Hello,
This is the first story I have ever written that I have actually liked enough to upload onto this site, so hopefully it isn't too horrible! Haha. There are a few warnings when it comes to this particular story. First of all Antonio is crazy. I enjoy writing psychopathic characters for some reason... but i digress. This story is rated M sorely for the sole purpose that Antonio is unhinged, and maybe for later chapters.
I would be grateful for reviews, I love constructive criticism, so don't be afraid.
I also don't own Hetalia, I just twist the characters around.
Enjoy.~
Emerald irises scanned the area, locking onto the slender silhouette of a man. It was about one in the morning, an eerie silence lurking in the atmosphere like a bad joke. Antonio hummed softly, clicking his tongue as his bright green eyes stay focused on the silhouette. The Spanish man was across the street from the dark figure, keeping his distance from the man, always sure to be cautious when stalking his prey.
The moon's light shone on the man's face, olive toned skin shining. He was walking hurriedly, as if he could sense somebody was following him. An anxious scowl was apparent on his pinkish lips, his dark brows furrowed in what seemed to be worry. He was moving quickly down the empty street, making a sharp turn into an abandoned alleyway, cursing to himself silently.
Intrigued, Antonio followed the man, still keeping his distance. The alleyway was pitch black, Antoino's eyes were squinted, trying to adjust to the night's darkness. He could still see the man walking briskly a few yards away from him. The corners of his lips rose as a dazzling smile appeared on his Sun kissed face, his thoughts whirling around dangerously in his head. Oh but this was so much fun to Antoino.
The crunching of gravel was the only sound to be heard as the scowling man caught sight of his apartment complex. Feeling a little bit of relief he neared the building, fumbling around in his pocket before retrieving a golden key. He huffed quietly, walking up the stairway to his door, cursing as his shaky hands betrayed him as he dropped the key onto the ground. Mumbling a string of curses, he picked up the key and successfully made it into his apartment, his heart beating rapidly against his chest.
A small smirk was still playing on Antonio's lips as he turned on his heels, walking off into the dead of the night. Crickets chirped in the darkest corners, Antonio not taking notice of them as he whistled a small melody to himself, stalking off into the night.
Antonio was twenty five, thriving in the declining economy of America. He made a decent amount of money from the café he had started five years back, he had taken notice that business was doing better the past month. He also earned a little bit of cash from paintings he sold. He loved to paint, and was very passionate about it, even having an art studio in the safety of his own home.
He was raised in a Catholic upbringing, even going as far as wearing a wooden cross necklace everyday, a momento from his mother who had passed away when he was just five years old. His father was a strict Spanish man, expecting too much from Antonio as he was growing up. But as Antonio matured he wanted more from life. He wanted adventure, he wanted something exciting to live for. Shortly after his eighteenth birthday, he was planning on moving out of Spain. He thought America had more to offer him.
However, his father wasn't too keen on the idea of his son moving out of the country. They argued about the issue constantly, Antonio becoming distressed at his father's expectations. Reluctantly Antonio stayed in Spain for a few months, seemingly surprised as his father was bedridden with an unknown ailment. He stayed by his father's side, caring for the man in his darkest moments. But to no avail. His father's health declined quickly, and before too long, he passed away, Antonio by his side like a faithful companion.
Not too long after his father's death, Antonio had moved to the states, leaving behind his cursed life in Spain. But little did he know what he was in for. You see, Antonio was not at all what he led on to be. He was a manipulative man, who showed no remorse for his malicious attentions. He didn't really care about much, but he did love the thrill of watching a person's soul leave its body.
He seemed cheerful as he made small chit chat with his customer's, but his thoughts betrayed him. He was delusional, fascinated with death and deemed it to be a beautiful work of art. He enjoyed the thought of strangulation, but he also loved to daydream about torture strategies. He had also taken a dangerous liking to an Italian he had been following recently.
Antonio first laid eyes on the man in his own café. He had come in one day with another man, who looked almost identical to him. Antonio was immediately enticed by his unique color of eyes, a hazel color shrouded in a playful honey ring. He had ordered an espresso in an accented slur, his eyes bored as he let out a small, 'tch' when Antonio tried to keep the conversation going. It was a start, Antonio wouldn't deny that.
From the small encounter, Antonio had learned quite a bit about the feisty Italian. To start with, his name was Lovino Vargas, and he didn't completely hate the coffee Antonio had brought out to him. He was a very defensive man, but he was short and slender. He had a natural blush on his tanned skin that never seemed to leave his cheeks, and his Italian accent was definitely distinctive when he decided to speak to Antonio. The Spaniard also learned that Lovino's companion was indeed his little brother, Feliciano, though Antonio really didn't care too much about him. He was solely interested in the handsome and mysterious Lovino.
Shortly after his first encounter with the Italian, Antonio had run into him again. But this time, it was Lovino's place of work, a pet shop a block away from Antonio's café. Antonio had smiled playfully, flirting with danger when Lovino's face went red with embarrassment. But getting straight to the point he had adopted two turtles from the shop, also walking away with the Italian's phone number in the front pocket of his jeans. Oh how accomplished Antonio started to feel. But he yearned for more.
Weeks went by and Antonio hadn't spoke to Lovino, except through a few text messages here and there. He may not have spoken to the Italian, but he sure as hell saw him every night. Lovino had no knowledge of Antonio's nightly hobby of following him home from work, twisted thoughts lingering dangerously in his mind. Antonio hada learned Lovino's weekly schedule quite quickly, perhaps a little too quickly for someone who wasn't very close to the Italian. But oh well. Antonio was becoming dangerously addicted to the Italian. And perhaps it was too late to stop the addiction from spiraling out of control.
