Dawn of Darkness
Hallucinate
O-o-O-o-O
"I don't spend a lot of time thinking about scary demons, but I think that there are things in this world that are unexplainable that are mystical or paranormal. The possibility is there, definitely."
-Katie Featherston
O-o-O-o-O
Friday, Year 20XX, St. Paul's School, London, England.
It was a tepid and muggy day. The air, suffocating, as if someone had thrown a warm, wet blanket over it. A moist breeze flitted through the courtyard, rustling the pages of an open textbook laying next to its owner, under a large, gnarled oak tree. Overhead, a robin trilled, it's song, sharp and pure.
Lovino Vargas stirred, cracking open a bleary eye; the vivid emerald hue, a shock of color in a landscape leeched of it by the steely, grey sky. He snorted, craning his next to the side where his black duffel bag and textbook were lying. He hated it here. So unlike his home in Italy. The food was tasteless. The air, foul and laced with the bitter taint of smog. Even the earth's scent, normally pleasing to him, reeked. It smelled musty, as if it was molding from all the rain, instead of light and dry, mixed with the aroma of wheat, crisp vegetables, and the dry fruity fragrance of wine.
He resented his grandfather for sending him here, while allowing his younger brother- Feliciano- to stay home. He looked upwards, wondering if there even was a sun in England. It seemed as if every day just brought more rain. What was Romulus thinking? Couldn't he see that Lovino was practically dying here?
Lovino sat up and shook his head, rubbing his forehead. Why couldn't nonno allow him to stay in Italy, at least? Being sent away from home was sore enough, but to send him to the other side of Europe? Did he truly hate him that much? If it had to be out of the country, why not to a warm and sunny place, like Spain? Or at least a country that knew how to prepare food, like France. The coffee here was a joke. The espresso, too bitter. The mocacchino, an insult; drowned in sugar and half-and-half, until it was little more than chocolate milk smothered in overly-heavy whipped cream.
Why motherfucking England of all places? Lovino didn't give a rat's ass about the school. He hated it too. All boys, no girls. What the fuck? So much for any plans of finally being able to say he did it with a cute girl. The only good thing about being in England was that he was, for the most part, left alone. People took great pains to avoid him, sensing his hostility.
Furrowing his brow, Lovino stood up, grabbing his textbook and slinging his bag over his shoulder; looking like a ghost with his dark brown hair, black uniform, and now-pale skin (Thanks lack of sun). His verdant eyes, a poisonous green with his virulent expression, were narrowed. His mouth, pressed into a bitter scowl. The only good thing he could say about today was that it was the end of a school day, on Friday. No annoying teachers lecturing him about his attitude. No annoying, peppy, cricket-playing asses giving him dirty looks, with their paper-white noses pointed up in the air. He could go home to his apartment and stew in silence, while putting his history project off until Sunday night. After all, the Royal Wedding was three months ago, there should finally be something worthwhile to watch on TV now.
Friday, Year 20XX, Back Alley, London, England.
Even at five in the afternoon, when it was still technically daylight, the alleys were a disconcerting place. But, they were the least obnoxious. The high, grimy brick walls muffled the pandemonium of the traffic, and there were no bright flashing lights to aggravate Lovino's headaches.
He continued walking, his steps harried; his knuckles, bone white as he clutched at his bag's strap, as if it were a life raft. The shadows casted by overflowing dumpsters, wavered, changing in size as if they were living creatures. The unease was a psychotic doctor's surgical scalpel, gingerly dragging its blade a hairbreadth away from his skin, making his hair stand on end.
A dark shadow scampered out in front of Lovino. "Bastardo!" he yelped, jerking backwards. The shadow paused and turned its head to stare at him, a soft meow coming from it. Lovino's eyes widened as he stared at the black cat. It looked like an ordinary cat, harmless enough, but there was something unnatural about its glowing golden eyes. Instinctively, he made the sign of a cross to ward off evil. The cat hissed, its back arching, before scuttling off, disappearing into the shadows of the alley. Lovino watched it go with a growing apprehension.
"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, "what the fuck was all that about?"
He wasn't superstitious. Barely even religious. Did he believe in God? Yes. He was Catholic, actually. But did he believe in all that mumbo-jumbo about black magic and demonic possession?
Hell no.
Still, he streaked through the alley, eager to get out.
Friday, Year 20XX, Unknown Street, London, England.
Walking alongside the river bank, Lovino was convinced that he saw someone swimming in it. Though as to why the hell they'd want to swim in a river the color of old gym shorts was beyond him. Not to mention the river was all but clogged with dirty plastic bottles, truck tires, and a whole slew of other unidentifiable paraphernalia, he didn't want to even try to name.
A dark figure rose closer to the surface, the water rippling around it. Lovino paused, completely going against common sense Transfixed, he watched a wizened old woman dressed in nun's habit clamber out of the water. He shuddered and took a step back, his gut clenching.
What in Virgin Mary's name is a nun doing, swimming in this sludge pile? His teeth sliced the inside of his cheek, the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth. Perhaps it's another nutcase, searching the river for a water demon. He heaved a deep breath. That had to be it. After all, Lovino had received an email from a site he had subscribed to for no particular reason, remarking on the insurgence of reports from nutcases, claiming they had seen a supernatural phenomenon of sorts.
Still, why was this crazy dressed like a nun?
The woman turned to face him, her face an impassive mask. Lovino gulped and took another step back. She growled, baring abnormally sharp teeth, and began to inch towards Lovino.
That was when he lost his shit.
He screamed and flung his duffel bag at her, hollering obscenities at the top of his lungs. It sailed through her, as if she was made of air. Lovino blinked.
She was gone.
"Wh-what… ch-chigi…" He bent over, clutching his knees, tremors wracking his body. Cold sweat dribbled down the back of his neck, plastering his hair to his skin. Nothing was disturbed or different, it was like he was experiencing a bad acid trip. A trip he wanted to stop. Indeed, the only indication anything had taken place at all was his duffel bag, which was slowly sinking below the surface, becoming part of the ever-growing trash pile polluting the river. That was one way to get rid of weekend homework. Another F for him. Not that it mattered.
He straightened himself, stealing a glance over his shoulder. All was calm. He shook his head, placing his hands on his forehead. At least his apartment wasn't too far, now. He just needed to go through-
"Another alley…" Lovino swore vehemently under his breath. "Merda…"
He should've just taken a bus.
Friday, Year 20XX, Another Alley, London, England.
Lovino's blood froze. His eyes widened in terror. His knees turned to jelly.
A hulking, brutish man, standing over seven feet held a well-dressed, middle-aged man in one fist. Snarling and spitting, the brute shook his victim like a rag doll. The poor man screamed, sputtering for air. His face flushing a blotchy red. Lovino bit his tongue to prevent himself from screaming and stepped to the side, hoping to edge his way out of the alley.
A glass bottle crunched beneath his foot, the sound piercing the brute's guttural growls. It directed it's attention to Lovino, beady eyes narrowed. Lovino squeaked, pressing himself against a wall. The brute was grotesque; it's eyes, small, the nose, half-missing. The mouth was bared like a rabid dog's maw, spittle dripping from oversized canines. Hair sprouted from oversized ears like cauliflower. He resembled the trolls from the fairy tales Lovino read during his childhood. But trolls were fake and this brute was horribly real.
"R-run…" the brute's victim choked, grasping the brute's hands, vainly attempting to pry himself free. Lovino took a step to the side, only to stumble and fall to the ground. The brute sneered and grasped the man's arm, before breaking it clean off.
Lovino and the man screeched as blood sprayed everywhere, the mangled limb falling to the ground. "HOLY FUCK!" screamed Lovino, scrambling backwards. "Fuck-" he gasped, clutching a hand over his heart "- my life!"
The poor man was shaken again, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as the pressure on his ribcage increased. Lovino whimpered, struggling to push himself off the ground. He was going to die. A virgin. He was going to die a virgin.
Fuck.
Friday, Year 20XX, A Football Field, Somewhere Near London, England.
The football was a black and white blur. Weaving through a maze of bodies, Antonio deftly maneuvered the ball with his feet. He passed, the ball whizzing across the grass and through a tangle of legs. The hollering of the coach was a dull roar of noise in his ears, struggling with the pounding of his heart.
The ball came back.
With a small smirk, he darted to the side and kicked the ball. It soared towards the goal, brushing the goalie's fingertips, and tumbled into the net. His teammates whistled appreciatively and offered a round of applause, looking impressed.
"Eh heh…" Antonio laughed, rubbing the back of his head. "Gracias," he muttered embarrassedly as the others patted him on the back.
"¡Muy bien, Antonio!" lauded the coach, strolling over to Antonio and giving him an approving look. Antonio blushed even deeper, looking abashed. "With that level of skill, Manchester United will have no chance!" the coach continued.
"They had no chance to begin with, Señor," Antonio quipped, the corners of his lips quirking upwards. He brushed his messy, sweat-slicked, hair out of his eyes. Everyone laughed, appreciating the joke. It was a good way to relieve the anxiety. Manchester United vs. Real Madrid, one of the biggest, if not the biggest, matchup of the season. Not to mention the match was taking place in Manchester's territory.
"Aye, that's the spirit, 'Toni!" cried Philip, a wiry boy with bedraggled auburn hair. "Crush them in their own territory!" Antonio chuckled softly, nodding.
"Sí, we only have the best players in the league," Ramón, a handsome man with black hair and hazel eyes, added. He caught Antonio's eye and winked. Hastily, Antonio looked away his cheeks burning. His gut clenched, sweat, having nothing to do with the earlier physical activity, trickled down his neck. He couldn't… Just couldn't let the others know how he was gay, or even have them suspect it.
At least not if he didn't want to get disowned by his fiercely Catholic parents and raise a huge scandal.
It didn't help that he was on a soccer team consisting of sexy men in their twenties, and they all admired him. After all, he was the youngest member on their team at age twenty-two and already a national sports hero. Not to mention, he had several huge contracts with major companies, and was a model for a popular men's fashion line. Why shouldn't they admire him? Unfortunately, the admiration left him feeling very confused most of the time. Every look from Ramón made him blush, and every time someone hugged him, a little jolt of feeling shot through him; a feeling he didn't get from women.
The rest of the team dispersed around them, engaging in an animated conversation with each other; the coach, swearing fervidly as he discovered Philip had placed a banana in his bag, and it had been squashed, smearing all over his belongings.
"Something wrong,?" Ramón asked, looking concerned. Antonio jerked backward, as if an electric shock had passed through him. "...'Toni?" Ramón pressed.
"No, I'm fine," Antonio sighed, looking back at Ramón. "Just nerves is all." Ramón raised an eyebrow, giving him a dubious look. Antonio placed a hand on his hip, giving his teammate a disparaging look. "You try being me," he said, "and see if you don't get nervous."
Ramón snorted, crossing his arms. "Sure, must be difficult to deal with all your fans, the girls drooling over you, the praise, and the invitations to all those hip parties," he drawled sardonically. Antonio rolled his eyes, pretending to be exasperated, but a smile broke out on his face despite himself.
"You mad?"
Ramón chortled lowly and wrapped an arm around Antonio's shoulder. "You could send a couple chicks my way," he retorted. Antonio struggled not to blush, fighting the butterflies in his stomach, and shrugged of the arm laying on his shoulder.
"Take them all," he replied drily. Ramón's eyes widened.
"Seriously?"
Antonio smirked at his disbelieving tone. "Sí, fangirls are a pain in the ass anyways to deal with." He shrugged his shoulders lazily, tilting his head to the side.
Ramón beamed and did a fist-pump. "Awesome! Finally, some is coming my way!" Antonio winced as his heart broke for the millionth time since joining Real Madrid. He knew Ramón was as straight as a fence post and oblivious to the fact there was a gay person on the team, but would it kill him to be just a little more considerate? The bitterness must've shown on his face because Ramón gave him a strange look.
"Did I say something? You look as if something dead and smelly was shoved under your nose."
Antonio sighed and shook his head, raking his wavy, dark hair with his fingers. "No, I was just wondering if you have life insurance." Ramón inclined his head, not quite understanding. Antonio snorted, giving Ramón a crooked grin. "Like I said, fangirls are crazy… And you're quite a player. Indeed, this is probably the longest period you've gone without laying some hot girl. A whole three weeks?" Instantly, he regretted his acidic words.
Ramón assumed an expression on injured dignity. "Not all of us can be a chaste virgin like you, Antonio. How long has it been since Laura died? Six years?"
Antonio's eyes narrowed at the mention of Laura, his muscles tensed. "Two actually. Don't exaggerate, you know how I feel about that," he snapped. Ramón recoiled, looking apologetic.
"Lo siento," he said regretfully. "I didn't mean to offend you." His eyes widened in a concerned look. Antonio sighed and shook his head.
"No, my bad. I-"
Ramón whipped his head back and forth, cutting off Antonio's sentence. "No, my fault for being an ass." He frowned, ticked at himself. "Still…" he trailed. Antonio looked guardedly at him.
"Still…?"
Ramón scratched the top of his head, appearing hesitant. "Antonio… you have to know… it wasn't your fault she died… What she did… no one could've predicted it." He looked at him with an almost pleading look. Antonio snorted, blowing his bangs out of his eyes.
"That's what I keep trying to tell myself," he admitted, looking down at his mud-splattered cleats. Ramón grimaced. Antonio stole a backwards glance, and sucked in his breath.
"Trust me, no one could've stopped her. It's not like she acted suicidally depressed." Ramón heaved a deep breath. Antonio pursed his lips into a thin line, taking so long to reply Ramón thought he wouldn't reply at all.
"I know… that's what makes it so disconcerting." He shook his head, profusely massaging his forehead. "Anyways, I'm going to head off. Maybe walk around London for a bit, catch my breath-"
"You'll be more likely to suffocate," interjected Ramón wryly. Antonio snorted, giving him a rueful look. "What?" Ramón enquired, all wide-eyed innocence. Roughly, Antonio shoved him in the shoulder. "¡Eh! What was that for?" Ramón yelped, rubbing his shoulder. Antonio rolled his eyes, his lips twitching upwards as he struggled to not smile.
"Alright, smart one," he chuckled, "I'm going to the city now, see you later. Hasta la vista." He gave Ramón a cheery goodbye wave and collected his stuff, changing out of his uniform, before leaving. "¡Hasta mañana!" he cried out to the rest of the team as he departed.
"¡Hasta la vista!" they chimed back.
Friday, Year 20XX, Unknown Street, London, England.
Even if London was chaotic and the air thick with smog, a walk was a walk. Calm and relaxing to Antonio. Fast-tempoed salsa music pounded from his earbuds, spicing each step with a slight bounce. It was good to be alone, once in a while. Gave him time to clear his head.
He turned a corner, parallel to a heavily polluted river. Antonio crinkled his nose at the smell, sewage, mixed with dead fish, and fertilizer. Even though he admired the ingenuity of the double decker bus, the baroque architecture, and appreciated the fact that the Brits were responsible for the masala in Chicken Tikka Masala, he could see where all the jokes about London came from. Worse than New York. If that was even possible.
His fast walk slowed down to a meandering stroll. A chill zapped his spine, causing him to pause and warily slide his gaze around him. Something felt off. He pulled his earbuds out of his ears, the music still audible.
A shrill scream shattered the uneasy silence. Antonio's eyes snapped open wide.
"HOLY FUCK!" someone hollered, the voice thick with an Italian accent.
Antonio started and slowly began to inch towards the commotion. Most people in his case would run for their life, but he wasn't the type to ignore trouble. If someone was about to get hurt, it was a natural reaction for him to try and help them out. He broke out into a run, his iPod flying out of his pocket and clattering against the ground. He ignored it, bursting into an alley like a charging bull.
"¡Déjalos en paz!"
You know when I said I was doing a re-write of Blind Justice? I'm sorry… I got sidetracked after reading this book called "The World's End", the first book in "The Age of Misrule" trilogy. And while the writing is dry… Gotta love the plot and that lovely stuff. So yeah… I had this brilliant idea… and…
I apologize if the writing is dry and if Antonio seems slightly OOC… I was trying for a slightly darker (I guess) Antonio, but still making him the cheerful idiot we all love… Lot harder than it sounds… =w=;
I also apologize if I offended anybody with my portrayal of London… I guess… you could put it in the future? IDK… And two things… One… Yes… The British really did put the masala in Chicken Tikka Masala (Because they thought plain Chicken Tikka was too bland) and Soccer is actually called Football everywhere else in the world. Another thing to add (Well, another two) St. Pauls is a real all-boys school in London, which takes in boys from ages 13 to 19, and Real Madrid is an actual soccer team, which has the habit of buying out a lot of the best players in the league. But yeah… I do apologize for butchering a lot of things… and yeah… But… if you liked this story… Could you please R&R? Ask a question, leave a suggestion, critique me, ya' know… It's really appreciated! :3 Yes… Feliciano, Ludwig, and a lot of other characters will be showing up in this story as well.
Laura is Belgium, btw…
Translation Notes:
Merda (Italian)- Shit
Bastardo (Italian)- Bastard
Gracias (Spanish)- Thank you
¡Muy bien, Antonio! (Spanish)- Very good, Antonio!
Señor (Spanish)- Sir
Sí (Spanish)- Yes
Lo Siento (Spanish)- I'm sorry
¡Eh! (Spanish)- Hey!
Hasta la vista and ¡Hasta mañana! (Spanish)- Different ways to say goodbye
¡Déjalos en paz! (Spanish)- Leave them alone!