"Your chica?"
Antonio looked up at the man who had spoken to see curious brown eyes trying to glimpse the picture in his hand. The man had an interesting scar running across his left cheek bone. It was pink and still looked fairly new.
"Close." He refolded the photo. He'd folded and unfolded it so many times there were pale wear lines running across the edges of the folds.
The man across from him raised an eyebrow but didn't push it. It grew silent in the shuttle once more. Antonio allowed his eyes to travel across the pink jagged lines of the man's scar.
"Frag."
"Que?" Antonio blinked in confusion, the word taking a moment to register in his mind. "Oh." What was there to say? He had a few scars of his own to not be proud of. He let out a dry chuckle. "Chicas like scars."
The man across from him smiled and shook his head, ruffling the black tufts. He had flecks of grey dusting his hair and a white five o'clock shadow decorating his strong jaw. He ran his hand over the stubble, still shaking his head.
"Don't have one. We were going strong for a while but," He shrugged dismissively. "It just wasn't for us. Distance kills relationships."
"Not mine."
The man gave Antonio a skeptical look but Antonio just smiled. His companion turned his head to look out the window, joining the other men in the lull of the road. Undoubtedly, he was being pulled into that imaginary world all soldiers went to. Antonio himself had visited it before. His usually consisted of opposing sides finding a common ground, or armies refusing to fight one another, regardless of generals screaming in their ears. Once, he'd even had one about Lo- The entirety of the bus jumped off the road, jostling everyone from their thoughts.
Antonio stood, slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder. He shook hands with his temporary companion, wishing him luck. The man, Gabriel, shook his head and told him to keep it. He'd need it more.
Antonio pushed the front door open, poking his head in. He didn't want Lovino to see him just yet. He wanted to surprise his lover. Four years was a long time to be away, but Lovino had waited for him. He'd been consistent in his letters for two years, but of course, moving up the corporate ladder had monopolized a lot of his time. Antonio understood that and was glad that Lovino had found something to distract himself with.
Antonio stopped by the picture in the hall and took the identical one from his pocket, propping it against the larger frame. A scowling Italian faced him, his face wrinkled by Antonio's pockets, but no less beautiful.
The clock ticked steadily. It was just past five. If he knew Lovino as well as he thought he did, then the Italian would just be waking up from his afternoon siesta. Antonio climbed the stairs, careful to skip the third from the top. It squeaked.
Antonio opened the door to their bedroom, only to be met by Lovino, arms stretched above his head as he yawned. Antonio felt his heart leap into his throat.
Another set of arms wrapped around Lovino's waist, pulling him back into a chest. Lovino fought down a smile and happily met the kiss to his jaw, leaning back into the man's embrace. Lovino opened his eyes and, instead of seeing the joyful grin that had graced the Spaniard's face seconds before, he was met with a very confused, almost shocked, Antonio.
The thump of Antonio's duffle bag as it hit the floor knocked Lovino from his stupor. "Antonio?" Lovino scrambled away from the naked man. He grabbed a robe off of the headboard, securing it around himself as he chased after the now striding Spaniard.
Lovino grabbed Antonio's wrist, trying to halt him. "Antonio- Antonio wait. Por favore stop!" The Spaniard rounded on him, a thousand different words running through his mind. All of them could have described Lovino, but none of them were flattering.
"At least let me talk to you!"
"Why?!" Lovino stopped his tugging, his grip slacking on Antonio's wrist. The venom in his lover's voice shocked him. 'Why' could have meant anything. Why did Lovino want him to stop or why did Lovino sleep with another man? He didn't have the nerve to ask.
"You owe it to me!" It was quiet, silent apart from the thumping upstairs. They stared at each other, each trying to gauge the other.
"I don't owe you anything, you puta." He spat the word, shaking Lovino off of him. He ignored the tears gathering in Lovino's eyes in favor of holding onto his fleeting anger.
"You were gone a long time."
"And you couldn't wait?!" Lovino jumped slightly, his eyes cast downward in what Antonio hoped was shame. Was he really so replaceable? Would Lovino have even missed him if he had died? Probably not. He wouldn't have ever known. If a flag had come home in Antonio's place, he wouldn't have cared for the difference. It would have withered on the doorstep while Lovino was upstairs fucking some stranger in their bed.
"I was lonely." Lovino's voice was soft, almost inaudible. Antonio stared at him disbelievingly, turning his back with a frustrated huff. He ran his hand through his hair, rubbing his face. He wanted to be angry. Hell, he was angry. He felt betrayed and lied to, but he couldn't be angry with Lovino. The Italian made it impossible.
"What do you want me to do?"
Lovino crossed his arms, pulling the robe closer to himself. He felt cold, strangely so. It wasn't his fault. If Antonio hadn't left, then they wouldn't be having this conversation. He didn't have to join the army… Lovino made his decision. Antonio had had his chance, and he'd lost it.
"I think… You should leave."
Antonio blinked at Lovino, nodding slowly. "Okay." He left without another word. No other words were needed. Lovino made it perfectly clear that whatever they had was over. Maybe it had never existed to begin with.
The door closed behind Antonio with a soft click. Lovino turned his back on the door, walking slowly back down the hall. He stopped to turn their photo face down and breathed a heavy sigh.
"Are you coming back to bed Lovi?"
Lovino looked toward the voice on the stairs, too shaken to manage a frown. The blonde raised a nearly invisible brow at him. The nickname cut through something inside him.
"Don't call me that."
For once, he meant it.