A/N: Hello!

This fic is about self-harm. Not cutting, though. Scratching. Although I will not deny that there are mentions of cutting, including possible graphic descriptions. And mentions of not eating, too, though not necessarily as an eating disorder.

If anything about this triggers you, please don't read it. I don't care as much about the review count. I would much rather all you awesome people remain healthy and safe. I hope that's clear, okay? So, yeah – trigger warnings for dark stuff.

The title of this story comes from the quote by Immanuel Kant, which goes, "Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made."

All chapters will have a quote from a book or a poem. The chapter titles are names of books. I wanted to do a self-harming Antonio because there isn't nearly enough of that in this fandom. It's a little tricky. I mean, I've written sad!Antonio before, but to push his character to the extremes of self-harm is not easy. I hope I haven't completely screwed it up in this fic. *Fingers crossed*. xD

I hope you like this fic.

Thanks for checking it out!

Midnight's Children – Salman Rushdie

"Beginnings are sudden, but also insidious. They creep up on you sideways, they keep to the shadows, they lurk unrecognized. Then, later, they spring." –Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin.

Lovino

My favourite thing about art was that it existed outside of time. It still came from somewhere, at some point in time, and depicted an emotion, but art was an entity of its own. Not just painting – although paint was my poison – but music, dance, cooking, acting, literature, cinema. The whole deal. I couldn't sing or play an instrument. I couldn't dance for shit. Feli could cook better than I could, although I considered myself a pro in the kitchen. I couldn't write either, and there was no way in hell I could make a movie. But I enjoyed it all.

Of course I loved painting the most. There was just something about colours on canvas that moved me. I couldn't draw very well, but just give me a paintbrush and some oil paints, and I was the shit. And that was why I was here. Because this college was the place to be for art. I should have just gone somewhere in Italy. God knows Italy was the place for this kind of thing. But I couldn't. I just couldn't spend another day with my family, forget another year. France was also an option – but who the fuck wanted to go to France?

Not that England was much better. The weather was shit, the food was shit, and the people talked in the weirdest accent. At least the scenery was all right. Monotonously green, sure, but I'd seen worse. This college I was going to was all out of the way. A small student town, but otherwise, no civilisation for kilometres on end. That was probably to keep the whole 'art-y' feel of the place.

The taxi hurtled down a long path, grass on both sides of it, and Hogwarts at the end. Well, not Hogwarts, really. But that castle made from black stone and the massive campus sure as shit doesn't look like a McDonalds.

But I got it. The art-y feel. It was there. This was the sort of place where creativity ran rampant. I could breathe it in the air. The smell of paint, ink, lilting music, the rhythm of dance, the whir of an old movie camera. I felt like I was back in time.

Obviously, though, I wasn't. People wrote with computers. Movies were recorded on shitty modern cameras. At least the rest stayed the same. The tools got upgraded, but their character remained the same. That was what mattered.

I paid the cab guy. Took my suitcases. Entered the place.

It was fucking enormous.

No, really.

It was huge.

There were people milling about everywhere. Shitty stalls for college clubs. Some asshole on a megaphone shouting some shit I could barely make out. Some cheerleaders in the distance. Though why the fuck an art college needed cheerleaders, I'd never know. Did they even have sports here? Well, maybe. Who cared?

I didn't realise I was standing there gaping at this pseudo-Hogwarts until someone came up to me and cleared his throat. He looked really awkward, a nervous smile etched to his face. But the only thing I could notice – his eyebrows. What fucking caterpillars.

"Erm…" he began with a soft chuckle, "Are you by any chance new here?"

"What the fuck do you think?"

"That's not very nice, is it?"

"Is it?"

"…It isn't."

I blinked at him. What in the yellow flying fucks was this guy about? He said, "Anyway, I'm Arthur Kirkland. I'm new here too."

"What the fuck ever," I muttered, rolling my eyes.

Arthur Kirkland had the most pronounced English accent I'd literally ever heard. I mean, yeah, sure, I was in fucking England, but still. We lived in a multi-cultural planet. Chinese electronics. Italian wine. French perfume. Spanish music. I mean, shit. It wasn't impossible to have, I don't know, a bit of a slur, maybe? Or rolling Rs? Or some sort of clipped, Scandinavian tone? This guy sounded like what a plate of scones would taste like: fucking weird.

Then another person showed up. He introduced himself as Toris Laurin-something, told us he was going to be our guide for the first day, signed us in, and showed us to our rooms. Well, flats, really. Two people to an apartment. Arthur picked up his four suitcases and his messenger bag, muttered softly to himself, and followed Toris, who was talking vividly about college activities. Apparently, they did have sports. But they weren't in any major leagues.

Psuedo-Hogwarts was even more castle-y from the inside. It was cold. Cold. Sure, there were radiators and shit, but the atmosphere of this place was quiet, weirdly undisturbed, although there were hundreds of bratty students walking up and down the corridors all the fucking time. The ceilings were very high, the walls plastered and painted pale pink. Toris pointed stuff out for us. This was where the dining area was. That was the route to the auditorium.

Arthur and I were only a corridor away from each other. My apartment was at the end of the hallway on the third storey. Thank god this place had installed elevators. The building was really old. Really old. The idea of walking up and down nine-million steps every day? Torture.

There was a notice at the door.

Room 39

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo

Lovino Romano Vargas

I turned the knob. It was unlocked. It opened easily, and I exhaled softly to myself as I saw the place. Right. This was it, then. College. Art college. In pseudo-Hogwarts, England. Holy shit. I wasn't in Italia anymore. Wasn't under Feli's shadow. Wasn't under the shelter of a home and a family and an endless stream of sunlight and tomatoes. I was on my own. And I was doing this shit.

Brilliant.

The apartment wasn't very large. But there was a TV, a couch, lots of windows, a kitchenette, one bathroom, and two bedrooms. Perfect. What more did I need? One bedroom door was shut, the other one, I noticed, was open and unused. So that must have been mine.

I lugged my suitcases there. I didn't have much. Clothes, toiletries, passport, visa, my tomato-shaped alarm clock. My iPad and laptop. And, of course, my art supplies. Sketchbooks and paints and brushes and different kinds of pencils – although I didn't draw half as much as I painted. It didn't take very long to put things in order. Clothes in the cupboard. Phone charging. I whipped out my iPad, opened my Kindle app, flipped through some of the books.

I'd insisted on an iPad before leaving. I usually just read normal paper books, but there was no way in fucking hell I was going to carry my collection with me. What if any of it got lost? Much easier to just download and read e-books, although I loved feeling paper and flipping a page when I was done with it. Plus, iPads were versatile. Always useful, especially if something happened to my computer.

When I came out into the living room again, there was nobody around. I checked the fridge. It wasn't very well-stocked, but there were some apples in a bowl on the counter, so I took one, washed it, and ate. Still not as good as home-grown tomatoes. But then, nothing could ever top that.

What would Feli be doing right now? Crying for me? Or maybe he was drawing. Or cooking. He loved cooking. We were only two years apart, Feli and I, but he was always the more talented one. He was careful with his money, too. Grandpa always complained about me being a spendthrift. But whatever. This was exactly why I'd left. I wasn't going to put myself through that anymore. I'd come here to get away from being the shadow. I'd come here to paint. So, fuck 'em.

I sighed, going over the collection of books saved on the iPad. I was in England, so maybe I'd read something written by an Englishman. Just to keep the theme. Ooh, Agatha Christie. Damn, that bella knew how to write. I picked out a random Poirot mystery. Evil Under the Sun. I'd read it twice before, but it was still fun. Besides, I felt like a bit of crime fiction. It was either this or Sherlock Holmes, and I'd read every single Holmes story at least ten times.

I don't know how long I must have sat at that table, reading and eating apples. It was calming, at any rate. Because if I'd stopped, if I'd really stopped and thought about where I was, where my life might be going, I would have freaked the fuck out. I'd lived an extremely sheltered existence. This was completely, totally, absolutely new.

It was late afternoon when I finally stopped, switching off the tab and rubbing my eyes. I was starving despite the apples. And where the fuck was my flatmate? Did he have any plans of showing up at all? Of course, I could always go check in that bedroom. It had been shut since I got here. But I hadn't seen any mess in the apartment except for mine.

I went to the bathroom to take a piss. There were things there. A toothbrush, a razor, a bottle of migraine pills. Okay. So somebody was in that fucking room.

When I got out, I marched over there and slammed my fist against the shut door. What if he was sleeping? Well, then I'd wake him up. This was fucking ridiculous. I'd been here for over four hours. I had to see if I'd even get along with this asshole. If not, I'd have to go ask for a different apartment, soon.

The door swung open, and I almost gasped. Holy flying shit. He had the worst bed-head I'd ever seen, but his eyes were such a fascinating colour of – emerald? Leaf? Chartreuse? No, something richer than that. Something darker, something that reminded me of woodlands. I didn't even notice he was saying something until he said, "—Fernandez Carriedo! When did you even get here?" he laughed, running a hand through his hair. He was wearing a black full-sleeved shirt and a pair of faded jeans. "So, you must be Lovino Vargas, right? That's a nice name! I was wondering what it meant, since I've never heard anything like it before. Are you from Spain?"

"—Fuck," I stuttered, caught unawares. "S-Spain?"

"Si!" he chirped, walking past me and into the living room. "I'm from Spain. And your name is so Mediterranean, so I thought—"

"Fucking dammit, no!" I snapped, and I heard him stopped abruptly. He'd been peering into the fridge, and winced when I raised my voice. When he looked up at me, his eyes were wide in surprise, and his smile faltered just a little.

"O-oh," he said simply, his voice much softer than it had been only seconds ago. "Sorry. Where are you from, then?"

"Italy," I answered, feeling curt.

"Oh, Italy!" and that stupid grin was on his face again. "I've never been there, but I've always wanted to go! Especially Florence."

That grated on my nerves. It shouldn't have, and I stopped myself before I said something stupid. So what if he wanted to see Florence and not Rome? How the hell was he supposed to know that Feli's favourite city was Florence? And anyway, why should it matter? This was stupid. So fucking stupid. I couldn't really be feeling jealous over a fucking city. Florence really was incredible. I loved it too, oh so much. The art! But Rome was where I grew up. And the history there, dammit. The history. In fact, choosing between Florence and Rome was just stupid. Florence was an artist's city. Rome was for the history nerds. Yeah. Exactly. It was like comparing apples and oranges.

I exhaled, pacified.

"Florence is pretty cool," I muttered, the words tasting sour on my tongue despite myself.

"Yup! Ooh, but Rome! I'd totally love to see the Forum. And the Coliseum! And of course, the Vatican City." I watched a hand fly under his collar, from where he pulled out a golden cross necklace and dropped it over his shirt. When he looked at me next, his eyes were wide with excitement. "So where do you come from?"

"Florence," I replied simply.

"Lucky. You."

"Yeah."

"I'm from Madrid, haha. It's pretty great over there." Antonio had given up on the fridge and was now pulling out drawers. "I was so sure I'd bought some food with me."

"We could just go to the fucking dining area," I muttered. Toris had said something about it being open for tea or whatever the shit. I mean, tea sounded fucking revolting. I was a coffee-person myself. But it was better than looking for nonexistent food in this stupid apartment.

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo's eyes widened. "I don't think that's a good idea. My friend – Francis – he says that English food is the worst thing since the Fall of France! I admit he's a little dramatic, but he usually knows what he's talking about when it comes to food. Oh – found it!" he cried, opening an overhead cupboard and taking out some microwave pasta.

Microwave pasta!

"That shit is morally wrong," I gasped in genuine horror.

He laughed. "You sound just like Francis!"

"Fucking hell, I'm serious! If only for the sake of elegance, I try to remain morally pure."

The expression on Antonio's face changed very quickly. One second it was amusement, the next, it was complete surprise. The microwave pasta box fell from his hand, dropping to the ground like a paperweight. "Did you…did you just quote Proust?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Just now! If only for the sake of elegance, I try to remain morally pure. That's Proust!"

"Wait, wait," I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose. "You know Proust?"

"Yes! He's amazing! The only paradise is paradise lost. That one always makes me want to cry." But now, Antonio's eyes were wide and excited. His whole body leaned towards me. And even though I was almost ten paces away from him, I automatically took a step back.

"You read Proust," I said. It was a statement. One of total disbelief.

"Yep! And you do too, don't you? Wow, that's so cool. What do you think of him?"

"He's a fucking god," I declared.

"Yes!"

"And we're still not going to have microwave pasta."

"Aw, but –"

"No."

The dining hall was huge, with long tables and benches. It really did resemble something from Harry Potter. Fuck, I really needed to stop watching so much TV. There was an even longer table towards the front of the room, where students were already lined up and piling food onto their plates. Antonio and I waited for our turn.

"So are you here for their writing course?"

"Fuck no. Art."

"Oh, that's cool! I'm a terrible artist, haha. I'm here for their creative writing course. It's supposed to be really good. Francis – my friend, I mentioned him earlier – he's doing theatre. And Gilbert – he's my other friend – he's learning how to make films. He wants to be a director, haha."

"Fuck, you already have friends?" I muttered. No pressure. No pressure at all. Just some overtly cheery guy buddying-up to practically the whole fucking college. Great.

"They're actually my friends from school," Antonio said with a small grin. "They wanted to do stuff in the art field too. Gilbert tagged along with me and applied here. Francis wouldn't have even considered England as a place to study, but he came anyway, to keep me company."

"Why would he –" my question died in my throat as the line moved, and I finally got a glimpse of the food. Scones, pudding, some random English crap I didn't recognise. Oh, they had pizza. At least I wouldn't starve. I piled some onto my plate, noticing how they'd skimped on the tomatoes and meat. Cheapskates. Antonio took some pizza too, and some noodles that looked vaguely Chinese. Weird-ass combination. But he was a weird-ass guy, anyway.

We found a free spot at the benches and sat, still talking.

"So," Antonio asked, digging into the noodles, "What else do you like to read?"

I shrugged. "Woolf? Austen? And everyone has a soft spot for Orwell."

"Orwell's good," Antonio said with an approving nod, pausing as he chewed. "Anything modern?"

"Haruki Murakami," I replied without batting an eyelid. "And I guess Alice Munro's short stories are pretty fucking amazing. Salman Rushdie's great, too."

"Those are all wonderful," Antonio said with a big smile. "I especially loved Kafka on the Shore. Murakami's magical realism is something else, really! But I think I preferred Norwegian Wood more, actually. Naoko's mental illness was pretty interesting."

"Norwegian Wood is a pussy love story," I grumbled, tearing my pizza roughly and chewing hard.

"It's not!" Antonio argued. "Not if you really analyse it. Look – the main character, Toru? He's living in the past. Naoko is a symbol of his past. And the spunky girl, Midori? Midori is a symbol of his future. That's why he loves Naoko so much and so completely. Because he's living in a past that doesn't exist anymore. And Midori is the 'brave beyond'. And that just messes with him, you know? And how does it end? It's totally open-ended! Which is just great!"

"Yeah, but name one Murakami story that isn't open-ended."

"Haha, fair enough."

"Excuse me," someone said, and I looked up. Arthur Kirkland was standing behind Antonio with an actual cup of tea in his hand – a reminder that this meal was not lunch, although it felt like it. That crap on the airplane was certainly not a satisfying breakfast, but a combination of jet-lag and apples had kept my initial hunger away.

Arthur Kirkland sat beside us, next to Antonio, and said, "I'm sorry, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. You were talking about Murakami, correct?"

"Si," Antonio said with a grin. "I'm Antonio, by the way. And you are?"

"Oh, of course, how silly of me." Arthur extended his hand and introduced himself, all formal-like. He then gave me a small smile. "And I believe me met earlier, Lovino."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," I muttered, looking to my plate.

"Do you read Murakami, then?" Antonio asked, turning back to Arthur.

"Oh, hmm, I actually find his dialogue rather…robotic. Wouldn't you agree?"

The Spaniard's smile lessened slightly, his expression turning into something more thoughtful. Huh. Murakami's dialogue as robotic? Yeah, I could see it. The thought had never actually occurred to me, though.

"I suppose you can say that," Antonio said thoughtfully, picking at his food as he spoke. "But it's quite endearing, in a way. And I feel like it adds an element of distance to the novel. And that somehow makes the magical realism more…I don't know, realistically magical."

Arthur laughed. "You're joking."

Antonio looked up, and I felt his eyes go quiet. Like when a gust of wind stops blowing prematurely. He said, "No, I'm not." He set his fork down, his right hand moving to his left arm. He merely rested his palm there, his face expressionless.

"Oh well," Arthur shrugged. "That's the beauty of literature, isn't it? We can all have our own opinions."

Antonio started to rub his left arm, chuckling slightly. "Si, that's true." He cleared his throat. "So, are you in the creative writing course?"

"Oh, of course I am. I'm rather keen. My whole family's studied here. It's sort of like a tradition."

I felt like Antonio was about to say something in response, but he was interrupted by a loud noise. A person. His voice echoed down the room as he approached, shouting, "Tooooooniiiiiiiii!" Out of the blue, an albino threw an arm around Antonio's shoulder, practically yelling, "There you are! What gives, man? I thought we were gonna meet for lunch! Oh, you should have seen it! Francis was acting like such a drama queen."

I quickly made eye-contact with Arthur. He was looking rather annoyed at the interruption, his bushy eyebrows knitting closer together, a light scowl on his face. I looked back at Antonio and his friend.

"Gil, hi!" Antonio said happily as 'Gil' slid into the bench beside the Spaniard, not-so-tactfully pushing Arthur to the side. "Sorry, I was so jet-lagged. I went right to sleep."

"It's okay, Toni. Francis was pretty irritable too. But he wandered off now, saw some pretty blonde chick. Isn't this place awesome?" the albino looked from Antonio to me, and then to Arthur. "Sup? I'm Gilbert Beilschmidt. You may call me The Awesome One."

"Pleasure to meet you, Gilbert," Arthur said in a tone so fucking haughty I almost burst out laughing. "My name is Arthur Kirkland."

Gilbert gave him an impish smirk – I'm not sure why, maybe he was simply approving of Arthur's name – and then turned to me. "And you are?"

"None of your fucking business," I muttered, crossing my arms across my chest.

Antonio, who'd resumed eating when Gilbert came, began rubbing – no, almost caressing – his left arm again. Gilbert glanced at him and then at me, grinning and saying, "Aw, come on. Don't be so touchy. I won't laugh, if that's what you're worried about."

"Fucking hell! Why would you laugh? My name's fucking great! Asshole!"

"Nice to meet you, Fucking Great. You're right, that is a funny name. But see, I'm not laughing." Gilbert's face was split into an evil grin, enjoying the venomous look I was throwing at him.

Antonio finally interjected. "He's Lovino Vargas. Isn't that a cool name?" He looked at me with hopeful eyes. My first reaction was to give him a look of disgust, but somehow, I just couldn't. Something about Antonio's expression made me soften slightly. Instead, I just glared.

"Well, mon ami, he certainly looks rather adorable."

And without warning, a hand was on my shoulder. The nails manicured – fucking manicured! – and the voice as silky as melting chocolate. It immediately made me want to turn around and punch the fucker, but before I could, the blonde slid beside me, arm now firmly around my back. "Bonjour, Toni, Gil, Lovino!" and he gave Arthur a sideways glance. "Hello to you too."

"Francis!" Antonio said cheerfully.

"Don't fucking touch me, you oily creep!" I snarled, pushing him away. Francis didn't even look mildly insulted. Was this a common thread between Antonio's two friends? Shit.

"He's a feisty one, no, Toni?"

"Shut the fuck up!"

"Don't antagonise him," Arthur muttered, but I noticed him give me a look of sympathy. He then picked up his cup of tea, bringing it to his lips, when –

"Mais, mon dieu, I almost died when I ate the food here, Toni! Gilbert was starving, he was eating like a pig. But he never had any sense of taste, anyway. You and I are going to suffer here. English food is so revolting."

"What did you say, you bloody wanker!?" Arthur shouted, suddenly and violently losing that façade of politeness.

"Ah, I don't think I actually know your name, mon ami."

"It's Arthur Kirkland, and English food is marvellous! We gave the world scones! Pudding!"

"Yes, and now look where the world's headed," Francis said teasingly, raising an eyebrow in obvious amusement. "Scones, pudding, and haggis," Francis said the last word in barely a whisper, his eyes going wide in apparent horror.

Antonio finished the last of his pizza. "It wasn't so bad, Franny."

Oh dio.

Franny, Gil, Toni.

What was this, an old ladies' marching band?

I wasn't sure how I managed that hour. But as soon as Gilbert and Francis decided to leave – apparently, they were flatmates – Arthur was accosted by some loud-mouthed American asking if he had the room keys. And Antonio and I were left alone. We said nothing to each other as we left the dining area, pausing only momentarily to read a flier that had been pinned up to a notice board.

ALL NEW STUDENTS!

TOMORROW IN THE AUDITORIUM!

A WELCOMING PARTY!

7.00 PM to 12.30 AM

BE THERE, OR SUFFER A TERRIBLE FATE – BOREDOM!

Except, someone had scratched out the 'or' and replaced it with 'and'. So now it read as 'Be there, and suffer a terrible fate – boredom!'

Antonio snorted when he read the thing, his hand flying to his mouth as he tried to still his chuckles. I just blinked at it in disbelief. "Are the fucking with us or something?"

"I don't know, Lovi. But it's pretty funny!"

"DON'T call me Lovi."

My tone suddenly made him fall silent, his eyes going wide. His right hand went over his left wrist, and Antonio said. "O-oh. Sorry. I didn't mean to –"

I stared at him. I hadn't meant to sound so angry. It just fucking happened. And now, with him looking like that…his expression would make someone believe his pet dog had died. Fuck. Now I was feeling guilty.

"I-I mean," I stammered, suddenly backtracking. "Only my family calls me that, so…" my voice trailed away, and I felt like a complete loser. Why did I always do this? This was why Feli always had more friends than me. Because I was a horrible, unpleasant assho – erm, because I wasn't very social. And it was okay to not be social, as long as I was nice about it. Right. That was what I needed to work on. Not everybody liked being with people all the time. It was simply individual differences. Nothing wrong with that.

"Oh," Antonio said simply. For some reason, his expression didn't change. If anything, he looked even more upset. "Sorry. I didn't mean to step over any boundaries."

"It's fine," I muttered quietly, looking to my feet. Fuck, I could feel my face become red under his green-eyed stare. "I don't mind. What the fuck ever. Call me Lovi if you want." Feli and nonno did it, and honestly, I didn't give a shit one way or another. I'd been called Lovi since I was a kid. It was practically a second name, anyway.

Antonio cleared his throat. "Okay, Lovi." He didn't release his grip on his wrist. "Come on, let's go back to the apartment."

When we entered the flat, Antonio quietly locked himself into his room, and didn't come out for the next two hours. Meanwhile, I reset my tomato clock to England's time, and then my mobile and my iPad. I put the earplugs into my phone and played a Mozart sonata.

And then, I took out my supplies and painted. There was an unfinished picture I was working on. A portrait of Feli. I'd wanted to give it to him before I left, but between packing, shopping, documents, and last-minute mayhem, I hadn't had the time. In fact, I'd been feeling like shit when I'd boarded that plane, since Feli had been sobbing, telling me he'd miss me and would I please call him every day and please don't forget about him and whatever the hell Feli dreamed up in his airy little head. He'd have liked that picture to hold on to.

Oh well, I guess I'd just post it to him when I was done.

Later, Antonio entered my room to ask if I was hungry, and I paused the Mozart to look at him. "Yeah, what?"

"Oh, nothing! I didn't mean to disturb you, but dinner starts in twenty minutes, and I was wondering if you were keen on going. They shut the kitchens at ten, so there's still time." His eyes glittered in excitement as he saw the painting. "Oh, that's absolutely wonderful! Is that you? Oh, no, it doesn't look like you!"

"It's my brother," I muttered simply, looking at the still-wet brushstrokes of red and blue and amber. The desk I was sitting at was stained in paint too. I'd have to scrub it off later, what a fucking pain.

Antonio tentatively approached. "It's really good," he told me. "You're really talented."

"Thanks." My face went red again. I wasn't used to compliments.

"Ooh, what are you listening to?" he asked,gesturing to my phone and the earphones still plugged into it.

"Mozart. Symphony No. 25 in G minor, K," I deadpanned.

"Wow. That's…intense," Antonio laughed. "You know he was a prodigy?"

"Of course. Who the fuck doesn't know that?"

"It's pretty cool, don't you think?"

I shrugged. "I guess so?"

"I like the idea of prodigies," Antonio said, his eyes bright and happy. "Anyway, dinner?"

"You go ahead if you want. I'll eat later. After I finish this."

"Oh, never mind, I'll wait!" he sing-songed as he waltzed out of the room.

"You'll be waiting a long fucking time!" I called after him, but he'd already closed the bedroom door behind him.

It was half past midnight, and I still couldn't sleep. Which was fucking weird, since I'd had a long day. Maybe it was the excitement, I don't know. But I was pretty pumped for this. I mean, classes officially started in a week, but the whole idea of being on my own, doing my own thing…so freeing. At home it was always Feli-this and Feli-that. Now, it was just me. Me, me, selfish, stupid, happy me.

I sighed in contentment, turning on my side to look at the luminescent hands of the alarm clock. I'd set it for five in the morning. I squeezed my eyes shut. I had an early start tomorrow.

Antonio

I was sure I had writer's block. Oh, this was so frustrating. Darn it, Antonio, couldn't you think of something? Anything? I stared at the screen of my laptop, at the words on the page. They were like snakes across the screen, vipers dripping venom. This was such rubbish.

That paragraph meandered too much. Oh, look, a typo. Ugh, this part was too melodramatic. Damn this. I hit backspace, cutting out that last sentence and punching in a new one. Did that sound better? Oh, no. I'd repeated a word. Was there a synonym for 'eccedentesiast'? Huh. Probably not. 'Eccedentesiast' was a pretentious word, anyway. And it didn't do to use pretentious words.

Ay, what was I going to do? It was a wonder I'd even been selected to go to this college. After everything that happened back home, I was honestly surprised when my parents let me leave. And that was apart from the fact that the competition here was supposed to be really bad. They'd liked the manuscript I'd sent them, but now, going over it once more, all I could spot were its flaws. How had they let me in? It must have been a fluke.

But I was here now, right? So I was going to work and make the most of it. I'd fix this lame manuscript, I'd write the next award-winning novel, and I'd live the dream. Simple. I could do this. I could do this. I could – oh god, oh god, oh god.

I clutched my arm, willing myself to breathe. Easy. Don't scratch. Don't scratch. Don't scratch, Toni. It was all okay. I was fine. Nothing bad was happening. Calm down. Calm down. Calm –

My nails dug into my skin, like the tines of a fork stabbing a piece of meat. I pressed down. I would not scratch. I wasn't scratching. I was just holding myself really, really hard. I took a deep breath. Then another. And another. And I let go.

At first, there was nothing but the deep impression of my nails in my skin. How strange skin was. Like clay. It could be moulded into these fascinating shapes, only by the slight pressure of fingernails. I watched as the area turned dark pink. In a few minutes, the impressions would be gone, leaving large red blotches in their wake.

By morning, nobody would even be able to notice this.

I wasn't cutting. This was just…clutching. Yes, holding myself. Not self-harm. This was fine. As long as I didn't cross the line, this was completely fine.

I stared back at the waiting computer. The imperfection in each sentence made me want to cry.

A/N: I'm switching between Lovi and Toni. I've not written first person in a while. Let me know if it's okay.

Anyway, thanks for reading. Please review!