This sudden burst of sunlight, and me with my umbrella, cross-indexing every weatherman's report. Possibly the best line about falling in love unexpectedly ever.

I actually had a bit of trouble writing this. I think it's because it has a little bit of plot, rather than 'then this happened then this happened then this'. It was difficult to self-beta, because I already knew exactly what was happening in which scene, so I hope I conveyed everything well enough to make sense, haha.

(youtube)/watch?v=QLySk3i4dFI

"When I first saw you I fell in love and you smiled because you knew." Shakespeare.

He didn't do this.

That was his brother. That was Feliciano.

He never did this.

He didn't even know what this was. It wasn't like how he dictated it in his articles. It was too vibrant. Too real.

This feeling in his chest like something was swelling, swelling and trying to get out and breaking his insides every time he heard his name. This fuzziness in his head that shooed away sensibility and rationality and everything he stood for whenever he infiltrated his thoughts. The beautifully terrible anxieties that filled him entirely, from his toes to his ears and made even his scalp tingle when he caught only a glimpse. Strung him up, and left him teetering between falling into a psychosis and falling even more in love.

He didn't do this. He wouldn't do this. This was alien and strange so very Feliciano that it made his stomach lurch. But that may have just been because he'd caught Antonio staring at him again.

...

The first time Lovino met a German was in his grandfather's house on a Friday night seven years ago. A summer night, a rainy night, the windows in the living room had been opened and the white, lacy curtains billowed and whipped as warm breeze rolled into them. It was almost angelic, really, the way the material moved around him as he stood in the centre of the room with his arms by his sides, wearing a mask of handsome stoicism. Blonde hair that seemed brighter on the white, and eyes that reminded Lovino of sea and sand and sun. He stood tall – so tall he nearly matched his Grandpa, as the broad, Italian man smiled and made to shake his hand. He stood small – his brother – with his arms around this German and his smiling lips upon his cheek.

The second time he'd stumbled unexpectedly into Ludwig Beilschmidt was at four am on a weekend long passed, who was naked and sipping a glass of water as he looked over at the vegetable garden from the window above the sink. "The fuck?" It was spoken sharply, accusingly, and Ludwig spluttered, choking briefly on his drink and slamming down the cup to the bench, so that his dick could occupy his hands instead. Eyes wide and cheeks flushed, he stared at Lovino. Tension hung heavy in between them, but was only felt by the German.

Finally, after a drawn out silence: "I… was thirsty."

"Funny. Would have thought Feliciano had seen to that." Quick to come back with a snarky remark, Lovino rolled his eyes high and padded past the shell-shocked man to the cupboard. He couldn't help glancing – the man had a fucking strange ass. Way too rectangular. "Or maybe his spunk doesn't taste enough like potatoes for you."

"…what?"

Bent at the hip, Lovino rifled around until his fingers brushed the cool glass of a jar, curling around it. Then he turned sharply on his heel, the pasta sauce held up near his shoulder, jutted his hip a little, and glared at Ludwig, who was still caught between embarrassment and looking like he was about to shit himself in fear.

"Feli can do what he likes. Or whoever he likes. But if I was Grandpa I'd probably chop your pencil dick right off for defiling my grandson. I wouldn't recommend sauntering around without any decency like you fucking own the place." A huff, a bored gaze, and Ludwig stuttered a moment before Lovino realised suddenly he didn't actually care and left the blonde in the kitchen for his room, to lick tomato-ey sauce from his digits and flick through the latest copy of Fire and Ice.

That had been something over four years ago, and even then the Italian couldn't be sure. Germans had become something commonplace in his life. One was constantly there for his brother to hang off. One was there to sit next to his brother at the Friday Family Dinners and receive a handy that was perhaps not as subtle as it should have been. One was always following his little brother around like a dumb puppy; going wherever he lead and doing whatever he bid. German dishes whenever Feliciano cooked for them all; German language whispered sensually into ears that were really the only ones meant to hear them; soft, German orchestral that Ludwig preferred and Feliciano played album upon album of for him, when their grandfather was out for business and Lovino could count more cons than pros to going back to his house in the city.

But even with all this Deutsch around him, in his life nearly twenty-four seven, having been in his life for so long, no amount of slow German integration could have properly and completely prepared him for meeting best man Gilbert Beilschmidt.

…

Laughter that bubbled like the champagne, smiles that sparkled like the spirits; they danced together like the wine flowed, and Lovino watched them over his glass of alcoholic mix that he couldn't quite place at that moment. Swooping and gliding and moving so elegantly, the pair seemed to float as though in their own little bubble filled with promises, vows, and an undying love for each other that they had sworn not two hours ago.

Oh, that was terrible. He wouldn't be using that. A bubble? Seriously? He sipped deeply his claret blend, trying to cloud his mind enough to forget about the bustling party around him. Or just trying to get as elegantly wasted as he could in an attempt to shut his brain up from making stupid… stupid… whatever he had just done.

Wow. His liquor was not going to hold well tonight.

But the reception room was buzzing, and Lovino didn't think the wine had anything to do with it. A blur of tan and snow-white and skirts and slacks, dancing to a light, happy voice that harmonized beautifully with the accompanying piano. People –German, Italian – sat at their tables and flittered around the room. Ever the socialite, his grandfather strode from relative to relative and friend to friend, laughing and clapping shoulders and embracing, and pecking the pretty girls on the cheeks chastely. Cousins and second-cousins and people whom he didn't even know how he was related to – they all seemed so lively, so happy. The Germans, too. Even they seemed moderately pleased at the youngest Beilschmidt boy's union, and spoke softly with their hands in their laps and neat little smiles pursing their lips. Not particularly active, opting to sit at their designated seats along tables going across half of the room and wait for their food to arrive where the Italian side were all up, dancing and chatting, but the energy was still there, behind their round faces and porcelain white skin.

The German women were exceptionally pretty, Lovino thought, but he was a little disappointed that there were only a handful of them, perhaps only two in their twenties. Both were blonde, strikingly so, however where one perhaps could have been Rapunzel in another life the other looked as though her hair only just hung lower than his own, the ends almost brushing her shoulders and kinked a little in a way most stylish. Standing with her back to him by the far wall made entirely of glass, she was dressed in a deep, velvety red blazer and matching slacks that just brushed the borderline of modesty, sitting quite low on her hips. Heeled black boots gave the illusion of lengthy legs, however as Lovino gazed he suspected that even without them she'd be tall, perhaps even towering over him. He didn't mind that. Finally, his eyes lingered on her backside. Small, and wrapped tightly in the pants. He didn't mind that, either.

He gave Rapunzel a glance, but couldn't really discern much of her body from the way she sat very close to the table. Her dress – or maybe her shirt – was long sleeved; snow coloured and covered in little twinkling sequins. Stony faced, she seemed very content to stare at the glass of soda water fizzling in front of her. He was content to leave her at it.

Another sip of his claret, for good luck, and Lovino pushed himself out from the empty 'bridal' table he was sitting at, where Feliciano and Ludwig, and Ludwig's brother were also to be seated. As he weaved through the mass of tables to get to the woman, he glanced over the ocean of people, trying to find the newly unionized couple. They were still tearing up the dance floor, and Lovino smirked at the truly horrified look on Ludwig's face as Feli tried to get him to dance something crazy, something Italian.

As he reached her, he noted that she had well over three inches on him, and he faltered a little. Surely it was just the heels? But eyeing the sensual way her jacket hugged and swept with her waist and hips, he forgot his uneasiness at her towering height and continued his saunter over to her spot where she leant over the little white banister that served as a sill, separating the glass panels midway to make windows that slid to the side to open.

Tripping on the strap of a woman's handbag left slumped against a chair and nearly flying into a waitress – she didn't look too bad, either – carrying a platter of little cheese tarts, Lovino tried to steady himself inconspicuously against the corner of a table. Blinking, mind sloshing a little, he brushed his suit down and puffed into his hand, sniffing. Not bad. Didn't smell like an alcoholic, but he carried just the faintest tint of wine to leave whoever the lucky bitch was on the receiving end of his kiss wanting more. Yeah. He had this.

A swagger, a hair flick, Lovino spun and leant back against the sill, ankles crossed. Lips pursed, eyebrows raised and eyelids low.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing standing on your own over here? Should go and join in on the dance floor."

And holy fucking shit cunt, because this woman had a mother fucking beard.

The woman turned her head, to look at him with baby blue eyes that suggested nothing infantile. The alcohol in his belly turned to ice and his balls retracted up into him so far Lovino feared that they would have to be surgically removed from his gut. A beard! A fucking beard! On her chin! Whiskers sprinkled on her cheeks that merged into sideburns concealed by her fucking chick hair! Perhaps this was the norm in Germany, for women to grow facial hair just like a man would. Fucking fuck!

"Oh, why hello there, bel homme." Holy shit, freaky chick was French! Were the French women hairy? Oh God. "Aren't you just the cutest. Are you offering?" And were French women known to have very masculine voices that sounded as though they had been dipped in testosterone and deep-fried in bourbon?

This… this woman, thing, winked at him in a way that made his stomach quiver and whatever was currently churning away in his digestive system want to empty itself out into the ocean beating the rocks below them.

She (he) took his stunned silence as enthusiastic affirmation and placed her (his) hand low on Lovino's waist. "Come, we may still have a few minutes before they start serving up the entrees. Perhaps we can become more acquainted over our meal." And then that hand shimmied lower, as did his eyes, and shamelessly pinched the top of his left ass cheek, and Lovino had to hold back a shriek. And his brain swam around in a pool of wine in his skull and his sphincters threatened to give, and he realised then that the tables around him had been positioned to make a fucking path from their spot to the dance floor.

Oh God no. He didn't have this.

…

Even though the vocalist was a tiny thing – perhaps still a teenager, even – Lovino swore she had the lungs of Pavarotti.

The volume at which she sung had the room reverberating. Her voice – alto – was rich, full, and she smoothed the lyrics as they rolled from her tongue, curling, lilting. Just a touch of vibrato, just barely breaching into beautiful falsetto, Lovino commended the way she controlled her breathing. She would make a brilliant singer.

Her accompaniment on piano – bespectacled, brunet – looked as though he had stepped directly from the Baroque period, and Lovino could imagine him sitting in front of a harpsichord in a concert hall. Where she was dressed in a pretty pink dress, he wore a three-quarter coat of the deepest blue, lined in silver with ruffled cuffs. From his vantage point, Lovino could see how finely manicured his nails were as his fingers danced across the keys, working the harmonies and dipping into the young girl's melody every so often. Eyes shut, lips parted, his shoulders, body, rolled with the music, as if his core was filtering it before feeding it to the audience. Such a fine pianist – Lovino had to wonder how much he was being paid to run a wedding reception gig.

The bartenders flittered around at their station. Children laughed and ran around each other at the small candy buffet. Ludwig held Feliciano close, their bodies pressed and their eyes locked in a spell of utter adoration and love as they swooped elegantly across the floor.

But no matter what he focused on, no matter where he looked, there was still a dicked-chick Frenchman in front of him trying to get down to Billy Idol's Piano Man.

"What's your name?" It was shouted, barely finding his ears over the band.

"Fuck off!" he shouted back, but went unheard over the chorus line.

"Francis Bonnefoy. Thirty-two."

Francis Bonnefoy. Francis fucking, bearded Bonnefoy. Shameless pervert, oblivious dickhead, and Frenchman who Lovino would have told could fuck himself on a baguette had it not been for the encouraging grin he'd caught Feli shooting his way. He assumed it was something like because he was socialising, or something. Francis looked at him imploringly.

"Argh!"

"And the piano, it sounds like a carnival, and the microphone smells like a beer!"

"Are you staying in a hotel around here?"

"Go away!"

"And they sit at the bar, and put bread in my jar, and say, "Man, what are you doing here?""

The room broke in to chorus together, then, deep, Italian bass booming from the men, and Lovino could just hear his grandfather over everyone else – even the girl with her microphone.

"Sing us a song, you're the piano man! Sing us a song, tonight!"

"I'm staying at the Crown. You looked bored when I saw you at your table. Maybe after dinner you could come back to my room?"

"No fucking way, you creep!"

"Well, we're all in the mood for a melody, and you've got us feeling alright!"

"Pardon, mon cher? I didn't catch that…" A cool hand stroked his arm, and the squeal that formed at the back of Lovino's throat was swept up by the erupting cheers and applause.

As the band began to dwindle and the waiters began flowing from the kitchens; the couples began to filter back to their tables. A man, pretty heavily inebriated already, bumped into Francis as he lumbered past, sending him against the Italian. Lovino recoiled as the blonde took the opportunity to roll his groin over his own very flaccid and very retracted penis. Hand already fisted and features already contorted in disgust and rage, Lovino had to chant in his head; this is Feliciano's night, don't dick it up for him, and instead of giving the French fuckwad a mouth full of Italian fist, he swiftly and perhaps not as subtly as he would have liked sauntered to his table with speed something akin to a Ferrari Enzo.

Through the mass of people all flowing back to the dining area he was lost on Francis, and smirked as he watched from behind a pillar his eyes dart around looking for him, a brunet in an ever-shifting sea of Italians. The Frenchman stopped where he was and turned, scanning behind him, on the dance floor, for Lovino, and he took that opportunity to slip into his chair. The first one back to the table however, he felt vulnerable sitting alone, and glared at his brother as he slowly, slowly snailed along, chatting with people on his way and pecking Ludwig on the cheek. Surely he could kiss him to his heart's content when they were giving the speeches? Unconsciously, he curled the white table cloth in his hands, knuckles white and prominent. He pressed himself further into his chair, trying to make himself as small and as unnoticeable as he possibly could.

Because the dining area was smaller in comparison to the entertainment, the tables were closer together than perhaps was comfortable, and Lovino watched fretfully as Francis milled through the crowd, closer and closer. People wove through the scattering of desks, this way and that, eying for their names on the gold-edged slips of card. Only a dozen people stood now, Francis included a few meters away from him, and Lovino's eyes skittered around frantically, seeking out his brother.

"Feli!" A booming call, his eyes snapped to the right and instantly hardened. Feliciano, his grandfather, they stood only a few fucking feet away from him embracing and talking and not protecting him from a creepy man looking right his fucking way! He didn't care who, just someone come and-

Oh.

Gulping, blanching, gulping again and eying the table top for any silverware with capability to have a second use, Lovino tried to ignore his skin breaking out in goose pimples and the uncomfortable tingle that scuttled down his spine. Tried to ignore Francis' gaze upon his form, the man manoeuvring around tables and chairs and relatives to get to him. His mind faltered a moment – the alcohol – and Lovino reeled, coming back into comprehension: only three or four more strides and Francis would be at his table and talking to him and staring at him in that hungry, perverted way that made him want to poke his eyes out.

Two… one….

Scrape, thunk. "Sup."

Lovino, frozen in his chair, could only move his eyes. To his left, to the pale, pale German sitting backwards in Feliciano's seat, grin beaming in a way not as pleasant as might be desired and eyes flashing dangerously.

"Lovi, yeah? I'm Gil, Gilbert. But you probably know that, even though we didn't have time for proper introductions today at the ceremony. To think, our bros have been dating for what, six, seven years? And we only met today! Strange, in'nit?" Gilbert took a swig of his beer, tankard held loosely in his hand. His accent was thicker than Ludwig's. Lovino hadn't cared for who it was at the time… A glance to the Frenchman, standing baffled a little away from the bridal table and he turned back to the German, content to appear distracted to avoid errant phone numbers and dirty winks.

"It's Lovino. They've been together for six years, seven this coming June. It's not that strange; you live in Germany, along with the rest of you all." He used subtle rudeness to blanket his fear. Gilbert scoffed.

"Well don't you know all about our little brothers' relationship, Lovi? Should write a book on it. I hear you're an author." Another chug of his drink.

Lovino fidgeted a moment, awkward, fighting off a flush. Francis still stood, and from under his bangs the Italian watched as someone called to him, and his head snapped right. A grin broke his lips, and he waved, pausing to give Lovino one last look before shuffling off. His eyes still trailing him, Lovino watched the blonde as he took his seat and began to chat animatedly with the man next to him, unknown, his skin tan and his eyes bright. Strange, he thought. Even though he was unsure of his relations to most in the room, he still recognised them all.

"Well I'm not, so you can go take a wank in your beer and drink it. That's my brother's seat. Yours is third down, in case you're too shitfaced to read your own name tag." With what seemed like a Frenchman free area for now, Lovino really didn't see need to be socially acceptable any longer, like he had been most of the night. Before he had asked what he thought was a woman to dance, and before a German hung in his face, breath smelling of bitter and yeast.

"You're pretty funny, Vargas. 'Too shitfaced to read my own name tag.' S'a bit rich, coming from you, too shitfaced to tell between what's a chick and what's got a dick. You looked like you were enjoying yourself out there." Cutlery clinked around them, chatter and laughing accompanying it. The waiters and waitresses milled about, carrying bread baskets and jugs of chilled water, and plates of food for the guests. A small, "Oh!" and bursts of giggling from Feliciano, Lovino ground his teeth as his brother squeezed past Gilbert and himself to take Ludwig's chair, the man in tow behind him. "And I thought you were the straight brother."

Retorts churned in his mind, contemplated being voiced but were altogether lost in the thought-numbing alcohol. And then his voice connected itself with his brain, and he blurted, "It isn't my fault the men on your side had their testosterone replaced with oestrogen."

What.

Lovino refused to wince, or cringe or cower or blush or blanch. To feel embarrassed or humiliated, any of that shit. But he gradually felt his resolve cracking as Gilbert's lips did, in an uncontrollable, yet slightly confused grin.

"Lovi, buddy, put down your drink! That was terrible! Fuck, too drunk to give a good come back? Too drunk to even recognise one of your own! That blondie ain't with us; he's from your side. God, you hold your liquor like an Englishman..."

What.

A blanch. Yeah, it was definitely a blanch, painting his face a ghostly white and chilling his bones. "What do you mean, he's not with you? He has to be! He isn't from my family!"

"Nope, he's not a Beilschmidt. Right, bro?"

At that, Gilbert leant back in the chair and looked over his shoulder at Ludwig.

"Pardon?"

"That blonde guy, over there next to Toni. He's not ours, is he?"

"Oh! That's the guy you were dancing with, Lovi!" Feliciano piped.

"No, I don't recognise him. He must be from Feliciano's side."

"You looked like you were having fun! What's his name, Lovi?"

"You mean don't know? He isn't with you?" inquired Ludwig.

"Oh, well, no… everyone on our side is really tanned. And I'd know him if we were related… Hmm… Are you sure he's not with you?"

"Quite. Our only relatives that aren't German are Swiss, and it's only Vash and his step-sister Lili who are here tonight. Lili is the band's vocalist."

"Hey, bro, who's the guy on piano?"

"I think his name is Roddy. That is what Lili calls him, anyway. She asked him to play tonight with her. Vash doesn't like him…"

Francis Bonnefoy. Shameless pervert, oblivious fucktard, Frenchman who nobody knew which side of the he family was from.

Well fucking okay then.

...

By the time Gilbert's entrée had arrived and successfully taken up too much space in his mouth for words, Lovino had already refrained from stabbing him with his bread knife, glassing him with the beer tankard and suffocating him with serviettes. But he considered drowning him in his hochzeitssuppe when he opened his mouth and made to talk around the meat ball in it.

"Aw, Blondie ain't that bad. Look at him, even though I'm not a fag, he's pretty handsome. He seemed pretty tall, too. He must have a monster cock."

Lovino nearly inhaled his spoon.

"Would you shut the fuck up, you dick?"

"I'm sure he could fuck you up with his dick."

"And I'll fuck you up if you don't drop it!"

"Woah, Feli, you didn't tell me your brother could be so tough and intimidating," called Gilbert sarcastically to the Italian next to him. Feliciano looked up from mopping at Ludwig's soup with a bread roll.

"Hmm? Do you think he is?"

If the risotto wasn't good he would have thrown it at his brother.

Lovino glared at his plate as the two carried on, the dickhead German continuing to spew remark after sarcastic remark to his dumb brother, who sat agreeing, completely oblivious. He felt fire licking just in front of his ears, and his eyes and nose stinging with anger. Fuck that stupid fucking German douche. At least after tonight he wouldn't have to see him again.

Breathe, in, out. Gilbert was just one of those people who thrived on the irritation and anger they incited in others. Got off on getting others pissed, found pleasure in upsetting. Lovino would just go along with him, act calm, not give him any reaction at all, and he'd get bored and move on to piss off someone else. Yeah, okay. You've got this.

He began to feel his blood creep back into his veins and arteries instead of where they resided, a flood in his cheeks, and the angry haze in his mind receding back to the alcoholic. He allowed himself just a slight relax in posture, scooping up a small dollop of the fluffy rice and creamy sauce, and glanced up as he slipped it into his mouth.

If he squinted til his eyes were a lash away from being closed and cocked his head a little, Francis was almost handsome. His nose was strong and straight, his cheek bones high, making his face attractively longish. He sat with poise, and held his wine glass in his palm, stem between long, manicured fingers. He chatted with those seated next to him, eyes crinkled and light as he smiled.

But then Lovino remembered how those eyes had been undressing him not ten minutes before, and he shuddered.

Mouth still latched loosely to the silver spoon, eyes slivered, and imitating a parrot, it was then that Lovino released that as he stared at Francis, his tanned companion gazed at him. And then the blush was back and the spoon was falling into his entrée, mind cursing frantically as his patted for the serviette to wipe the sauce that dotted his shirt. How long had that guy been watching him? Fuck, as if the night hadn't been embarrassing enough…

"Hey, watch it, Vargas! This is a new jacket! Honestly… sloppy Italians. Oh, but not you, Feli, haha." It took all his will not to retaliate. He focused his negative energy on working the stain out of his blouse.

But scrubbing only deepened the cream into the fabric. Scowling, cursing under his breath, Lovino pushed out from the table and ignored Feliciano and Gilbert's inquiring voices as he crossed to the stairs. As he began descending, he glanced over his shoulder. The Hispanic man was still watching him, a smile gracing his lips and a sparkle in his eye that made Lovino's heart skip a beat and glare harden.

...

The Haven Restaurant was a classy two-storey venue that had been built from, and in, the cliff it sat upon, which cut into the vast bay of Cavoca Beach. On a slope that descended to the sea, its first floor level with the ground outside, the second was underground, and a lot cooler. An auditorium and bar, a sheet of glass separated it from the hall that ran alongside it, which lead to storage rooms and lavatories, and at the end, the cosy courtyard of which the floor - rocky cliff - had been carved to imitate cobblestones. The stretch of four thick, white banisters crossed it some ten feet in the air, and curling, coiling green and purple ivy was woven around them all, creating a heavy canopy but still allowing moonlight to filter through.

There were several picnic tables scattered round, the paint a dark, forest green, and peeling a little, but still looking tasteful. The east side of the yard blended gradually with the bitumen road, which twisted down to a small car park, just below. Stainless Steel safety rails framed the west and north of the area, lest someone ever tumble and impair one of the many expensive cars, or should they peer too far over the cliff edge and break against the little rock pools sprinkled in the shallow sea.

From where he sat on the railing, Lovino could see most of the coastal city, its lights winking at him and dancing in oranges and whites and yellows. Boats bobbed on the water, dipping and rising and swaying about. The moon's distorted face played over the black of the bay, silver and slivered, shifted with the ebbs and flows. A lighthouse stemmed from opposite him, up on the corner, where the ocean spilled out into expanses filled with weird life and stretching to other lands. Lovino caught its glare as it pivoted round, flashing him for the briefest of moments.

A spray of salt filming his face and bare arms, a gust of wind carrying the distant hub-bub of city life to his ears, the young brunet relished in the feel of cool water sticking to him, in the scent of luscious foods spilling from the restaurant above, in the sounds – peaceful yet lively, relaxed and exciting. Even though he was by himself he still felt a part of the party. Yeah. Technically, he was still at the venue. He hadn't left. And he could hear and smell the reception. Maybe he could get away with just sitting out in the courtyard, admiring how pretty everything was and planning his next piece, instead of having to go back into the company of douchebag Germans and perverted Frenchmen.

But then, a small burst of wind slapped him, freezing the water on his skin, and he came to note just how cold it was, especially for April. The singlet he'd worn under his dress shirt wasn't sufficient enough protection from the chill, and holding his arms across him did nothing but bleed the water into the fabric, slicking it to his chest. He glanced back, over his shoulder, and eyed disdainfully his stained button up, splayed out on one of the tables. There was no way the wet blotch on it had dried, and even if had, an ugly, beige smear covered the bottom of the left side, and Lovino could already hear Gilbert making some sort of snide, semen-related comment;

"Look Lovi, if you're too shy to approach Francis, because I'm just a helpful guy, I'll go talk to him for you, okay? There's no need to blow a load over him in a toilet stall."

Or perhaps, "Well, somebody likes quick fucks doggy-style! Tranny-Franny must be almost as good as me – look at all that jizz! Wow, I never knew you were a slut. That's kind of nasty." He'd only really know the German for half an hour, and already he was in his head.

There was no way he could walk back into the reception only wearing a wife-beater, and he'd rather eat nothing but kransky for the rest of his life than have that fucking albino saying things that would spread fast like a Chinese whisper, and become distorted like one, too. But he was freezing, and his jacket was on the back of his chair. He patted himself down. There was no bulging metal against either one of his thighs. His keys were in one of the pockets in his jacket.

Of course something like this would happen to him. Hit on by a sleaze, fucked off by an obnoxious fucking kraut, and having to sit freezing at a wedding reception he didn't even want to go to, because all the fucking romance of the wedding was too overbearing for him, and the way Ludwig had caressed Feli's face and murmured to him in soft German at the dinner table was just too intimate and left him reminded of how lonely he really was.

Lovino's hands tightened on the railing as he leant further forwards, trying to make out all the rocks that looked like pin heads from how high up he was. Determined to forget about the cold. Procrastinating, putting off for as long as he could having to go back into the building.

He could only see wisps of the white foam spurting up every second moment, slammed against the stone, beating against it over and over, breaking. Diamond droplets of water shattering and shimmering, falling against other rocks and covering them with its remnants. 'So beautiful, isn't it? Like thousands of little crystals scattering every which-way.'

'What do you think it would feel like, to be tossed around like that?' The grip on his waist tightened, fingers stroking over his coarse doublet, and he couldn't feel anything but the tingling and quivering of his abdomen. Could only feel the places on his body that his lover touched, nerves jittering, his fingers were ice upon his heated flesh. His body fevered underneath material, delicate caresses. Heart pumping fast like how he would pump him. And, oh, how that thought inspired a shudder through his body, a swelling in his abdomen, and roused parts of him that only he had the ability to rouse.

'It wouldn't feel like you, and so I would not care for it...'

The lighthouses' blinding gleam penetrating his eyelids and making him see white, a sudden surge in the surf, shooting up the cliff-face and spraying him. The ambiance was ruined, and Lovino growled, flipping off the wind as it whipped his hair about and pinkened his cheeks. Because as if he didn't look enough like a loser already.

Swinging his legs back over the cool railing, he landed on his heeled black Oxford's, a tap filling the courtyard but whisked away on Lili's soothing voice and Roddy's lilting piano, spilling from the windows and filling the air all around. The song soft, gentle, delicate, and much more suited to a girl of her appearance, Lovino couldn't place his finger on what it was, and he thought, idly, that whilst he thought she had a beautiful voice, he preferred her singing energetic, loud and unrestrained.

Oh. Singing. Piano. Music. Ohh. The band was up again, and that meant that the entrées were done. And if Luck was smiling on him, everyone was up, flittering around and dancing, a bit more intoxicated. And no one would notice if he slipped back in wearing a dirty blouse, and got his jacket. He knew that Feliciano would have dragged Ludwig back to the dance floor, and with him not being at the table, Gilbert would have no body to pester and would go off to irritate someone else!

The toe of his shoe caught in a groove between two of the fake cobblestones, and Lovino hopped over to the table, trying to maintain as much momentum as he could. Swiping his shirt off the table top he hurried to the door, down the hall, only stopping when he faced the disabled bathroom. He slipped inside, and flicked the light on. A few planks of timber stood against one wall, a few plastic chairs slotted on top of each other next to it, and a fold-out baby changing table hung open against the other wall, the belts limply hanging from it. Lovino scowled. A too-small basin was tucked in the corner, a too-small mirror above it, and next to it an un-plugged electric hand-dryer.

Despite being a little appalled at how orderly the specialty lavatory was kept, he shuffled to the hand dryer. Plugged it in, switched it on, and stood for a moment, passing his hand underneath the air vent. Nothing. There weren't any buttons that suggested power on the device at all. Lovino tried the other socket, and again, waved his hand, garnered no reaction.

He huffed. And he huffed again. And he sighed. Because only he would spill sauce on his shirt, startled, and then sit in mist and wind, and end up looking like the clown from that popular fast-food franchise, and then have the only private bathroom in such a shitty condition that he doubted the toilet would even flush. And then, looking like a fucking freak, have to use a lavatory that anyone – namely Gilbert or Francis – could walk into, to find him under a hand-dryer wearing a shirt covered in sauce/semen to anyone else. Fuck everything.

Resignedly, he cracked open the door and peaked out. The short corridor was clear, the steady thump of feet dancing above him sounding like a dozen horses clopping along. He could probably get away with wearing his shirt inside-out, anyway, until he shrugged his jacket on over it. The material was thick, good. An Italian brand, surely the manufacturers had considered that an Italian might spill Italian food sauce on it, and being a lazy Italian might just wear the shirt flipped. Maybe. Actually, that was probably a bit of a stretch.

He eyed the distance between the disabled bathroom and the men's. Maybe ten feet, he could clear it in a few strides. The dinners wouldn't take long to prepare, he knew that, and didn't dawdle in flicking the light off and hurrying down the hall.

Lovino shouldered the first door, and then the second, and then glanced around the large bathroom. Four stalls on the left side, four urinals to the right, and in front, three basins, a soap dispenser and an electric dryer.

He wasted no time in hurrying over to it, crouching down, and passing his hand underneath. A whirr, gaining volume, til it reached its peak and a blast of hot air came tumbling from the vent. Relishing in the heat, he rolled his neck, and tried to dry the salty, sticky damp on his skin and hair.

God, I probably look like such a fucking weirdo… and drying himself under an air vent not three inches wide, he did.

Lovino had to start the machine up again three times before he was satisfied that the sea-spray had evaporated from his hair, and risen from most of his skin. In the proper lighting, the stain on his shirt really didn't look noticeable at all, a pale, butter yellow that transitioned smoothly into the white of his top. The lights in the room above were dimmer, he remembered, and he probably could get away with wearing it properly.

By the time Lovino's mind had properly registered the soft swish of the first bathroom door, it was too late. By the time Lovino's eyes had fallen upon the bronze man as he stepped through the second, his had brain burnt out and his Fight Or Flight response was left teetering between the two, squatting on the floor of the men's toilets. It felt like minutes, but he knew time would still be in the milliseconds, and it only took that long for his skull to crunch with the metal funnel of the fan as he tried to jump to his feet.

His groan was muffled by the tiling in his face, and the Hispanic man's cry of shock was muffled by the fairy-floss in his brain, conjured by the carnival of lights that were dancing behind his eyes and ringing their bells in his ears. He hurt. Holy fuck, he hurt, and in the sudden haze part of him fretted having a welt the shape of a skewed square in his cranium for the rest of his life, and when robot archaeologists dug him up in the future, they'd be baffled and strike a massive investigation into how his skull had been deformed so, and 'were humans actually meant to be like that?' and whoa, shit, fingers, ice upon his fevering flesh.

"Oh my God! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you, are you okay? Here let me help you up." His words were lilted Spanish, and smooth like the cologne he wore. They took forever to seep into the alert cracks and crevices of Lovino's consciousness, swirling languidly around like thick, gloopy oil. Tears pricked and spiked at his eyes and his nose, and he swore someone was setting off fireworks in his forehead.

Firm, calloused fingers wrapped themselves around Lovino's biceps, and pushed his torso up, gently. "Hey, is it bad?" Lovino just groaned painfully again, and grabbled at his cranium, head hung low. He pulled at his hair, as if that would distract him from the throbbing and sudden queasiness gripping his stomach like a slimy hand. It didn't much. But the other fingers, sifting through his hair, gently manoeuvring tufts this way and that, certainly did.

"I can't see any blood, thank goodness. Oh, I am so sorry… Can you talk? Or hear me?"

"Nngh…"

"We'll have to get you some ice for the swelling… maybe I could get some from the kitchens. Can you look up?"

A slimy hand, squeezing his entrails through cold, wet, mucus-covered fingers. Up into his throat, they probed and prodded, and teased the muscles at the back of his throat into tensing. Danced in his stomach, and swirled in the sloshing alcohol in his aching head. As if the hands rotted, jelly covered arm was lodged in his oesophagus, shifting just slightly. He knew he was going to be sick.

But then fingers again, distracting, slipped under Lovino's chin. Tilted it upwards, and peered down at him. And it took his eyes a few minutes to adjust, sort through the thick cotton haze his concussion had brought generously. He was crouched in front of him, above him. Close to him. Really fucking close. So close he could spy every little shadow that played about his features, the is-it-yellow-or-white-if-you-stare-to-figure-out-which-your-retinas-will-burn light on the ceiling turning youthful wrinkles into crevices and… fuck…. He was actually kind of hot, up this close…

Dark brown curls sat mopped and messy around his head, curling on his forehead and hanging in his eyes, a weird forest-lime green combination flecked with worry. His brows were thick, but not bushy, and his nose was arched, the bridge firm and curved over, hinting at Mediterranean ethnicity. His cheekbones high, and a little prominent, however his face wasn't long and thin, but rounded. He spoke from wide, firm lips.

"You look a little vague… You must have hit your head really hard…. Do you feel nauseas? Dizzy? You've probably got a-"

Then alcohol met head trauma, and got along quite splendidly in a messy, sticky expel all over the Spaniard's shoes.

Well.