Warnings for language and physical violence. AU parallel to the strip where Romano is willing to do anything (even crazy mafia business) to protect a sick Spain, who remains oblivious to the whole situation.
Shut up. Lovino stared at the wall, not blinking until his vision became blurry, at the dull blue paint flaking and peeling from a crack in the concrete. If he focused all his attention on that instead of on the world around him, then he could hold back his temper. And if he could hold back his temper, he wouldn't be suspended.
Shut up. They weren't saying anything. Nope. No words were escaping those bastards' lips. They weren't saying anything, weren't insulting anyone, weren't doing fucking anything. Lovino had to keep himself in check.
He had a physics test in a couple days, and since he was failing that class he should probably get a head start. Of course, he was too lazy to do that, and studying was such a waste of time, even if it meant his grade would go up enough to pass the course. . .
"He's a fucking fag. Bastard flirted with me the other day and I had to tell him, dude, I'm straight. Broke his dreams that day." A chorus of laughter. Chortling, chuckling, guffawing ugly laughs.
Shut up. Lovino let out a breath.
He didn't plan on going home straight after school today. Had he already told his grandfather about his plans? Lovino probably should have called him, otherwise he'd be grounded again. Being grounded sucked. Antonio always said it was Lovino's fault; bastard never listened to Lovino's excuses. Lovino didn't have a cell phone. He could maybe borrow Antonio's, but it always felt weird doing that. Grandpa should've just invested in a fucking phone for Lovino already, it was embarrassing to be one of the only people in high school without a phone. . .
"Probably jerks off to a shrine of the football team, right?" Another laugh, and someone clapping his friend on the back. A couple of whistles. Lovino could strangle them. "Yeah!"
Shut. Up. His fists clenched and his vision was red and, seriously, all he wanted to do was stand up and punch the dick leading his friends to believing this shit. Stop, he told himself before it happened. He just had to walk away. Stop listening. He only had to walk out of the lobby and out of the school (wait for Antonio outside in the chilly air instead of inside with the heater), and then he wouldn't be hearing this shit.
He was always known for his foul temper, his cowardice. In second grade, he'd been the reason recess had been permanently moved indoors. While he had been the one to push Ludwig off the slide and cause him to break his arm, he had also been the one to run off and hide behind a newly-casted Ludwig a week later, when Ludwig's stupidly protective older brother had run into their class during their naptime and attempted to find and destroy the kid who'd hurt his weakling brother.
If he got into a fight again, he'd be dead. He never won in fights. His body was bruised and scarred enough as it was. He didn't need anything else against him.
"I used to be friends with him,"—those were such fucking lies—"but he kept touching—"
"Shut the hell up!" he snapped without thinking, turning around and stomping over to the bastards. His face was red, and his fists were clenched at his sides. How dare they? How dare they fucking say this shit? How dare they fucking say this shit when Lovino was right there listening to every fucking word?
"Aww, did we offend you?" That one sneered, and his friends behind him chuckled. They formed a circle almost completely surrounding Lovino. "Telling the truth ain't enough for you to believe?"
Lovino tried not to let the fury get the best of him. Deep breaths. Deep calming breaths. In. Out. In. Out.
If he got into another fight, he'd be suspended again. Grandpa would kill him, and Antonio would be disappointed. (And Lovino hated disappointing Antonio.) They wouldn't be able to go to the same college together, like they'd planned. What college would accept Lovino with his failing grades and his never-ending line of disciplinary problems?
"You need to hear it, Vargas," one of the background assholes cut into his thoughts. "Gay gay gay, am I right?"
"Fuck that," he growled, mostly to himself. And, without thinking about it, his hand was a fist and that fist was slamming the asshole right in the jaw. His hand stung a little, but the bastard deserved it. Lovino was being stupid, though, because he couldn't take them all on, no matter how much he wanted to, how much they deserved it. "You don't know shit! You're just jealous the girls never pay attention to you!"
He punched the guy again, this time in the chin, and he was about to hit him another time when he remembered that he was surrounded by people who would beat him up for doing this.
Surrounded. Right. That was why he had been holding back. (Like hell he'd refrain from killing a bunch of assholes because of the words of instructional videos: Words solve problems, not actions. Tell them how you feel. Right. 'Cuz that wasn't the shittiest advice ever.) He could barely defend himself against one of them—much as he hated to admit it, he wasn't strong at all and mostly got into trouble for egging people on and getting into one-sided fights that consisted of him getting beat up until his face was an unrecognizable bloody mess—and he was surrounded by four.
"You think you're so tough?" Someone's fist met Lovino's stomach, and he doubled over, gasping. Dammit, that fucking hurt. Adrenaline flowing through his veins, he forced himself to stand up.
He really really wanted to get that bastard in the nose. Break it so he wouldn't be so arrogant. Destroy that supposedly pretty face. He swung his fist. "Shut up about—" His hand was caught by some one guy, and then his arm was twisted behind his back. Goddammit, it hurt like hell every time. One would think that, after all the times he'd been beat up, he'd have gotten used to the pain.
(They were fighting in the front of the school building, near the main office. Lovino wondered why no teachers were coming to stop them before it got too far.)
His other fist swung and nabbed some guy—all of them were the same to Lovino, with their pretty-boy faces and athletic builds; they were football playing assholes, after all—in the stomach. He didn't allow himself time for congratulations, shoving that same guy forward and trying to pull out of the other one's grasp at the same time.
Someone yanked him by his hair, almost pulling out a clump. Were they seriously pulling his hair? Ignoring the fact that it actually fucking hurt, he laughed a little, "What kind of lame bitch move was that?"
Someone's fist cracked against Lovino's nose, and he was on the ground, clutching it and trying to stop the blood from flowing out. At least it wasn't broken this time.
"I see," one sneered, and the others behind him snickered. "You just don't wanna admit you sleep with him. . ." The guy hit Lovino again instead of finishing his statement, but Lovino knew what was being implied with the silence. A foot met his stomach in an unwelcome match, and Lovino gasped, trying to ignore the bright lights and the laughing and cursing around him.
Stand up, he told himself. Lovino wanted nothing more than to stay there and wave a white flag in surrender, so the pain would stop, but he refused to let that happen. It wasn't about him, this time. He couldn't always be so selfish. Not when—
"You fucking fight like shit," he managed to grind out, a smirk on his lips. "Can't defend yourself 'cuz you spend your nights jerking off to—" Lovino wasn't really surprised when the fist smashed against his lips and he could taste blood because his teeth rubbed the inside of his mouth the wrong way. He was used to the taste.
Nope, he really wasn't surprised.
"Someone's coming!"
"Shit! Coach'll kill us if we can't play!"
"Dumbass! Leave the idiot there!"
One of them shrieked—like a fucking girl, Lovino laughed in his head—and they all scattered. Not wanting to get caught in such a compromising position (and not wanting to have to explain himself and get in a fight again for ratting out a good percentage of the better players on the team), he forced himself to stand up.
It was the opportune moment for him to yell at them to not say shit like that again, but, Jesus Christ, his body ached. It felt like he was run over by Antonio's car or something. It hurt to fucking move. The blood in his mouth made it hard to yell, anyway.
He persevered.
Gasping and clutching his stomach, Lovino dragged himself out of the building. The rush of cold air hurt him more, wind whipping his skin. He was so going to be bruised the next day. Maybe he could forge a note to get out of gym. The last thing he wanted was to be in the locker room with those bastards the day after they'd beat him up. They'd laugh at their handiwork, make more taunting jeers.
But then, wasn't it always worse to run?
Dammit, why was he so weak anyway? He couldn't even fight against wrongful insinuations of shit.
He kicked at some of the rock salt on the ground, listening to it disperse and clatter against the street. The sky was grayish-white, and not many other cars were still in the parking lot. It was cold, and he shivered, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Maybe it would have made more sense for him to just wait out here. It would have been cold, but at least then his body wouldn't have hurt like hell and he wouldn't be bleeding all over the place. He hadn't even gotten his point across anyway. He never had been able to, and he would never learn.
Antonio's car pulled up to the curb.
He caught sight of his appearance in one of the windows and winced, scrubbing at his face in a hasty attempt to look more presentable. The last thing he wanted was mother hen Antonio fussing over his 'battle' injuries. When it looked like it wasn't going to work out, he gave up, yanking the car door open.
Antonio stared, bright green eyes wider than Lovino had seen them in a while. His mouth opened to say something.
"Don't fucking say it," Lovino snapped to interrupt him (as always), slamming the door hard enough to make the car shake. "Don't even think it."
Antonio frowned. "What did you do?" He dug for something at the side of his care and produced out a tissue, leaning over the seat so he was all but in Lovino's lap, hands rubbing areas that didn't need to be rubbed. Heat radiated from Antonio's fingers and spread over Lovino's face in the darkest red as he wiped Lovino's nose and cheeks with sweet gentleness.
"Dumbass!" Lovino screeched, snatching the tissue from Antonio's hands and turning away. He wiped his blood as best he could, the taste of metal lingering on his lips. "This is exactly why I get into this shit all the time! If you just stopped. . ." If Antonio wasn't so touchy-feely, if he didn't radiate fucking rainbows all the time. . . Lovino knew it was just one of the odd quirks of his friend, but not everyone else knew.
Not many people understood the complex simplicities of his idiot best friend Antonio Hernández-Carriedo.
Antonio's fingers were in Lovino's hair again, rubbing gentle circles to the back of his head, massaging the exact place his head had smacked the floor when he'd fallen over. It was comforting, and Lovino found himself relaxing just a little.
He just wanted to lie down with Antonio and stare up at the sky and talk, like how everything used to be. It used to be easy, Lovino remembered. Back before standardized tests and college choices and high school drama shit took over.
"You should stop getting into fights all the time," Antonio said. He didn't know why Lovino found the need to get into half of his brawls, and Lovino had no intention of telling him. "I don't like my cute little Lovino getting hurt all the time." And, God, if that wasn't one of the gayest things to ever come out of Antonio's mouth. Lovino wiped his nose again, ignoring the aching of his arms.
". . . You sure you're not gay?"
Antonio laughed and squeezed Lovino's shoulder, shaking his head. "Should I be insulted? Our late night 'movie' sessions should be enough—" Lovino glared at him, an odd squeak of wepromisednevertotalkaboutth atbastard escaping his lips. Antonio gave him a soft smile, dropping the subject as per their usual banter. Then his face was serious. "Are you okay?"
"M'fine," Lovino mumbled, crossing his arms. After a moment, he added, "Your house?"
"Yeah. Hafta fix you up now that you've gotten blood all over my car. Again." (Lovino gasped in mock annoyance. So maybe he got blood everywhere before, to the point that DNA testing could probably send Antonio to jail for Lovino-murder or something, but still. . .) Antonio shifted gears and stepped on the gas and brought the car forward, glancing in a supposedly surreptitious manner at Lovino every few minutes. "You sure you're okay?"
"I'm fucking fine!" Lovino ground out. He kind of wanted to forget about it all now. His stomach churned uncomfortably under Antonio's unwavering gaze, and he chalked it up to the repeated kicks and punches. "Stop staring at me. It's weird, dammit." Both he and Antonio knew that he somewhat liked being fussed over, though. He turned to stare out the window, his reflection merging with the scenery as the car whizzed past snow-covered trees and dirty cars.
"Sorry!" Antonio laughed, reaching over to wrap his arm around Lovino's shoulders.
"Dumb bastard, focus on the road." He shrugged Antonio's arm off him, rolling his eyes. "If you kill us, I'll fucking kill you in Hell."
He wasn't completely fine, despite his claims—his face still hurt like hell and he would kill to lie down with an ice pack and warm blanket, snuggling (in a very manly way) with Antonio and watching a movie or something—but he'd go through it again in a heartbeat.
Lovino caught Antonio's eyes this time, and Antonio grinned, his eyes lighting up in the usual way that made Lovino's heart twist and tumble. Lovino didn't want Antonio to lose his oblivious nature, to have to lose his innocence, his personality, himself, in order to fight back against bastards who weren't even worth their time.
He would never let that happen.
If it meant Lovino would get into a couple fights every now and again because he didn't know when to stay out of these situations (he hated to admit that a lot of his injuries were his own fault), then so be it.
He sent a lopsided smirk at Antonio. People would stop saying shit about Antonio behind his back eventually.