Lovino wasn't exactly thrilled when he first realised it. He's just been through a major breakup, he was drunk off his ass, and quite frankly 3am on a Saturday morning just wasn't the time to be having earth-shattering realisations like this. As much as he tried to deny it, there wasn't any getting around it.
Lovino Vargas had a crush on Gilbert Beilschmidt.
The thought that he might actually like the Germanic nation was accompanied by quite a few choice words and whatever items were handy being thrown around out of sheer desperation. He tried to talk himself out of it, he really did. But the more Lovino tried to convince himself otherwise, the more he thought about the Prussian, and the more he just had to accept it.
If asked, Lovino could remember the exact moment it had happened. Even if he wasn't admitting that it had happened yet. It'd been after the last day of a world meeting. Alfred had suggested celebrating, and after some convincing, Arthur had suggested a nightclub nearby. It had seemed like a great idea at the time. Now, sitting alone at a bar on a rooftop terrace, Lovino had no idea why he'd agreed to this in the first place.
Because drinking makes you forget, he thought, ordering another beer. It wasn't what he normally drank, but anything else brought back too many memories that he wasn't in the mood to deal with. As it was, he was trying desperately to ignore Antonio flirting with every fucking chick that crossed his path. Trying to act like it didn't hurt. They were over, Lovino got it, did Antonio have to rub it in his face every damn chance he got?
When the Spaniard sidled up to the bar, a giggling brunette hanging off his arm, it'd been a no brained. Lovino slammed the rest of his drink and stormed off. That was when he'd seen him.
Gilbert stood on the edge of the terrace, leaning against the railing and staring out at the city sprawled before him. They'd talked before, never really hung out though. It was kind of weird that the Prussian wasn't out dancing with whoever he could find.
Like Antonio, that ugly little voice in Lovino's head reminded him.
Swaying slightly on his feet, Lovino made his way over to where Gilbert stood. Noticing the Italian, Gilbert arched a brow at him and stepped aside obligingly. The gesture was pointless, there was enough room either way, but Lovino grunted his unspoken thanks at the invitation. While Gilbert turned back to the view, Lovino leaned back against the railing, staring back into the club. Antonio was impossible to miss. He'd made his way onto the dancefloor, the brunette girl held close to his chest as they swayed in time to the beat. It made Lovino want to puke, instead he settled for swearing under his breath. Gilbert turned at the sound, following his gaze to Antonio.
"If it's pissing you off, stop looking at it," Gilbert said. He found himself ducking out of the way of a first half-heartedly aimed at his shoulder.
"Shut up, potato bastard." Lovino attempted to sneer, but it came out as more of a sigh.
The Italian just didn't understand why it was this hard. He'd been the one to end things, right? So why did he seem to be taking it the hardest? This had been what he wanted, to no longer be Antonio's plaything. And yet here he was, Antonio's still playing with his emotions even after he'd broken things off.
Lovino rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly regretting the beers, coming to the club, his decision. Everything he'd done seemed like a bad idea now.
"Lovino?" Gilbert asked, nudging the smaller nation with his elbow. It did little to gain the Italian's attention.
Shrugging, Gilbert turned away. Lovino knew he was pretty shitty company right now, but there wasn't much he could do about that. He was too hammered, too pissed, too damn fed up with everything to even try and hold a conversation anymore. Still, he managed to be somewhat glad that at least someone was trying to cheer him up, even if it was Prussia. And even if he was doing a shit job at it.
Gilbert made a noise like he was going to say something, but changed his mind. Lovino looked up, expecting him to try again at whatever he'd been about to say. If he had, Lovino probably wouldn't have noticed. He was suddenly too caught up in noticing that Gilbert was actually kind of…attractive. If he'd been as sappy or romantic as his fratello, Lovino probably would have spewed some poetic bullshit about how his hair shone silver in the moonlight, or how his eyes were brighter and more alive than his country had ever been. But he wasn't Feliciano, and he didn't think those things. Not at all.
His first reaction, besides attempting to squash the sudden realisation into the deepest, darkest corner of his mind, was to throw himself over the metal railing to his inevitable death. Clearly he was going insane.
Lovino ended up not throwing himself off of the roof, as appealing as the idea sounded to his alcohol-fogged brain. He made his excuses, something about it being late and his flight being early, and left. He needed to get away, from the lights and the music and the constant reminder that was Antonio.
That was how Lovino ended up drunk, lost and pissed as all hell at 3am on a Saturday morning in London. His sense of direction had disappeared somewhere around the fourth drink. Any unfortunate residents living in the area were almost certainly woken up by the vulgar Italian cursing ringing from Lovino's mouth, but he was too far gone to care anymore. His fists met with more than a few brick walls as he took out his anger on whatever he could find.
A part of him wanted to believe that this was just the beer thinking, that it was just the lights and the alcohol and the breakup. Lovino wanted to believe that it was just Gilbert, that he was going crazy and that he was just confused.
He'd just broken up with Antonio, for fuck's sakes. How stupido could he get?
Eventually he found the hotel, collapsing onto his bed after a good five minutes of trying to unlock the door with shaking hands and blurred vision. He thanked whoever had organised the accommodation that he was in a separate room from his fratello. Feliciano was all he needed to deal with right now.
As he fell asleep, pulled under by alcohol and exhaustion, there was only one thought in his mind. The more he thought about it, the worse his situation seemed to get. He was really only certain about one thing anymore.
Lovino Vargas could not have feelings for Gilbert Beilschmidt.