Lovino zips up his jacket, straightens the collar and stuffs his hands in his pockets before sighing loudly, wrenching the thing off, and tossing it on the bed in a pile of similarly discarded clothes. He follows the jacket's trajectory, flopping dejected across the mattress and digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. "Whose idea was this, again?"
Antonio pokes his head out of the walk-in closet, halfway through buttoning up one of his many identical plaid shirts—the ones that Lovino secretly thinks he looks incredibly sexy in but will never ever say as much. "Jackets?"
He walks out to tuck in his shirt in front of the full-length mirror with way too big of a smile for someone that just made such a lame joke. Lovino rears back and kicks him in the back of the knee just to bring him down a peg.
"Don't tuck your shirt in, I swear to god, are you eighty?"
Antonio pauses with his shirt half tucked and rotates his hips around in the mirror to study his work. "What? Why not?"
Lovino sits up on his elbow and avoids staring at Antonio's ass. "If you wear those jeans around me again, I will burn them. I have access to kilns, do you even know how hot those things get?"
"As hot as this?" Antonio asks and commences his idea of a sexy strip tease that mostly involves tripping over the frayed hem of his jeans and getting the titanium ring Lovino had given him for his birthday stuck on a belt loop.
It's a cruel trick of the universe that he manages to pull if off, anyway. He stands there looking utterly ridiculous with his pants pooled around his ankles, but Lovino's eyes stray to the dark hair trailing from the top of his underwear to his bellybutton and he finds he has to avert his eyes.
"What even was that?" He hides his true feelings behind a bitten lip and crossed legs.
Antonio smirks and places his hands on Lovino's knees, leaning so close that Lovino can feel his warm breath on his jaw. "Methinks thou dost protest too much."
Lovino places a finger on Antonio's forehead and pushes him away. "The line is 'the lady doth protest too much, methinks.' Don't quote Hamlet if you can't get it right."
Antonio laughs good-naturedly and leans forward to peck Lovino on the cheek before plodding back to the closet, jeans slung over his shoulder.
"Wear the slacks I got you—the straight cuts." Lovino's phone chimes from underneath the strewn clothes on the bed and he digs for it while Antonio groans and drops a hanger.
"The black ones!" Lovino clarifies, exasperated, and frees his cell from beneath a hunter green marled sweater.
Antonio walks out of the closet, looking worlds better now that he is clad in pants that look like they belong in this century. "Who's that? Feli?" He asks as he digs through the dresser for socks.
"Nn, no." Lovino finishes typing his reply then stuffs his phone in his pocket.
"Oh?" Antonio asks, picking out black socks to match his pants and closing the drawer with his foot. "So…not Feli. Secret boyfriend, then? Should I be worried?"
Lovino doesn't humor him with a response. Instead, he rolls his eyes and stomps off to the closet to find a different jacket.
"You're not exactly putting my mind at ease here." Antonio calls after him.
"Feliciano isn't my only friend in the world," He points out, even though he's not entirely sure of the validity of that statement. "And how would I even have time for a secret boyfriend when I'm always with you?"
"What about when I'm at the bar with the guys!" Antonio protests.
Lovino leans out of the closet with a face that says, 'do you really want to go there?' before sighing, shaking his head, and returning to his quest for the perfect outerwear.
Antonio leans against the doorframe and watches his boyfriend comb through cardigans. "Okay. Okay, you have a point. But—"
"You're the only one that could put up with me. Isn't that what your friends always say?"
Lovino pulls down a military style jacket and studies the buttons before returning it to the rack. He doesn't look bothered, but Antonio knows better. He's witnessed the words he thought glanced off the Italian come stumbling back at night, recited like a dirge through tears and stuttering breaths.
"Hey," Antonio interjects and pushes himself from the door to stand behind him, leaning his head so his mouth is mere millimeters from Lovino's ear. "That's my boyfriend you're talking about."
"Yeah, well, that's my student you're talking about. On the phone. And she's female." Lovino replies, nonplussed.
"Which one? The brunette with micro bangs that wears all black?"
"No, the short blonde with the good eye for figure drawing."
"Her?" Antonio asks, flopping on the bed with his arms folded over his chest. "I knew she had a thing for you."
"She has a thing for knowing the right pressure on the intaglio press for a woodcut." Lovino corrects. "Which she'd know already if she spent her time in class listening, rather than drawing pictures of big busted women."
"Good eye for figures, huh?"
Lovino shrugs and pats out the non-existent wrinkles in his slacks. "She understands how boobs work, that's more than I can say for most of the guys in my class."
"Cause you would know."
"I'm an artist, it's part of my job to know." Lovino says, fumbling with his jacket and mumbling under his breath about extraneous zippers.
"Mmhmm," Antonio hums, watching Lovino's face in the mirror. "I don't think the zippers are the problem."
"What have we talked about you and thinking?"
"You're so sassy when you're anxious."
Lovino rolls up his sleeves and thinks that Antonio is probably the only person in the world that would call him "sassy" rather than temperamental, volatile, or—as a passerby once yelled from his car window after Lovino had cut him off during rush hour traffic: a huge fucking asshole.
"Look—" he starts, before his chiming phone cuts him off. "Uh, can you hand me that?"
Antonio sighs but hands it over, anyway. He uses the proximity to grab at Lovino's ass but plays it off as straightening a shirttail when Lovino aims an elbow at his stomach.
"Answer it in the car, we're gonna be late."
Lovino waves his hand dismissively, eyes glued to the phone screen. "Just a sec."
Antonio flops back onto the bed with a groan. "Boobs drawing girl?"
"Huh? No." Lovino replies, distracted.
"Then who—" Antonio starts, but the words are caught in his throat when Lovino stuffs his phone back into his pocket and drags him towards the door by his shirt sleeve.
"Just another studio question, I'm done." He vows, scowling at the bolt of lightning that flickers across the sky and bathes the entranceway in stark white light. "I thought the weather was supposed to be nice today."
Antonio shrugs and picks out his favorite worn boots from the shoe rack at the door. "It's summer, surprise thunderstorms are pretty common."
"I hate the summer."
"That's what you said about spring," Antonio points out, tying up his laces. "And fall. Also, winter."
"But I especially hate summer."
"Well, I am shocked." Antonio says in a way that makes it abundantly clear he is not shocked. Not even a little.
Another bolt of lightning strikes and makes Lovino's trademark scowl look even more ominous. "I will toss you into the kiln with your disgusting jeans, don't think for a second I won't."
"I believe you." Antonio says, because he does. He reaches a hand to Lovino's temple to brush away a non-existent stray hair, trying to make amends the best way he knows how—through physical contact and compliments. "You look so handsome, babe."
Lovino visibly cringes and turns towards the door. A hot blush works its way up his neck and makes his armpits sweat. "Don't treat me like a fucking five year old you're sending off on his first day of school. Jesus, Antonio."
"You're right, I'm sorry. I mean to say you look hot," Antonio corrects, grabbing the umbrella from the nearby stand when Lovino moves to open the front door. "Not because you're red or anything, bu—" his words break off into a cough when a bony elbow connects just below his ribcage. He tries to amend his words again—to clarify that he meant sexy and was absolutely not alluding to Lovino's chronic issue of breaking into a tomato red blush at the slightest provocation—but his words are drowned out by the rain, and really, he thinks that might be for the best if he's to keep his diaphragm intact.
The bad weather makes the twenty-minute ride to the restaurant stretch into forty. By the time they're just a couple miles out and stuck in completely stopped traffic, Lovino's nerves have been stretched to their limit. He gnaws on his bottom lip and runs his nails up and down his thighs, concentrating on the feeling of vaguely corded denim under his calloused fingertips. He had hoped for this meeting with his brother's boyfriend to be over in one quick and painful instant, like ripping off a band-aid or jumping into a cold swimming pool. He's done decently well at keeping his mind occupied today—at not dwelling—but sitting idle in the car is making every fear bubble to the surface of his overactive mind.
His one reprieve is the incessant texts and calls from his students. There's a critique tomorrow, so of course they're all in the studio, frantically trying to remember the demos he had given them weeks earlier. Usually, this behavior would annoy him, but today it is a needed distraction, and he pours himself into giving detailed explanations of every question they ask.
Antonio manages to ignore it at first, but by the fifteenth or so time his phone chimes, he's intermittently tapping the steering wheel and sighing.
"Last one," Lovino promises when his phone chimes again and Antonio shoots him a look.
"You said that five calls ago."
Lovino keeps his head down, typing out an answer. "Are you seriously counting?"
Antonio leans his head against the headrest and closes his eyes. "Are you seriously still on the phone?"
"What else is there to do?
"You could talk to me?"
"I talk to you all the time. I'm talking to you now."
"This isn't talking." Antonio opens his eyes and looks over at Lovino, still bent over his phone. "Do I have to be one of your students to get your undivided attention?"
Lovino rolls his eyes but doesn't look up. "Do I have to be one of your friends to get to spend a Friday evening with you?"
"You know you're always invited to go out with us."
Lovino wrinkles his nose. "I hate the bars you guys go to."
"As you've said many, many times."
"So you keep going to them because you know I won't go?" Lovino asks, finally dropping his phone into his lap and looking to Antonio.
Antonio groans and makes a dramatic display of throwing his hand over his face. "Only you would reach that conclusion. And why is everything suddenly my fault?"
"It's your fault because you apparently don't trust me? It just seems hypocritical when you go out with your friends every weekend and do god knows what. You probably all get drunk and make out for all I know!"
"Make out!?" Antonio laughs at that. "Yeah, Francis is a bit of a hornball, but they're my friends, Lovi, not good looking art kids with a thing for anatomy."
"They're my students." Lovino practically hisses, lip twitching up in disgust.
"Oh, yeah, because no TA has ever slept with a student. Right."
Lovino shakes his head in disbelief. "After how long it took me to warm up to you, do you really think I would just start sleeping around with anyone that crosses my path? Do you even know me at all?"
"Yes," Antonio sighs and pumps the gas when traffic finally starts clearing. "I do, but I can't help but—"
Antonio doesn't get to finish his thought. The car in front of him accelerates too fast and swerves on a deep puddle, turning perpendicular to oncoming traffic. Antonio acts quickly, running the front of his car up into the median to avoid it, but the car behind him doesn't react as fast and ends up plowing into his bumper, pushing him further up the median with a sharp jolt and making the airbags deploy.
It all happens in a matter of seconds, and Antonio and Lovino sit there in utter silence, both shaking as the airbags slowly deflate.
When they finally manage to rouse from their stupor, Lovino wonders what it means when the first words out of his own mouth are "you have insurance, right?" while Antonio's are to ask him if he's alright.
"What?" Antonio asks, grabbing Lovino's wrist to inspect his hand, pink and raw from being grazed by the airbag. "It doesn't matter."
Lovino jerks his hand back. "What do you mean it doesn't matter? We can't afford—"
"It wasn't my fault," Antonio cuts him off, trying not to sound irritated. "We were rear-ended."
"So I take that to mean you don't have insurance." Lovino leans into the headrest and closes his eyes. The sting is just starting to register in his hand, but he ignores it. He's annoyed but distantly thankful that he'll get to postpone his first official meeting with his brother's lug of a boyfriend.
"I'll get it, okay? But it doesn't matter this time because it wasn't my fault."
"What do you mean it doesn't matter? What if you had hit the other car?"
"But I didn't hit them," Antonio voice grows louder. "Can we not fight about this right now?"
"I'm not fighting, I just want to know why you're an idiot that thinks he can drive around without insurance!"
Antonio feigns braining himself on the steering wheel. "I don't know what you want from me! I can't exactly go back in time, Lovino!"
Lovino feels his anger boil up from tepid heat to raging inferno. He hates when Antonio uses his full name against him. It invariably makes him feel like an admonished child. He's aware Antonio knows it, too, and that just makes it all the more infuriating.
"You have no fucking right," he starts, but then his phone chimes again, and—for no other reason than muscle memory—he stops mid-sentence to reach down and check the message. He doesn't even have a chance to read it before Antonio has grabbed it out of his hand and slung it out the window.
Lovino watches its trajectory, arching gracefully through the pouring rain and landing with a clatter atop the sizzling asphalt. "You…" He stutters, eyes wide, unable to rip his gaze away from his phone. Even in the car, six feet away, he can tell by the web of reflecting light that the screen is completely shattered.
"Shit." Antonio hisses, at least having the decency to sound embarrassed. "I'm sorry. Shit. I wasn't thinking."
"Seems to be a pattern with you," Lovino spits and rips off his seatbelt, scrambling out of his seat despite Antonio's pleas for him to please stay inside the car.
He hears the distant sound of sirens as he picks up his phone and takes a seat on the curb. He can feel the other party of the accident watching him through their fogged up car windows, but he doesn't care. If he looks a pathetic sight—slumped on the side of the road in the hot summer rain, demolished phone clutched tight in injured hand—then all the better to make Antonio suffer.
The chemical burn is throbbing by the time the first cop car arrives. Lovino cradles his hand in his lap and stares daggers into Antonio's back as he watches him explain what happened to the cop, gesturing wildly in a way he can only imagine Antonio picked up from Lovino himself.
Lovino is ignored as the cop moves on to talk to the other party. Thunder cracks somewhere in the distance and Antonio taps on the window and motions for him to return to the car. Lovino's not scared of the storm, though. He's not even scared of the accident or what could have been, even though myriads of Hallmark specials have told him that he should be.
According to all the sappy movies and books he's been subjected to in his 22 years, he should be feeling enlightened: blessed by a brush with his own mortality into understanding the importance of prioritizing the ones he loves most over petty things like insurance and broken phones.
He doesn't feel enlightened, though, and he's still pissed at Antonio—his anger undeterred by things like booming thunder and the smell of burning rubber. He stares into the raw pink flesh on the top of his hand and prods at the skin around the affected area, trying to quell the worsening pain.
"At least it's your left hand," Antonio says. Lovino jumps, having been so lost in thought, he hadn't even registered his approach. "The cop said an ambulance'll be here soon."
"Don't need it, but they can check you for brain damage." Lovino continues to look down at the asphalt, his hand, his shattered phone—anything but Antonio's face. "Don't you need to move the car?"
Antonio shrugs and slumps to the curb, hesitantly reaching a hand around Lovino's back. Lovino sits stiffly with his shoulders squared, but he doesn't pull away, which to Antonio means grudging observance of his attempt to apologize.
"You're paying for the phone." Lovino says suddenly.
"Yes."
"Because you're a possessive asshole."
"Um…"
"Yes." Lovino answers for him.
"I don't have a say?" Antonio pouts in that way that he thinks will get him out of trouble. Lovino has the overwhelming desire to punch him in the mouth.
"Not really," Lovino tells him, flinching away from Antonio when he tries to pinch at his side. He's not sure why Antonio thinks it's okay to be playfully affectionate while it's storming, their car is dented, and his hand looks like raw chicken, but at the moment, he doesn't have enough patience to acknowledge it, let alone chastise him for it. He scoots over a few inches in a way he hopes conveys that he's really not in the mood for playing around or being touched. "Do you have your phone on you? I need to call Feliciano."
Antonio makes a show of checking his pockets and Lovino can already tell that he doesn't have his phone and knows it. Lovino leans his head back and sighs long and loud. He grips his broken phone tighter, his anger kindling anew.
He stands and brushes off damp debris from the back of his pants. "I'm gonna walk to the restaurant. It's only a couple miles up the road."
"Wait, babe!" Antonio grabs for Lovino's hand, but he's shaken off before his fingers have even managed to fully encircle his wrist. Antonio jumps up from the curb undeterred and pursues him, anyway. "The cop should be done soon and then we can go together."
"We were supposed to be at the restaurant 10 minutes ago," Lovino says, even though it's just a guess since he doesn't have his phone to check.
"Traffic's bad, they're probably not even there yet, either."
Lovino doesn't agree. From everything he's heard about Ludwig, he's the kind of guy that would obsessively watch the weather forecast and chart out traffic patterns and make sure there was no possible way they would be anything but exactly on time. He's probably not the type to pick petty fights with his boyfriend, or pout in the rain, or have anxiety attacks over stupid shit like mortality and tall buildings.
Ludwig is the kind of guy Lovino always wanted to be for Feliciano, but lacked the necessary tools to embody. It sucks. He feels useless and like a failure in comparison. He doesn't like to think about it. He wants to pretend that Ludwig isn't real, or that he isn't as important to Feliciano as Lovino secretly knows he is.
Still, if there's been one motivator in Lovino's life, it's anger. And right now, he's fucking pissed at Toni. So hairy potato eating German or not, he's getting to that restaurant.
"I'll see you there." Lovino says and tries not to be affected by the face Antonio makes. He doesn't look back, but he imagines Antonio sitting on the curb alone, looking like a sad puppy abandoned by his owner.
As he walks, he runs possible future scenarios through his head, rehearsing comebacks to whatever slanderous accusations Antonio might throw his way later that night. In a way, it's a better distraction than even his students had provided. He hardly notices that he's willingly plodding to a future that he had once so vehemently avoided. That is, until he spots the restaurant's neon sign and his stomach drops to his feet.
He's completely drenched by the time he pushes through the double doors and weaves his way around the crowd of people waiting for a table. He spots his brother easily, or rather, he spots Ludwig easily, since he's tall and blonde and looks more than slightly ridiculous shoved into a booth seat. He'd probably be more comfortable at a regular table, but Feliciano always preferred to sit at booths. The fact that he'd give in to that request despite his obvious discomfort would warm Lovino's heart if he were a kind and selfless brother. Unfortunately, he's not, and the sight just makes his heart heavy with jealousy, resentment, pity, and a myriad of other less distinguishable emotions.
"Lovi," Feliciano chirps when Lovino has neared the table. Ludwig dutifully stands and lets Feliciano scurry his way out of the booth to fuss over his brother. "Ve~ you're soaking wet, did you forget your umbrella?"
Lovino combs back the dripping, matted hair from his forehead and shrugs. "We got in an accident and—"
"An accident?" Feliciano cuts him off, panic stirring in his eyes. "Are you okay? Where's Toni? Why didn't you call?"
Ludwig puts a calming hand on Feliciano's shoulder and guides him back to his seat. Lovino is thankful for the intervention, but also irritated that he would feel so at ease interfering with family matters. It's as if he thinks he is family. The thought makes Lovino want to vomit.
"I'm fine, he's fine." Lovino sighs and slides into the seat across from his brother. "The car's not fine, but it will be." He taps his fingers absentmindedly on the table and Feliciano gasps and grabs his hand.
"Ve~ you're hurt, Lovi!"
"It's not a big deal," he says, even though it hurts to move his fingers.
"Maybe we should leave and bring you to Medac." Feliciano persists, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.
Lovino picks up a menu and opens it straight to the wine section. "If it blisters, I'll go in the morning, okay?"
Feliciano nods and folds his hands into his lap, worry still flickering in his too bright eyes.
The waitress shows up soon after. Lovino tells them it's fine to order, he's not sure how long Antonio will be and it's his fault, anyway, for leaving his phone at home and rendering himself unreachable. But Lovino's cavalier attitude starts to wane when their drinks, dinner, and finally check arrive with no sign of Toni.
He tries not to be concerned about it, or at the very least, tries to seem like he's not concerned about it. He knows he must be failing spectacularly, if not for the fact that he's barely managed to eat any of his dinner, then for the telltale sympathetic looks his brother keeps casting him.
"Do you want me to try and call Francis or Gilbert?" Feliciano asks for the tenth time. The waitress places the check on their table and Lovino shakes his head and bites his lip to hold back his tears. His heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest, but he refuses to let the potato bastard see him cry.
Lovino swallows until he can trust his voice not to waver. "I should go home."
They drive him, despite Lovino's insistence that he's fine taking a taxi. Feliciano sits with him in the backseat. He grasps Lovino's injured hand in his own, tenderly caressing his brother's knuckles with his thumb, despite the fact that Lovino has pressed himself against the car door—face fully turned to the dark, rain speckled window.
"I'm sure Toni's fine," Feliciano tells him.
Lovino's shoulders stiffen and he clicks his teeth together. "This is probably his way of punishing me."
Feliciano's grip around his hand tightens. "Ve~ Toni wouldn't do that."
'That's not who I was talking about,' Lovino thinks.
When they finally arrive to his and Antonio's apartment, the windows are dark and Antonio's car isn't in the parking lot. Feliciano wants to stay and make sure everything's okay, but Lovino waves him off with promises that he'll send him a message via Facebook if anything is amiss.
The apartment is disconcertingly dark when he enters. He had half expected—half hoped—to see a light on in the bedroom or maybe the kitchen, but there is none. He's alone.
He turns on the hallway light and stands there, flanked by darkness on all sides, unsure of what to do. He suddenly feels nauseated and his face grows hot. He wishes he hadn't sent Feliciano off. He wishes he had let him try to call one of Antonio's friends at the restaurant. 'Not that it would matter,' he thinks. 'Since Toni left his phone at home.'
"The phone!" He exclaims to no one and scrambles to the kitchen with newfound purpose. He suddenly has a lifeline, one that he can use to contact all of Antonio's shit-eating friends and hopefully track down his boyfriend.
He turns on the kitchen light and immediately checks the crappy clay dish he made in Ceramics 1 that they use as a catch-all for their keys, pocket change, and the nail clippers they're constantly losing. Finding no phone, he skims the kitchen bar, the kitchen table, the coffee tables in the living room, the spaces between the couch cushions, under the couch, the bedside tables, under the pile of clothes he had left earlier, as well as the quilts, under the pillows, and finally, the bathroom counter.
By the time he pulls back the shower curtain and checks the bathtub out of sheer desperation, he is hovering just below the line of full-blown hysteria. Finding the tub short one cellular device, he crumples to the bathroom rug and wraps his arms around himself, pinching his biceps and trying to slow his breathing. Hot tears roll down the side of his face and drip off the end of his nose.
Lovino often chooses to isolate himself, not so much because he's uncomfortable socializing, but because he finds the stilted niceties required for interacting with others to be so draining. Yet, even with the distance he tries to maintain between himself and others, there have been few times in his life he remembers feeling so completely alone.
He rolls onto his back and stares up at the light, letting his eyes blur until all he can see is a bright white nothingness. He tries not to think about where Toni might be, because the only scenarios his mind invents are scary and horrible and make his stomach roil. As he lies there, heavy-limbed—barely able to maintain a steady breathing pattern, let alone move—he almost starts to wonder if any of this was real at all. Maybe Antonio was a manifestation of his mind's desperate need to be okay—to be accepted and appreciated by someone that wasn't bound by blood to love him.
Somehow, despite the tumult in his mind, Lovino manages to fall asleep. He's not sure how, but he knows he must have, because one second he is lying on hard tile, mind racing, and the next he is being roused to consciousness by a disheveled and frantic looking Antonio.
"Lovi! Babe, are you okay? I wanted to call Feliciano to come stay with you but I couldn't remember his number, I'm so sorry. Have you been here long?"
"Wh-what?" Lovino mumbles and starts to sit up.
"Oh god, your eyes," Antonio fusses and cups Lovino's cheek in his hand.
The touch reorients Lovino to reality and he feels mildly embarrassed when he realizes his eyes are probably swollen and bloodshot from crying. "It's fine," he protests and weakly swats Antonio's hand away.
Antonio catches him by the wrist and turns his palm over with a grimace. "We should get this wrapped up."
"What happened to you last night?" Lovino lets Antonio help him up and guide him to the foot of their bed. He flops onto the mattress, legs hanging over the edge, and rubs his eyes with his forearm as Antonio pads back to the bathroom.
Antonio groans dramatically and comes back into the room, first aid kit tucked under his arm. "They had to tow the car and traffic was awful and they didn't want to give me a rental because I'm not old enough, apparently, which is ridiculous since I've been driving since I was 16, and I tried to think of someone to call to pick me up but the only number I have memorized is yours." Antonio gasps for a breath and gently picks up Lovino's hand. "This might sting," he warns.
"That's funny," Lovino says finally, turning his head away and wincing when Antonio spreads ointment over his burn.
Antonio puts the ointment away and starts swathing the injured hand in gauze. "What is?"
"Usually I'm the one freaking out," Lovino says, wiggling his fingers to test the tightness of the wrapping. He doesn't mention the episode he had the night before. He figures the disheveled state of the house and being found in the bathroom speaks for itself. Still, it's nice to see Antonio get frazzled. It makes him feel more human.
Antonio combs his fingers through Lovino's hair and thumbs his cheek lovingly. "I didn't want you to be alone."
Lovino is kind of touched but he hides it by averting his eyes and snorting. The temptation to push Antonio away is there. It's always there, ingrained from years of hiding himself and his emotions away. But the truth is he loves him, and he wants him near. Even when all his nerve endings are on fire and being touched feels like a death sentence, Antonio's presence is one of the few things that can pull him back from that mental ledge.
He's let his guard down in so many ways because he knows Antonio understands him—for the most part, anyway. He recognizes Lovino's triggers and body language and he respects his need for space, even if he doesn't always give it. Lovino finds that his moods are somewhat more infrequent, if only because he feels less burdened by the strain of constantly being on guard. And when he does retreat to anger, his refuge, Antonio reacts with love and patience.
Not all the time. He's not a saint. But he listens, and he has an open heart, and those things are so incredibly invaluable to Lovino.
So he's scared to lose him. Of course, he is.
He doesn't want to face it, but avoidance won't change it. Anger won't change it.
Antonio starts to get up to return the first aid kit to the bathroom, but Lovino fists a hand into his shirt and pulls him down to the bed with him. Antonio smirks and Lovino can tell he wants to make a funny remark, but he wisely keeps it to himself. Antonio rolls over so he's hovering over his boyfriend, straddling a thigh between his legs and balancing his weight on his forearms.
Antonio leans down and let's their noses touch, he teases the corner of Lovino's mouth with soft kisses, moving to his neck when Lovino keens, soft and wanting.
Lovino's toes curl as Antonio scrapes his teeth against his neck. "Don't leave me," he says, digging his nails into Antonio's biceps. "Don't ever leave me."
Antonio doesn't respond, at least, not with words. He moves his mouth to Lovino's, kissing him so hard their teeth click together. He sucks at Lovino's bottom lip and pushes his tongue into his mouth, desperate to taste him. Antonio reaches a hand down to undo his zipper but Lovino pushes him over by the shoulder.
"Let me suck you off," he huffs, soft and hoarse, so close to his ear that Antonio can feel his hot breath on his neck. Lovino crawls to the floor and pushes Antonio's knees apart, rubbing him through his jeans, and involuntarily grinding his hips into the carpet when Antonio's dick twitches under his touch.
He makes quick work of pulling off Antonio's pants, only pausing to thumb the head of his dick through his underwear. His precum leaves a dark spot that is especially lewd in conjunction with his bright green, reindeer printed boxers. Lovino would laugh at his boyfriend's odd choice of undergarments if his blood wasn't currently on a fast track to his crotch.
Instead, he yanks them down and tosses them across the room. He grabs the base of Antonio's cock and squeezes, earning him a series of moans and unintelligible wanting utterances that make his own dick jump with excitement. His heart is pounding in his chest, his brain dizzy with lust as he sucks on the tip, already flushed and dark and dripping with precum, and tongues the slit. He lets his mouth slide down Antonio's length, hollowing out his cheeks to suck before pulling back with a wet pop.
If it were Lovino in Antonio's position, he'd be leaned back on the bed, arm draped over his face, but Antonio sits up on his elbows, watching with dark eyes and shouting Spanish curses to the ceiling every time Lovino bobs his head down his length or presses his tongue flat against his balls. The attention makes Lovino's body thrum with excitement and soon the pressure in his pants is torturous. He reaches down to undo his zipper but Antonio grabs him by the wrist.
"Together," he huffs when Lovino looks up at him questioningly.
Lovino isn't sure what he means, but he allows himself to be pulled up, rendered uncharacteristically pliant by desperate need. Antonio helps him out of his pants, and when his underwear falls to the floor, grabs his bare ass so hard Lovino know there will be bruises in the morning.
"Straddle me," Antonio tells him, and Lovino complies immediately, precum dribbling down his dick from his boyfriend's sudden assertiveness.
When Lovino is in his lap, Antonio grabs their dicks together, leaning his head against Lovino's shoulder as he strokes, slow and torturous.
"Toni, harder," Lovino whines, hips bucking from the teasing pace.
Antonio reaches his free hand around and gropes Lovino's ass again, long fingers trailing down soft skin till he's fingering his boyfriend's sensitive hole. Lovino grinds his hips into Toni and mewls and Antonio strokes harder, his breaths coming out harsh and raspy.
'Fuck," Antonio gasps as he strokes their dicks together. Lovino is dizzy with pleasure, biting at Antonio's shoulder, desperately sucking at his salty, tan skin. Antonio rarely curses in his day-to-day life, and watching him lose composure during sex makes Lovino crazy.
Antonio hooks two fingers into Lovino's ass and finds his prostate with practiced ease. Lovino's body goes rigid in response, his lower belly convulsing with near climax. He tries to tell Antonio, but it doesn't matter, his boyfriend already knows his tells. He grasps them tighter together and strokes fast and hard. Lovino cums first, fingers tangled in Antonio's hair, moaning and rutting into his hips, and Antonio cums watching him.
They sit there for a minute, shaking and catching their breath, totally spent. Antonio holds Lovino's face in his hands and presses chaste kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, his mouth—all the while whispering dizzy promises of love and protection.
Lovino is still too dazed to properly process the words, but he feels safe. He lets Antonio wipe him down with a warm washcloth, lets him tuck him into bed and wrap his body around him.
They wake to a phone ringing—Antonio's phone, which, it turns out, is in the pocket of his ratty jeans.
"See?" Lovino says when Antonio silences the alarm. "These jeans are bad luck."
Antonio shrugs, a smile teasing at his lips. "I don't know, all told, that was a pretty good night. I think these jeans might be my good luck charm."
Lovino chases him from the room with promises of kilns and fiery retribution, and if he later tucks the jeans into the bottom drawer below his socks and underwear when Antonio is out. Well, no one will ever be the wiser.