De-anon from the kink meme.
Yes, Spain and Romano are hot dog vendors. It just needed to happen.
"Hey, hey you!" Lovino was offended. So deeply, horrifically offended. He cursed at the man with his middle finger, who stood smiling exactly two-hundred-and-fifty-two meters away from him on the other street corner.
Light gusts blew across the street, causing an empty pop can to skitter and stop before meeting its demise at the tire of an unsuspecting driver. The faded red, green, and white parasol labeled "Roma's Italian Dogs" rustled in the wind, colliding with thousands of dirty particles of dirt, sand, and cigarette ash.
"Hey bastard! You think you could up your price a little and stick to the rules around here?" Lovino yelled across the street. He could barely hear himself across the roar of downtown traffic, but fuck that. He was Lovino, and Lovinos were people to be heard.
"Even 'Authentic Wursts' obeys the rules! If that bastard can obey the rules, you can fucking obey the rules!" By rules, of course, Lovino meant the unwritten code of hotdog vendors. Prices must stay equal among them, because as soon as one vendor lowers the price, the rest will have to lower them too if they want to keep themselves in the green. "What you're doing is just damn selfish! It'll never last!"
But the man just grinned at him. He just grinned with his set of slightly yellow teeth and his dull green eyes. When he grinned, he had laugh lines at the corner of his eyes - but to Lovino, they were wrinkles - which meant he was old and stupid. Because if he spent his whole life as a hotdog vendor, there was no goddamn way he had a half-way decent brain.
"Stupid! Lower your fucking price!" He attempted again, as he did every time he got bored for the last three days; ever since "Wieners, Churros & Other Phallic Foods" opened that one fateful Monday morning. And as per his last few attempts, he failed. Miserably. Fuck, didn't that bastard get tired of smiling?
He sighed, defeated, and picked up the roasting fork. Poking his thick sausages, he drilled little holes into the sides of them, as if the sausage was his rival's dense head. He straightened his white collared shirt. He jingled his keys in his pants. He glanced at his watch – lunch time, and looked over the street.
There he was, that bastard, with his long line of frugal, fat New Yorkers. All they wanted was a quick fix of fast food at the nearest street corner, and - perhaps it was the bad economy – they seemed magically drawn to the five cent discount Mr. Phallic Foods offered. It was only five-fucking-cents! Geez, couldn't those chubby office ladies see the dark, handsome sexiness that was Lovino and his wieners? He (they?) were worth at least a whole ten cents more!
Just ignore the fact that Mr. Old Bastard gave out free smiles and candy for school children, Lovino was a proud Italian! He was a flirt and a goddamn good flirt. And-and, hey, is that Lizzy - ?
"Lizzy!" Lovino called for the woman, staring at her partially see-through blouse appreciatively. "Baby! You're here for my wieners!"
Lizzy gave him 'the look,' the one that girls used before turning down prospective bed partners for the night, and rolled her eyes. It was the kind his stupid brother Feliciano got at least three times daily. She pulled her purse close to her chest, obstructing Lovino's view of her goods before the streetlight changed and she started to slink across the crosswalk.
"Go away, perv. Antonio's so much nicer than you anyways, you douche," she swung her hips, French nails pressed against her curves as she made her way towards red and yellow stand across the street.
"L-lizzy!" Lovino choked. "How could you do this to me? How could you cheat on me with that old fart?" But Lizzy ignored him, swinging her ass even more furiously in his face.
He wiped away a few stray tears of betrayal, turned back to count his till for the fifth time that hour (nope, still the same amount), and pouted, bottom lip stuck out as far as it would go without orthodontics.
Brooding, he sat on his stool and watched Lizzy chat up his rival. What was his name? Antonio? Lovino huffed. What a stupid name! Makes him sound like a donkey or a pack mule or a singer or somebody. Seriously, Antonio? Next they'll be naming their kids Fred or something.
Lovino closed his eyes, dreaming of better days when he was the sole hotdog vendor on the block – back when women enjoyed his flirting and didn't realise he did it with every women he saw. Back when saying "I'm Italian" was synonymous with "I'm fucking sexy, buy my wieners." Now everything was ruined – all because Antonio had to charge five cents less than he did.
"Hey," someone said and Lovino jumped up suddenly, hand already reaching for his tongs when he looked up and found Ludwig, staring blankly at him.
"Oh, it's just you. What do you want?" Lovino glared at the other man, a university student who ran the German sausage stand "Authentic Wursts" at the next corner of Broadway.
"Your brother wanted me to deliver you a message," the man said and broadened his imposing chest of masculinity. Lovino inwardly whimpered.
"What does he want?"
"He wants to ask how you are doing."
"What? That's it? I'm fucking fine. I'd be fucking delirious with joy if that asshole across the street ups his prices!"
Ludwig raised an eyebrow, took at glance at Lovino's rival, and looked back at him, obviously trying to supress a rude comment. "Perhaps you should lower your prices too."
"Pfffftt!"
"Anyways, I have classes in an hour. I know you don't take summer classes, but you should try using your brain in summer as well," Ludwig said in his monotone voice. Lovino snorted. What did his stupid brother see in him anyways? He considered calling him a nerd but stopped at the sight of his broad shoulders. Ludwig left, shuffling in a way that reminded Lovino of those lowland gorillas he saw on discovery channel. Not that he watches the discovery channel or anything-!
Lovino closed his eyes, rocking his body slightly as he sat back down on his stool. He stayed that way for the rest of the lunch hour, cursing the working class and the white collars for their love of freedom of choice and other vendors' wieners.
Fuck that German bastard. Fuck his brother. Fuck Lizzy. Fuck that asshole, Antonio!
"Eh?" Someone said.
Lovino jumped off his stool, scrambling to get his roasting fork to slam a few wieners down onto buns when he looked up and found a set of green eyes staring at him. "Damn it! I thought you were a customer! Fuck you! Because of you, I'm fucking poor and grandpa is going to chide me for not selling enough wieners!"
Antonio, at least Lovino thought that was his name, stared blankly at him. He blinked, glanced down at the dirty concrete streets underneath and blinked some more. Finally, he looked back up and smiled so brightly, that it almost wiped the frown right off Lovino's face.
"F-fuck me?" Antonio questioned, his English only a collection of stutters.
Lovino clamped his hand on his mouth. Fuck. Did he think out loud again? He really needed to stop doing that. It got him into trouble. It was probably the reason Lizzy and Martha and Becky and Sasha stopped buying his wieners. He should have shut his trap when he starting mentioning all the girls he had done. Or attempted to do.
"Fuck m-me?" Antonio stammered again. At least twenty different excuses flew through Lovino's head as to how he could get himself out of this strange conversation with his archrival, but the easiest was anger and damn, Lovino was good with anger.
"Fuck you! You're the reason I'm fucking going out of business! You and your stupid churros and stupid smiles and stupid five-cent discount on hotdogs. Fuck you and go to hell!" Slamming his hands as dramatically as he could against the metal cart, Lovino stood up straight and cracked his knuckles, ignoring the fact that he didn't know how to crack his knuckles.
But the bastard just smiled. He smiled with those actually-quite-white-teeth and those not-actually-dull-green-eyes and Lovino's heart skittered in his chest cavity. Antonio leaned closer, and Lovino looked down (it was a bad habit!) at his half-way opened dress shirt and his hairy chest. God, if only he had chest hair like that! And that tan – so even, and those toned muscles and his hot -
"¿Habla usted español?" The man asked. Lovino stared at his chest hair. The man asked again. "Err…¿Habla usted español?"
Lovino glanced up. "W-what?"
"S-speak Spanish? No good English," the man said with a thick accent and looked away, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head with his left arm. His tan, hairy, toned arm. Lovino saw the light. His rival, that bastard Antonio, didn't even know English. Fuck, he was a new immigrant and he didn't know fucking English!
"Mexican?" Lovino asked and tilted his head to the side, his hair flopping to the side. The other man suddenly gasped, releasing a high-pitched squeal of delight. Lovino sighed and repeated. "Are you Mexican?"
Antonio seemed to calm down a bit – at least his focus was back to talking instead of gushing for no apparently reason. "No."
"From Colombia? Peru?"
"No, Spain."
"Spain? In Europe? What are you doing here?"
Antonio narrowed his eyes. His eyebrows knitted in concentration as he tried to decipher Lovino's words and seemed to be having a great amount of difficulty in doing so. Lovino grinned and took a swig from his bottle of water. If this guy was like all those other new immigrants who didn't know shit about America, it meant it was going to be as easy as hell to trick him into upping his prices.
An uneasy grin was plastered onto the man's face. "F-fuck me?"
Lovino spat out his water. "No, bastard! Do you even know what that means? Don't throw that phrase everywhere, stupid!"
"No comprendo."
Grasping his head, Lovino groaned. He knew enough Spanish from hanging around Mexican pizza boys that he understood what he was saying.
Antonio poked his chin. "¿Puede-usted explicarlo, por favour?"
Lovino crossed his arms and squinted at the intruder. "Uh…seriously?"
"Yes? Teach me?"
"Uh, I guess I will. You see -"
Suddenly, his right arm was grabbed tightly. Lovino's other arm flew to rescue its captured brother, but he soon found both arms pinned to his back. He cursed at the hotdog vendor, who continued to smile while slowly dragging his squirming body into the nearest alleyway. His eyes flew furiously across the street, only to find the lunch crowd gone and the streets abandoned.
Lovino couldn't believe it. He was going to get mugged in broad daylight? Why didn't those white-collar urchins up in their cubicles come and help him? And this was fucking New York City! Where the hell was everybody?
"Fuck!" He screamed and thrashed against the hold, only stopping to wince when his arm bent in a way that it shouldn't have. His face lurched towards the wall, his skin against the grainy red bricks. Antonio's body pressed against his back from behind. Warm puffs of breath fell in rhythm against his neck, making his shoulders scrunch up.
"W-what are you doing?" Lovino groaned against the brick.
Antonio licked the nape of his neck. "Fuck me? Yes?"
Lovino's eyes widened. He stopped squirming just long enough for Antonio to sneak his ketchup stained fingers up the front of his shirt and onto one nipple. The sticky fingers were rough and cold against his sensitive skin. The hair on the back of Lovino's neck stood on end. He shuttered away from the coldness as shivers ran down his spine.
Panting, he gasped. "That's not what I meant when I said yes!"
He could almost feel the smile against his neck. The man was being almost unnecessarily gentle with him, but his hold was strategic. As soon as Lovino started wiggling, his arms would sting in their sockets, and he stayed still to avoid the pain. Without notice, his body was spun around and he found himself face-to-face with his rival. Lashes fluttered on his cheek, tickling him as Antonio nibbled his chin.
"No comprendo," he whispered before his hands wandered around to the small of Lovino's back. His fists clenched his shirt tightly as his hips ground down on his groin. Moaning, he thrust towards him, lips now invading his mouth in earnest intent. Lovino's arms looped around the man's shoulders, appreciatively tracing those tanned muscles with his fingertips. Rubbing his heated groin against the Spaniard's leg, he hugged him closer before he froze. Wait – he wasn't supposed to be enjoying this! Antonio was his rival - his enemy - the breaker of hotdog vendor rules! This was heresy to the wiener gods of N. Y. C!
Lovino broke away, heaving for air. "Hey bastard, I can't do this with you! I'm supposed to hate you so – mmpph!"
Another kiss interrupted him, even more ravaging and desperate than the last. Antonio's grasp on his shirt was so forceful that he could almost feel the fabric ripping. A button popped off with a snap!
Hey! That was a new shirt! His mind screamed. A trail of drool dribbled down his chin. Lovino almost choked on his spit, as Antonio didn't give him the chance to goddamn shallow-
"Hey you!" A voice shouted.
Antonio pulled away rapidly. Air rushed into Lovino's lungs and he gasped for air, huffing as though he had just run ten miles. His legs shook like jelly without the other's supporting thrusts and he slid down the wall, crumpling into a massive pile of ripped fabric, drool and flesh.
Shadows lurched over the two of them as a blond man with glasses and a curious stray hair blocked their exit. An ugly police hat was perched upon his head. "Hey! No CPR in the alley ways! Move along now!"
Antonio turned back to Lovino and, as Lovino happily noticed, was breathing as vigorously as he was. His hands were on his knees as he tried to support himself.
"Did you hear me?" The police man yelled louder, and Antonio absentmindedly nodded. He regained his posture and took out a card from his back pant pocket, flinging it at Lovino.
"I'll be going now, officer. See you later, Lovino. I won't bother your business tomorrow, I swear," Antonio smiled, speaking in perfect English. Lovino gawked with his mouth wide open. More drool ran down his chin. His shirt, now with two buttons less, slipped off one shoulder. That bastard knew English? He was just playing with him all this time?
His foot ached to give the guy a kick in the balls, but his legs were still shaking from their passionate embrace. Antonio continued. "I gotta get back to work tomorrow since I only get a few days off, so I'll leave the stand to you. I don't need it anymore, I think. Francis came up with the name, so it's kind of lame," he gave Lovino a wink. "Come up to my office sometime. You can ride my churros."
Then, under the scrutinizing glaze of the enthusiastic policeman, he left Lovino alone in the alleyway. The policeman muttered obscenities about unlicensed first-aid, oh the deprivation of society! and wandered back to whatever hole he crawled out of.
The vendor of "Roma's Italian Dogs" sat there, mouth unable to spit out a single coherent sentence. The bastard knew English – he knew English! And what did he mean by 'get back to work?' wasn't he just at work?
Defeated, Lovino glanced down at the smelly and damp street beneath him, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the white card that Antonio had given him. Gold and black letters were embedded on it.
Antonio C. Fernandez
Chief Financial Officer
Francis & Co. Financial Solutions
His heart skipped and his mind became even more of a jumbled mess. The old fart was a CFO? Wait – does that mean he opened that stupid hotdog stand just to fuck with him?
Lovino turned the card over. A map of the downtown area was pictured with a sign indicating the location of the finance office, which was right – Lovino looked up – beside his hotdog stand. In red handwriting, the street corner was circled and labelled.
{- Cute boy with a hotdog stand. Has nice sausages ;)
Lovino groaned and pushed himself up. Why was his life like this?
A/N: Moral of the story? Spain is a troll. xD