A/N: I WAS HIROYASUYUMI. I was deleted, along with all of my stories, without any sort of explanation. Isn't that awful? Well I somehow found time to write a Spamano, and it's my first. I will do as I am bidden- It's up to you, the reader, what will happen next. Please either PM me or leave a review with your suggestions. Headcanons you want featured? Tell me. You want smut? Tell me. More dark Antonio? Tell me. Thanks for reading!

"Bastard."

Never had he thought his ears would bleed quite like this. It was practically his name, all he ever seemed to be called unless they were fucking. It used to have such a pleasant ring to it, said with such a warm feeling behind it, even as the other fought his feelings. But not this time. It was as if he'd been spit on with acid. Chilling, gut wrenching, blood curdling.

And Antonio hadn't done anything wrong. In fact, he knew he hadn't.

But he'd never seen Lovino suffering from guilt, and apparently that entailed hurling the most vulgar insults he could come up with.

"Culatonne."

Antonio thought, after surviving that one, that he could handle anything. But then—

"Tu sei il cum tua madre avrebbe dovuto ingestione."

You are the cum your mother forgot to swallow.

Just like that, Antonio snapped.

"Shut up, Lovino! Shut up!" He was positively fuming, red from face to ears to chest, fists clenched, everything clenched, and shaking shaking shaking.

"You don't tell me what to do, bastardo! You don't own me! I'll do what I want! I'll do who I want!"

It burned. Burned so awfully. Antonio clenched his jaw, any lingering warmth in his jade eyes vanishing in that brief millisecond. "Get out," he said quietly, eyes narrowed and voice gravelly.

"...What?" In an instant, Lovino was himself, amber eyes boiling with feeling, just as they always seemed to do.

Antonio nearly faltered, but he forced it down, grinding his jaw instead. "Get out." He gave the other a light shove in the chest, but Lovino might as well have been launched from a cannon. He stumbled over their clothes on the floor, forgotten from their last rut. Antonio didn't break eye contact, that stare more chilling than a Russian winter, as he grabbed one of Lovino's shoes and launched it across the living room to the door. Then he reached down again to do the same for it's match.

Then he stopped himself. He grabbed a different, beat up sneaker and threw that to the door. He wanted Lovino to feel the shame, the shame of being kicked out looking like a street rat, eyes on him in disgust. "Was I not enough for you?" he snarled, tossing his curls out of his face as he stalked closer to the brunet.

Lovino scrambled, slack-jawed, to stand and back his way towards the apartment door. He'd completely lost his tough skin, completely lost whatever suit of armor he'd been wearing when he had to face Antonio's wrath. He knew the other had been onto him, and he had tried to prepare himself for the confrontation, to protect himself, make the Spaniard swallow his tongue, but it had backfired.

Severely.

Antonio's lip curled, all disbelief having disappeared. All that remained was the volcanic furiosity that threatened to erupt in ways he would regret. Suddenly, every little thing that hadn't added up in the last weeks, the strange hair on the Italian's clothes, the weird smell that lingered around him when he finally came home after "working late", the unfamiliar pair of underwear in the laundry, the lack of condoms, of affection, the way he wiped out his internet history, all of the cancelled plans, suddenly it all made a lot of fucking sense."Leave!" he snapped, voice echoing ominously. "Now. Before I—!" He was seeing red. Why hadn't he realized it before? It was happening in his own god damned apartment. If Lovino didn't get out, he'd...

Strangle him

claw his face

rip out his hair

make him bleed

His muscles were tensing, his fists clenched. The intention was written clearly on his face, and Lovino's eyes widened."I'll do it," he warned icily. Only his eyes portrayed how much he might regret it. It was an out of body experience. Soon he'd be moving mechanically, and even if his mind knew he didn't want to do it, didn't want to be so cruel to a man he'd loved like this, he knew that he would not be able to stop himself.

Antonio didn't know when it happened, but suddenly he was running to the door, which closed mere milliseconds before he slammed his fist in to it. Then he threw the lock, the chain, the dead bolt, pounded the wood, splintered it, but gained no satisfaction from how it rattled in the frame.

He screamed brokenly, not able to find words in any language he knew to express to himself, or anyone for that matter, exactly what was happening to him.

Lovino paled on the other side of the door, hurrying down the hall. He'd made a grave choice, doing what he'd done... Saying what he'd said...

And while Antonio might come to forgive him some many eons from now, Lovino knew that he would never see him again.

A/N: Alright. Well. There's the first one. I hope you enjoyed it? I don't know. I mean this is a pretty deep one and I personally think it's sad. So is enjoy even the right word? Well. If you have the time and the heart, let me know what you think! Feed the writer with words. I love constructive criticism.

"Culatonne" is Italian slang. It literally translates to "ass bandit" but is considered a highly offensive slur against homosexual men. 7/10 times, being called this ends in violence in Italy, no joke.