's what I wanted to show :)
Also, no, love doesn't solve their problems. Antonio is still burnt out and Lovino is still blind. Plus, I consciously didn't specify the Experience Antonio is talking about in his story. You can decide what you want that to be, and if you don't like the one I'm alluding to, make up your own :P And I hope this came through, but I wanted to portray Antonio and Lovino as survivors, people who have fought to recover emotionally and psychologically from their traumas. I hope that was clear, and I also hope it wasn't in any way insensitive. :)
But you know what, guys. It's Spinyfruit's birthday, and here's an awesome way to wish her. Go on and read (or re-read) one (or ALL!) of her stories, post a review or send a PM, and tell her how wonderful she is! Because let's face it, as far as Spamano writers go, she's basically the Queen.
No, really, I've learnt so much from her. So much. Really, my first "Spamano" was And So It Goes and it basically was a large pile of garbage, and it's really through reading her stories and speaking to her and developing my writing style have I been able to grasp the skill to write this pairing. So I'm not just being polite when I say on my profile that I learnt a good number of my Spamano tricks from her.
She's a wonderful writer and an amazing person, so go on. Go read/review her stories (even if you've read them all already!) and send her a special birthday PM! :D
And Spinyfruit, I really, really hope you liked this. You're just amazing. Never forget that. *Multiple heart emojis*