As We Were
A/N: Christmas exchange between Spinyfruit and I. The prompt is 'Travelling'. This poem fits the story so perfectly, you'd think the fic was inspired by it. But actually, I stumbled upon the poem after figuring out what I wanted to write. I love nice little surprises like that xD
EDIT: On 8tracks, ollymolly has made a playlist for this fic. Check it out, it's absolutely gorgeous.
I remember you as you were in the last autumn.
You were the grey beret and the still heart.
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.
Clasping my arms like a climbing plant
the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace.
Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.
I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off:
Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house
Towards which my deep longings migrated
And my kisses fell, happy as embers.
Sky from a ship. Field from the hills:
Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!
Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.
-I Remember You As You Were by Pablo Neruda
Today. Now.
Lovino stares after the closed door. He loves the colour of it. Dark, rich ebony brown, deep carvings and stained-glass arched windows, the gold-painted doorknob with that slight dent from where Antonio's guitar case had hit it. It's rather dramatic, Lovino thinks, but in an elegant sort of way. The entire apartment is like that. Tiny balcony, blushing roses hanging from flowerpots, cream wallpaper, gleaming kitchen. And then there's the couch, all plush pillows and fake leather. The photographs on the walls are black, white and sepia, because Antonio is an old-fashioned dork. He says the pictures make him nostalgic, and aren't all the old things in the movies sort of sepia-toned?
On the stove, a soup boils away, but silly Antonio forgot to go shopping, and they're out of shredded chicken. He'll be back soon, though. The market is only around the corner.
The house is a mess. It's Antonio's turn to clean, so of course it's a mess. Lovino knows he'll have to nag and cajole and shout until Antonio finally gets off his lazy behind and squares up the living room.
There's nothing to do. The soup is cooking away, the house is a mess, and Lovino still can't understand French very well, so watching TV is not an option. He's not in the mood to paint or sketch. He needs to buy new books, because he's read through his stash about five times now. One day, when they get a bigger apartment, Lovino's going to have an entire room dedicated to his library.
He snickers to himself softly as he remembers Antonio snatching his book away last night, flirting pathetically as he moved to straddle Lovino. He can be such an idiot sometimes.
Almost unconsciously, Lovino's eyes glance towards the photographs on the walls. The two of them are in every one.
It was just three years ago, really. But there's a visible change. Lovino is happier now. He looks happier. Antonio is more rested. Lovino glances towards the door again, wondering if Antonio's bought what he needs to, or if he's become distracted again.
The pictures on the walls are black, white, and sepia from when Antonio had edited them on the computer.
The memories, however, are in full colour.
Three Years Ago
The computer glares at Lovino, facts and numbers and pictures of wine bottles and grapes on the screen. Lovino can barely understand what he's doing. His eyes hurt. His head hurts. He's exhausted. His fingers tap away at the keyboard automatically. The deep red drink in his glass is untouched.
"Lovi, maybe you should take a break."
Feli's voice makes him turn away from the computer and blink warily at his brother. Feliciano, wearing an Armani suit with his hair neatly combed, is glancing at a piece of paper in his hands. He smiles at Lovino, and adds, "You look like death."
"Gee, thanks."
Feli laughs, and it's an easy laugh Lovino can't ever seem to create for himself. "You've been working non-stop for what – thirty-six hours? Go home and get some sleep."
"What are you all dressed up for?"
"Oh, didn't I tell you? Ve~ I must have. Anyway, remember those Germans Grandpa wanted to partner with? They're in Rome for two days, and I'm going to go meet them! It's going to be so exciting. If this works out, our presence in Germany will increase tenfold!"
Ah, yes. That big wine brand in Germany. Grandpa had been talking about them almost obsessively for weeks.
"Anyway," Feliciano says, "How are things going at your end?"
"What?" Lovino replies, his mind drifting between his tiredness and his headache. "Oh." He glances back at the computer. "Oh," he says again. "Five hundred cases of the Gavi should be arriving in Rome tomorrow."
"What are you drinking?" Feli suddenly asks, gesturing to the untouched wine glass next to the computer.
Lovino's smirk is slight, but very evil. "Casa Vinicola Zonin." A rival wine producer.
Feliciano gasps. "You – no!"
"Relax, would you? It's our Valpolicella. And I haven't had a sip yet. Drink it, if you want."
Feliciano narrows his eyes. "Are you sick?"
"I have a headache."
"You really should sleep. I'll text Grandpa, don't worry."
And Lovino does not pass up that offer, because frankly, he's never cared about wine a day in his life, he hates his job, he hates his life, and he hates his headache. When he drives his Alfa Romeo back to their estate, it's with the familiar exhaustion that weighs him down, that never seems to go away. No amount of sleep would fix this.
Lovino is deflated.
At only twenty-seven, Lovino feels like he's eighty.
The days pass by. They always seem to do that. The car, the house, the people, the work, it's always the same. Wine tastings disgust him. He hates the drink. The women bore him. They're only with him for the money. And he's only with them, because…well, he's not sure why, actually. Fucking them just gives him something to do.
It's a cage. Or a buffering video. Or a broken record.
It's nothing.
And maybe it's becoming obvious now, because Feliciano keeps shooting him these worried glances when he thinks Lovino's not looking. But the truth is, Lovino's felt like this since he joined the family business. Like his soul is being suffocated by a pillow, and there's nothing he can do about it.
Lovino is experimenting with a new kind of pasta sauce when Feliciano approaches him from behind. It's Saturday, and Lovino just loves making lunch on the weekends. "Are you all right?" Feli asks, his voice subdued and gentle, as though he expects Lovino to burst into hysterical tears and storm out of the room with his hands on his face.
Lovino turns, raising an eyebrow. "Uh…yeah?"
Feli is not convinced. He frowns, chews his bottom lip, and says, "I don't know…I just get the feeling you're not…happy." A pause, and then he adds, "Is something the matter?" Another pause, and he says, "I heard you broke up with…uh, what's her name? Al…Alessa?"
"Alfonsina," Lovino corrects gently, a small smile on his face. He doesn't blame Feli. All of them sound the same after a point. "Yeah, I broke up with her on Wednesday." He turns back to the pizza sauce, tentatively tasting it with a spoon. "Needs more salt, I think."
"What happened? I liked her!"
"She was boring."
"You say that about all of them. What about…what about that fellow you met at Grandpa's work party? You seemed to like him."
"Yeah. Bartolomeo something. We're getting dinner tomorrow. Might not come home at all."
Feliciano makes a face, and Lovino laughs. Feli doesn't have a problem with sex in itself – he gets a lot of it. But the idea of Lovino sleeping around bothers him. It's hilarious.
"But still," Feliciano presses. "I get the feeling you're not happy. Did you have a fight with someone?"
Lovino shrugs. "Not really. I don't…I mean…I guess I'm just tired." It's not a lie, that's for sure.
"Oh. Yeah, well, you've been killing yourself with work over the last year." Feliciano nods sagely, and Lovino rolls his eyes. For Feli, things are so simple. They fit in such perfect boxes. "You should take some time off. How long has it been since you actually had a vacation?"
"Like that's going to help," Lovino mutters, a random jolt of anger making him stir the sauce with too much vehemence. Some of it splashes out of the bowl. Inwardly, he cusses. Food is love. Food needs to be treated with gentle hands. It is a child that needs to be nurtured.
"Of course it will! A nice two-week holiday. Somewhere you can just relax. Ooh, how about Hawaii? Or Bora Bora? Or –"
"I'm not into tropical islands, thanks."
"Oh, okay. How about –"
"I'm not into trekking or nature stuff either."
"Oh. How about –"
"Feli, just drop it, okay?"
But naturally, Feli doesn't drop it. Over dinner, Grandpa says, "Feli was telling me you wanted a vacation. You've been working nonstop, Lovi, you deserve one."
"God," Lovino says, rolling his eyes in a slow, deliberate, emphatic way. "I don't need a vacation."
The next week, Lovino finds a single ticket inside an envelope. It's dated for October. Destination: Paris, France. And a note, too. Dear Lovi~ Sorry for not telling you! But Grandpa wanted me to book this ticket for you as a surprise! Have fun! I'm sorry I can't come :( But even if you do go alone, I'm sure you'll have a good time! DON'T WORK when you get there. THIS IS A HOLIDAY. I love you! From your favourite (and only) brother, Feli~
Lovino stares at the ticket for a long minute, and then he groans.
Lovino has worked in the wine industry long enough to see Paris as not a popular vacation spot, but a place for work. He's travelled to France too many times, always for meetings and inspections and tastings. When he gets off the plane at Charles de Gaulle airport, takes a taxi and goes to his hotel, Lovino is a little bit impressed with the yellowness of the city.
He loves colour. He always has. And he's never seen Paris in autumn. Everything seems to be basking in golden light. The sun shoots off the leaves, making yellow seem yellower, red seem redder, orange seem oranger. It's like a postcard. Trees, schoolchildren, the Eiffel Tower.
Feliciano's taken care of all the arrangements. It's one of the fanciest hotels in the city, and Lovino's room is right at the top. He watches night fall. Millions of lights bursting like a swarm of fireflies over Paris.
He's never actually seen the city before.
Lovino has only one agenda for tomorrow.
He's going to be a tourist.
Lovino's inner life is more than a little dramatic. For one, he listens to a lot of classical music; what's Mozart without a bit of drama? He's read all the books in the list of western literary canon. He loves his art to be bursting with colour and blinding movement, ferocious emotion that can consume the viewer whole. He dresses well, thank you very much. His own feelings are always chaotic and extreme, although he tries his best to dismiss and suppress them, because it isn't good for business. And then there's food. Lovino is very, very particular about his food. It must have just the right flavours and textures, its smell must be composed perfectly. It must be the right temperature. He is mathematically obsessive about his food.
He glances through the dinner menu. It's in French, with English translations in smaller type. A yellow-coloured card with brown swirly font. The waiter asks if he'd like something to drink. "Perhaps some wine, sir? Allow me to recommend a 2006 Vargas – it's a fantastic red –"
"No," Lovino says firmly, slamming the menu down with unnecessary force. "I do not want wine. Especially not a Vargas. Just…just get me a beer or something. Budweiser. You have that?"
The waiter looks like he's been personally insulted. But he plasters on the smile of someone working in the hospitality business and says, "Of course. Er…one bottle of Budweiser. What would you like to eat, sir?"
Pasta? Pizza? But no, he's in France, for pity's sake. Hesitantly, he picks up the menu card again and glances through all the French food in the list. "…What do you recommend?"
"Well, our chef makes an excellent blanquette de veau…although if I may, sir, it goes excellently with red Bordeaux."
"No wine," Lovino repeats. "But yes, that sounds good. I'll have one of that." He's not very good at making French food, but he does remember learning how to make this in cooking school. It's a vague memory. He dismisses it easily.
It's not like this stupid…vacation…thing will make a difference. It's not like it'll solve anything. Lovino is unhappy. It's as simple as that. And he has been for over three years now. When his Grandfather told him to join the family business. What choice did Lovino have? He'd wanted to be a chef. He'd always wanted that. But the business hadn't been doing so well, and Lovino hadn't the heart to refuse.
Now, he's stuck.
On paper, he's a qualified chef. A good one, too. But he's stuck in this stupid hateful job. He can leave now, if he wants. The company is fine. But it's become such an ingrained part of his life…Lovino wonders if he can even survive on his own. Maybe he isn't destined to be a chef after all.
The dinner is fantastic, of course.
(But Lovino can probably cook it better.)
The morning is cold. Lovino throws on another jacket and a smart maroon scarf. It really is a yellow city. Beautiful, he thinks as he walks down one footpath after another. It's only a little after dawn. The sky is a gorgeous pink-golden-purple-blue, one shade fading into the next, an occasional cloud floating by. In the distance, he can see the Tower.
He returns to the hotel after a twenty-minute stroll, orders a light breakfast and attempts to read a French newspaper. Work has compelled him to learn the language, although he's terrible at it. He cannot wrap his tongue around the pronunciations, even though some of the words are vaguely similar. The grammar, too, confuses him. He tries an English newspaper next, because he actually does know that.
Just more bad news about terrorism and rioting and the economy. He shuts the newspaper before he even gets to the Funnies page. Staring down into his espresso, Lovino tries to give himself a pep talk. You're on vacation in one of the most beautiful cities in the world – uh, well, not as beautiful as Rome…but anyway, it's supposed to be pretty. And it's autumn, so lots of nice colours. And it's off-season, so fewer tourists. And you're alone, so nobody will annoy you. This is going to be fun. You are going to enjoy yourself.
His heart starts to sink the closer he gets to the Eiffel Tower. Lovino is Italian. He's travelled to all the greatest wine destinations in Europe. He's been to all the supposedly romantic cities. Alone. But…still. This is…different. Everywhere he looks, there were couples hanging off each other's arms and sucking faces. Paris sells love. Paris sells the idea of beauty and grace and romance.
Maybe coming here alone is a bad idea. He should have brought that Bartolomeo fellow along. Or Alfonsina. Or Maria. Or…or..what's that other guy's name? He's great in bed, and he doesn't talk much. He would have been good company, too.
Lovino is more aware of colour than he is of sound, so he doesn't immediately hear the guitar. He's very, very close to the Tower, staring up at it as the grey skies act as a backdrop. So dramatic. A breeze. Red leaves in the wind.
And then he hears the tune. Lovino doesn't recognise it. It's something cheeky and vaguely Latin. Fast paced. Flirty. He angles his head to the source of the noise. It's a man standing just ten feet in front of him. A busker.
What an interesting busker.
Flash of green eyes, like shimmering ocean water. Slightly overgrown hair, tousled and uncombed. Clothes – faded, torn, patched, stained, mismatched and awkward. Black guitar case by his feet. Tanned face. A voice lilting with humour and affection. He's singing in a language Lovino recognises instantly as Spanish.
He takes one step closer and then another.
The busker notices. His eyes – so, so, so green – raise slightly to meet his. His smile broadens. The music picks up. Lovino just stares. He's not sure what to do. Now that he's been spotted, of course, he has to give the man some money. Nobody else seems to care. They're just walking past him. Don't they see how talented he is? How…how…attractive he is?
Attractive, really? Some random busker on the street?
Lovino takes another step forward. The busker's eyes literally sparkle. And Lovino knows this battle is lost even before it begun. Oh, forget the denial. He marches up, takes out a few Euros, and drops it into the open guitar case.
The busker nods at him and then breathlessly says, "Gracias! You are too kind!"
And Lovino feels a blush coming on. "Well, it's…it's whatever. You're talented."
The man looks like he's been gifted a box of chocolates. His face lights up, and Lovino swears he sees golden sparks in his eyes, as though they're two tiny suns within his body. A massive grin plasters onto his face, and he lowers his guitar slightly, saying, "That's so sweet! Thank you! Would you like me to sing a song for you?"
Lovino kicks the ground and lowers his eyes, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "No…it's fine. Don't bother."
"Oh come on. I know many songs! In many languages! You pick!"
Lovino looks up just a little. "Welll…okay, whatever. Fine. Do you know Dean Martin?"
"Yes! He's amazing."
"How about…how about That's Amore. I like that song."
"Well, it is a classic. I like it too." And he begins to strum. It sounds a little strange on this kind of guitar, but his voice is clear and strong. He sings it with so much humour, so much mischievous attitude. Lovino finds himself smiling.
"You have a wonderful smile," the busker says when the song ends. Lovino bites the inside of his cheek as he drops more money into the guitar case.
"That's a creepy thing to say."
"Is it?" he tilts his head to one side, regarding Lovino curiously.
Yes, especially since your smile is way better. "Yeah." A pause. "Are you Spanish or something?"
"How did you know?"
"It's a bit obvious."
The busker's face falls. It happens so quickly that Lovino almost thinks he's imagined it. But one second, the man is all smiles and sunshine, next he's faltering gloom. It's such a small moment that it's almost like it didn't happen, and when Lovino blinks, the expression is gone, replaced with that bright toothy grin. "I guess that's true," the busker says. "I'm Antonio. How about you?"
"Lovino," he replies automatically, not supplying his last name. People tend to freak out when they hear 'Vargas'. Vargas equals money in this continent. Lovino looks up absently, staring at the Tower right above them. "It's like France's dick, don't you think?"
"Huh?" and Antonio's eyes turn heavenwards. "Oh, you mean the Eiffel Tower?"
"Yeah."
"That's interesting. I never thought of it that way! That's funny."
Lovino looks back at Antonio, weighing the pros and cons. But he's on holiday, and dammit, he wants to just…to just…
To just…
Rip through his wrapping paper. Tear at his chains. Break his castle walls. And fly.
"Do you want to see it with me?"
"What?" Antonio blinks, and then his smile widens, if that's even possible.
Lovino nods. He's has two weeks to be crazy. Two weeks to break down his Perfect Grandson façade. And that's what he's going to do. Starting with Antonio. Seeing the Eiffel Tower together, having a quick fuck somewhere, and moving on. He's never just slept with someone like that before. Without at least two dates. Especially not some random person on the street. And so what if it's a stupid risk to take. So what?
"I would love to! I have no-one to hang out with right now, and that's sort of depressing in a city like Paris."
"Yeah, I know."
It's at the very top that Lovino says, "Apparently, Guy de Maupassant hated the Tower. He used to eat at the only place he couldn't see it – the Tower's restaurant itself."
"Why would he hate the Eiffel Tower!? It's so beautiful!"
Lovino glances at him, a small grin on his face. But he says nothing. It's more interesting to study Antonio. Carefully, he reaches out and links his little finger with Antonio's. The Spaniard's eyes widen – oh, those perfect green eyes – and he looks down at his hand. He glances up at Lovino, and his smile is softer, shyer, more hesitant.
Lovino glances away, a blush on his face, trying to hide his smirk. Seduction is such a fun game. And with Antonio, it seems just more interesting. He's like that. Lovino can tell. He's…different. There's more to him than meets the eye, and Lovino wants to know. It's not just his appearance. It's more like…well, Lovino gets bored with his bedfellows very quickly, because they always fail to hold his attention. Antonio…well, at least for now, he has Lovino's undivided focus.
Antonio is looking out into the city. Paris opens up like a waiting jaw, and Lovino can see near-literal hunger in his eyes. His fists are clenched to his side as he looks out into the view. Green grass, yellow city, golden sunlight, it's all like a roll of an old movie. Lovino feels thrown back in time. Perhaps the twenties, where Paris was home to the Lost Generation. It's pretty crowded up here and the view is fantastic, but Antonio is a piece of art Lovino just can't look away from.
"What are you thinking about?"
"I'm scared of heights," Antonio replies easily, and it's true – he does look a little pale.
Lovino links his arm with Antonio's. "Don't be." He feels daring and dangerous. He feels like throwing himself off the Tower, expecting to fly. He feels like zooming through the streets of Paris with a motorcycle at speeds no human could ever reach. Lovino is chaos, a wild thing desperate for release. And he's never been a shy lover. He's practiced and tactful. He knows just how to bed Antonio. Lovino will have fucked him before sundown.
"What's your full name?" Antonio asks after a beat.
"Does it matter?" He doesn't care for this whole name business. Lovino Vargas, Antonio Whatever. They're just human bodies, essentially. That's what's important right now.
"All mysterious," Antonio jokes.
"You bet."
They sit at the Tower's restaurant, and Lovino decides to foot the bill. Antonio looks too poor to pay, anyway. "What do you do?" he asks Lovino.
"I'm in the wine industry."
"Oh wow! So you must be very particular about the wine you drink." Antonio glances at the waiter, who smiles easily.
"I'm sure we have a wine here you will find satisfactory," the waiter says, a charming smile and a menu card in his hands.
"No. I'm fine with water, thanks." Lovino looks through the menu. "And I'll have this." He points at something written in French, but his eyes are fixed on Antonio's. They read through the menu curiously, his lips pursing, his eyebrows crinkled in concentration.
Antonio turns to the waiter, and in perfect French, asks for a steak.
"You know French?" Lovino asks, raising an eyebrow at the man when the waiter leaves.
"Si!" Antonio laughs. "And lots of other languages! I know a bit of Portuguese and Dutch, I know English – obviously, I'm speaking it! – I know French and German very well. I'm learning Hindi online, although the script and the pronunciations are a bit difficult. But that'll get better with practice, I'm sure."
"Wait, why do you know these languages?"
"Oh! That's because I travel. A lot." He pauses for dramatic effect, and then he leans forward, his eyes and grin widening. "I've been to all the continents except Antarctica."
"What?"
"Yes!" Antonio says in pure joy, clapping his hands together. "I've been all over Western Europe, of course. I've even been to Estonia and Latvia. I've been to Brazil and Argentina. Such beautiful places. I've seen New York and California! I love it! And Canada – although there's the funny story where I almost forgot when my flight was - and I've seen China, India and Japan. And oh! Morocco and Kenya and Australia! And oh, I've seen Israel. Israel was…something else, seriously."
Lovino just gapes at him. Antonio…a traveller. Yes, he can see it. Antonio seems like the sort. "How the hell do you fund that sort of lifestyle?"
"I spend six months in Spain, working, and the next six months blowing it up in another country!" And Antonio laughs, throwing his head back. Lovino closes his eyes to the sound. It's extremely invigorating. It's the sort of laugh that only free people can muster. Antonio quietens and Lovino opens his eyes to see the Spaniard say, "I've actually been to France several times. One of my closest friends is French. I'm actually staying with him right now. He runs a restaurant, so the food at his place is always excellent!"
"Wow," Lovino mumbles, looking at the tablecloth. He's starting to feel more than a little jealous. "What do you do?"
"Oh, you mean work? Lots. It's a mess." He chuckles to himself. "I work at KFC, I teach guitar, I deliver flowers, and I write travel articles for newspapers. I actually have a blog where I write about my travel experiences. And it has lots of pretty pictures, too! Although my camera is dead so I left it at Francis's place to charge. Oh – Francis is the friend I'd mentioned."
"Wow," Lovino says again, because he can't imagine living like that. It seems like almost a hand-to-mouth existence. "That's…I mean…"
Suddenly, Antonio seems a hundred times more attractive than he was before.
"It's crazy. It's exhausting. I swear I once almost passed out in a canal in Amsterdam, I was that tired. But I love it! You get to meet such wonderful people. Like you!"
Lovino's face is red, he just knows it.
"Like in Amsterdam, I met Emma! She was so sweet. She let me stay at her place. Her brother wasn't too happy, but it was only for the night, anyway."
"Girlfriend?" Lovino asks, because it suddenly occurs to him that perhaps Antonio isn't interested in men. Although it's a silly thought, because he's been responding positively to all of Lovino's little moves.
"What, Emma?" he laughs as though the idea is absurd. "Please, no. That would just be weird. I'm not even…you know, attracted to her. Or women in general." And he looks at Lovino knowingly. He understands exactly what Lovino has in mind, and he's comfortable with that. Lovino watches his green eyes sharpen and turn a little more…lustful?
They leave the restaurant before even their food arrives.
In Lovino's hotel room, he does not let Antonio take control. This vacation is about him letting go of everything. He possesses and fills Antonio, his toes curling in pleasure at every gasp and moan and whimper the Spaniard makes. It's as slow as it is fast, it's desperate and forceful, and yet gentle, because Antonio has an innate softness about him, and Lovino doesn't want to abuse that.
When it's all over, Lovino lies next to him, both of them panting and sticky and hot. They don't say a word. They must have dozed off eventually, because Lovino is aware of waking up, and Antonio is fully clothed, sitting at the far end of the room, staring at view from the window, watching sunset fall on the city. His eyes are far away.
"I should go," he says quietly when he hears the covers rustle. He glances at Lovino, who's still naked and sweaty and disgusting, as though waiting for approval of this idea.
"It would be for the best," Lovino says after a moment.
"I had a really good time," Antonio affirms, smiling slightly. It's as tender as it is sad.
"Me too. That was great."
Antonio lets out a soft exhale. "Good. I'm glad to hear it." He walks up to Lovino and plants a soft kiss on his forehead. "Goodbye."
"Bye."
Lovino watches him move across the room, slip on his shoes, and offer one final parting smile. He picks up his guitar case, turns the doorknob, and walks out. The door closes, and Lovino is alone.
A/N: Don't ask me how long this is going to be, because I honestly don't know. I'm winging it. This whole style of writing and even content is new for me. Tell me how I did!
Oh, and if you guys are looking out for more Spamano goodness, check out the previous gift exchange between Spinyfruit and I! They're called The Rose Family by yours truly, and Before the Snow Falls by Spinyfruit.
I really do encourage you to check out Spinyfruit's fics. She's amazing, and if you like Spamano (or Francis!), you NEED to read her stories.
Thanks for checking this fic out! I should be updating it very soon! :3 Please review!