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It's raining again in London.

Antonio doesn't know why he's here; he loves the sun and warmth and smiling faces, but here it's cold and wet and everybody looks so somber. He knows he should have expected the rain, but he's dressed in a short sleeved shirt shaded a color that reminds him of the evergreen oaks back home. It's soaked a shade darker and plastered to his skin, not unlike his hair.

The rain comes down in a mighty torrent, all darkness and heaviness, soaking Antonio to the bone and rolling effortlessly off of tan skin.

He turns his face up to it, eyelashes fluttering against his upper cheeks, hands draped by his sides. People weave past him; it's surreal. He stands, unmoving, while all of this life goes on around him.

He can already hear Arthur's nagging voice in the back of his mind. Idiot, he'd say, you'll get sick if you stand in that rain! What in God's name were you thinking?

Antonio would reluctantly admit that he wasn't. At least he doesn't think he was.

Thinking, he supposes, just isn't something he should be doing. He's reckless; acts before he thinks. Arthur isn't so much like that. Antonio likes watching the way his expression pinches when he's thoughtful, lips turned down and the little tug between those godforsaken eyebrows.

Ah, Antonio's thoughts come to a stuttering stop. He's thinking about him again. God, he shouldn't be here. Arthur's expression flickers behind Antonio's eyelids every time he blinks; the blond looks baffled, lips parted and green eyes squinting dubiously. Antonio wishes he could take back what he said, that day.

He hasn't seen Arthur since.

He drops his gaze and shoves his hands in his pockets, grateful for once that he'd forgotten his phone again. He doesn't have a waterproof case yet; it would've been destroyed in this weather. Antonio brushes his sopping hair away from his eyes and ducks his head, falling into the pace of the people on the crosswalks. He knows where he's going by now, and his feet take him there without his mind thinking about it.

People under umbrellas give him odd looks, boots splashing in the puddles as they hurry across the street. Antonio goes ahead, picking up speed, walking, walking. Walking turns to power walking turns to jogging and suddenly he's sprinting. He flies down the sidewalk, half shoving past people with only a little bit of trouble.

I think I love you, Antonio had told him.

It wasn't often he got Arthur to laugh, but it never failed to take his breath away. After one such instance, the words had slipped out before Antonio could even consider them - another downside to never thinking before he acted, he supposes. Arthur's lucky.

You don't think, Arthur had replied, and refused to speak of the subject again.

Antonio has memories here, images that rush past him in the wind and rain, streaming through his soaked hair and wreathing over his ears and shoulders. He's lying to himself; he knows exactly why he finds himself here so often. Rain or no rain, this is Arthur's home.

He takes the apartment complex's steps two at a time, hurtling himself up the narrow concrete platforms, fingers slick on the metal railing and threatening to let him slip. He doesn't know if it's just dumb luck, but he's here and knocking before he dares second guess himself.

There's a moment, in between the time his knuckles leave the door for the last time and the time it opens, where the whole world seems to hold its breath.

And then green meets green and Antonio smiles that blinding smile of his in response to Arthur's gaping expressing.

"Bloody hell," Arthur hisses, throwing the door open and towing Antonio in by the collar of his shirt, "are you mad?! Did you honestly come all this way without at least a coat?!"

Arthur goes on, but Antonio's too busy staring. He'd expected this, at least - it had been a dumb decision. He's suddenly hyper-aware that he's freezing and Arthur is practically radiating heat in comparison; it's funny, he notes, because it's usually the opposite way around. If Arthur notices that Antonio is shivering, he doesn't pause to give notice.

"-anything to say for yourself?"

Antonio blinks. "You're cute when you're angry."

Arthur stutters, trips over his words, and then promptly glowers, smacking Antonio over the head. The Spaniard just laughs, watching as Arthur stomps off into the other room, returning momentarily with a towel. Antonio narrowly misses getting smacked in the face with it as Arthur tosses it to him.

"Oh, shut up and dry off," Arthur grumbles, "I haven't got any clothes that will fit you properly so-"

"I can just go naked?"

"-you're going to have to deal with ill-fitting sweatpants, is what I was going to say."

Well, Antonio huffed, that's no fun. He opts not to piss Arthur off more.

(~~)

"Here," Arthur murmurs, setting a cup of tea down in front of him.

Antonio is watching raindrops race down the apartment windows, blurring the outside world from within. He still has a towel draped over his head and is now clad in nothing but gray sweats that come just above his ankles; he always forgets how small Arthur is. He's got such a big presence. The tea gives off warmth and draws Antonio's attention away from the steady drumming outside. He isn't sure what kind it is, but it smells nice. His clothes are drying off - he can distantly hear the sound of the dryer.

"Thank you," says Antonio, though he's not entirely sure what he's thanking Arthur for.

Arthur waves one hand dismissively and lowers himself into the nearby recliner. Antonio can feel his gaze, even when he closes his own eyes to take a careful sip of the tea.

"Don't burn your tongue," Arthur tells him, raising one eyebrow.

"That's definitely not what you wanted to say."

"More observant than anyone gives you credit for, as usual," Arthur is drumming his fingers against his leg absently, gaze distant. "Why are you here, Antonio?"

Antonio watches the ripples in the sepia of the tea for a moment longer and then withdraws his cold fingers from around the mug. He doesn't answer right away, turning his gaze back to the window. The rain hasn't let up - it seldom does, he supposes, at least whenever he's here - and his gaze follows the droplets down the windows, splotches and streaks against the background of other apartment complexes.

"Hm," Antonio muses, finally, "I wonder."

He can practically hear Arthur roll his eyes. The Spaniard listens as Arthur rises and crosses quietly towards him; Antonio expects a flick, but remembers that he probably just can't feel it through the towel draped over his hair. The water from the curly strands keep dripping onto the bridge of his nose and over the back of his neck.

"Please, even you had to have a reason."

Antonio lifts his gaze to Arthur. "What if I said you were the reason?" He replies, tracing the rim of his tea. "Maybe I just wanted to see you."

"You aren't funny, Antonio."

"I'm not joking."

"If this is about before-"

"About when, Arthur?" Antonio frowns now, but doesn't meet Arthur's sharp eyes. "When I told you I loved you? Because you obviously took that well."

"I'm not having this conversation with you right now, Antonio," Arthur snaps, sucking in his cheeks like he always does when he's frustrated.

He's glowering. Antonio sighs and shuts his mouth; he's just frustrated. He hadn't meant to rile Arthur up. The brunet takes a sip of his tea and listens to Arthur simmering nearby. They're silent for a while, after that.

Arthur is the first one to break it.

"Antonio," he says, voice softer, "I didn't mean-"

"I know," Antonio interrupts, but he doesn't look at Arthur, "it's okay."

He doesn't want to hear the words Arthur has to say, even if he already knows what they are. They aren't quite a thing, not quite dating, not quite exclusive, never quite this or that. Antonio hates this tightrope act they have; Arthur's balance is perfect, but Antonio is stumbling, lately, teetering dangerously over the drop they stand above. And god, he's terrified. Arthur approaches again; Antonio is still gazing out the window. He can faintly see his own reflection - he looks tired. Vaguely, he can see the reflection of Arthur standing just behind him, staring out, trying to figure out what Antonio is staring at.

"I had a thought," Antonio starts, finally.

"Oh no."

Antonio whirls, gaping. "Wha- I swear it's a good one this time!"

A little smirk tugs at Arthur's lips. "The last time you had a good idea, Antonio, it landed you in the middle of a downpour in London."

It only takes Antonio a second to figure out that Arthur is referring to today. He can't tell if Arthur is implying that it was a bad idea for Antonio to have come here or not. A pang strikes him and he peers out at Arthur from beneath dripping hair and a white towel. Even here, in the terrible lighting of Arthur's apartment, Antonio admires him. He wishes, as he always does, that they were something sure.

"I meant it, you know," he murmurs, unbidden, "what I said."

Briefly, confusion flickers over Arthur's features. Antonio wonders if those are freckles he sees, faded, splashed beneath Arthur's eyes.

"Which part?"

"I think you know which part, Arthur," Antonio holds his gaze.

Antonio knows he does. It seems to click and Arthur lowers his gaze, just briefly, before looking up at Antonio from beneath pale eyelashes. Finally, he seems to come to some resolve; Antonio only briefly has a moment to hope he hasn't pushed Arthur away entirely, but then Arthur is stepping forward, reaching out with one hand.

Antonio instinctively lifts a hand to intercept him, but Arthur's fingers curl around the edge of the towel, just over Antonio's forehead, and tug it down over his eyes. Antonio's mind whirls with questions, but he's not presented the chance to ask them.

Before he can open his mouth, Arthur's lips are on his, hard and cold and fierce and demanding. Antonio's thoughts immediately falter.

"Stop talking," Arthur breathes, harsh and husky against Antonio's lips.

Ah, Antonio thinks.

Outside, the rain drums on.