LA NOTTE
-THE NIGHT-
It was night—midnight, to be exact. Time for Venice to slip beneath her blanket of dark clouds for several hours of well-earned rest. But only slowly and reluctantly did she close her eyes and surrender to nightfall; for her people were still about, puttering from shop to shop, house to house—turning off lights, locking doors, drawing shutters over newly darkened windows. Gondoliers rowed their craft home, leaving the canals deserted and lonely. Pedestrians hurried with eyes downcast and shadowed, coats drawn close and tight to ward off the late chill. In a matter of minutes the streets themselves were largely deserted, quiet dusky air settling over all, promising calm and peace in the wee hours before the sun returned to bring morning to Italy.
But for one lone Italian traversing the city on foot, it couldn't be further from the truth.
Non basta un raggio di sole in un cielo blu come il mare...
Venice even in darkness was a city of beauty, with people of beauty; this man was anything but. A thin jacket enclosed his small frame, a pair of baggy slacks and worn shoes completing the melancholy picture. Subtly did he defy the serene night, dragging his shoes through the dust of the streets, his breath escaping his lips every now and then in a small sigh, swirling white smoke into the cooling air. The man trudged slowly past the indistinct streetlamps, choosing to ignore their existence; but under the light his unruly mop of hair shone brown, his eyes a poignant hazel.
Quando arriva la notte,
E resto solo con me…
Alone, he passed darkened houses, hotels, buildings, museums—and before long, there loomed ahead of him a place he knew well. Il Ponte di Rialto, the Rialto Bridge. No one knew that he came here every night, and even fewer knew that he still remembered a time when he had stood here with another.
He had not always been solitary as he was now.
Perché mi porto un dolore che sale, che sale.
Si ferma sulle ginocchia che tremano… e so perché.
Gently he ran a hand along the railing, gazing out at the sleeping city. What a beautiful sight this would have been in the morning, when the sun would cast its brilliant smile over the waters of the Grand Canal; how dazzling to the eyes it would be. And how wonderful it would be to stand here in broad daylight, admiring the beauty and opening his mouth to talk, to exchange sweet words with him.
But where was he now?
That was of no consequence, the man told himself. He was probably making his way over at this very moment. As long as there was time, and it was night, he would be there. He had always said he would be there, no matter what happened or what came between them. He had promised, and he had always been true to his promises.
Perhaps if one listened hard enough, it might be possible to hear him...
The wind had begun to blow, whistling lightly through Venetian trees. Leaves rustled, branches swayed, and the Italian man in the shadows thought he caught a voice on the breeze.
"... Lovino..."
Just a whisper on the wind, he thought, as his own name echoed in the recesses of his tired mind. The delusion slipped from him, and yet again he was left with a feeling of painful, unutterable emptiness.
E quando arriva la notte—e resto solo con me,
La testa parte e va in giro, in cerca dei suoi perché…
One o'clock, read the large lighted timepiece on a nearby building. It told him his time here was done. Consistently the same time of day, hour, minute, perhaps even second. It had become a ritual, almost, a silent vigil that he kept every night until one hour past midnight, before departing for his next destination.
And that was what Lovino now did.
The path he took was old and worn, overhung with trees, and nearly indiscernible in the gloom and black. Still his feet lifted and fell of their own accord, leading the way and guiding him through the endless night.
Oh, how he hated the night. It stifled him, choked him, confined him beneath a cloak of eternal darkness. But most of all, it mirrored the gaping hollow in his chest where the other half of his heart should have been. And it hurt, yes, it hurt, and that was the only way to describe it. He, Lovino Vargas, hurt in a way that no one in the world would ever understand. So much so, in fact, that he often wondered what kept him standing and moving through the pain.
He was a broken record, a puzzle missing a crucial piece, incomplete, dangling, hanging onto life by a mere thread. There was no meaning left for him, happiness had long escaped him, smiles and contentment were figments of imagination.
But not love.
Love—that sweet poison, that double-edged thorn, that immortal elixir, he still had with him, within him. And that he would possess forevermore, no matter how much it tore him up from the inside out.
Ma c'è il dolore che sale, che sale e fa male;
Arriva al cuore, lo vuole picchiare, più forte di me…
Prosegue nella sua corsa, si prende quello che resta,
Ed in un attimo esplode e mi scoppia la testa.
Black gates came into view before the sky with its unforgiving moon and backdrop of mocking, bright stars. The scene stretched out before him like the remains of a battlefield between life and death. Gently Lovino pushed open the gates, gently enough to avoid loud creaking; it would not do to disturb the inhabitants here. And then, with a heavy, indefinable feeling in his chest, he stepped inside.
The rows of stones he now knew so well greeted him, miniature white and grey pillars in a sea of darkness. Dry grass rustled underfoot as the Italian stepped between them, his feet doing a strange dance all their own, in search of just one stone among hundreds. An owl hooted mournfully in the distance, the wind began again, and the thickening clouds were driven away from the moon by the force of the night air.
And Lovino found him.
There he was, as he had promised he would be. He lay a little ways off from the others, on a small hill all his own; perhaps they had known from the beginning that he was uncommon, special, meaningful. And so they had set his gravestone in the most beautiful patch of grass in the entire yard, in a place where the sun always shone in the mornings, with flowers growing, by some defiance of nature, at all times of the year. It was the least they could do for one like him, even though nothing they did would ever be enough.
Antonio Fernandez Carriedo.
1987-2013.
Life and death separate, but love will always go on.
Lovino took a deep breath, gazing down at the stone, his eyes barely able to make out the words already engraved into his heart.
"Antonio," he whispered, his voice unnaturally loud in the quiet of the cemetery. "It's... it's nice to see you again. I'm sorry for not being able to come here earlier. But I brought you something." He reached into his jacket, drew out a small flower with thin leaves and soft petals, and bent down to set it before the grave. Even in the dim moonlight the color was visible; it was a red carnation.
He had loved that flower so much. And because he had loved it, Lovino did too. There had been many times when he'd tried to surprise the Spaniard with a whole bouquet, in order to win that warm, cheerful grin, that embrace, those sweet words and vows. But now, with the center of his life gone and the last little reminder of him lying on the grass, his heart only ached all the more at the memory.
The Italian gave up on standing and lay down beside the headstone with a sigh.
"Antonio..." he began, but his voice cracked and he had to swallow hard, had to take another deep breath to keep his voice from wavering. The gravestone before him seemed to gleam slightly in the moonlight, as though asking him to continue.
Lovino smiled wistfully at it.
"Antonio... I had a bad day today. It was busy at the Vini da Gigio. You remember that place, don't you, and how we used to go there together?" A halfhearted laugh. "I still work at that restaurant—or at least I did until today. Boss yelled at me for being tired and looking glum all the damn time. I told him what I thought of him and he told me to leave. So I guess I'm fired now." He ran a hand over the stone and closed his eyes. "I mean, I don't really care anymore, since he was a mean asshole and I never liked him anyway. I think I even swore at the fucking bastardo since he deserved it. But you know, I kind of regret it now. A lot, actually... Lucia's still here and she needs to go to school and everything, and how am I going to tell her Papa lost his job...? I'm horrible, aren't I, Antonio? I know I should get someone to care for her, and sorella is already helping, but..."
It was so hard to continue. "But I... I can't do it. I can't give her away like this... She's such a good girl. She keeps asking about you, you know that? I told her you went somewhere far, far away and that you would return someday. I want to take care of her and... and be a good father like you were. But fucking damn it, it's so hard... so hard doing this alone," he whispered, feeling a lump rise in his throat. "It's so hard without you, Antonio. I need you back... please come back to us. Please."
It was difficult to tell when the tears had begun, but they were there. They were always there, ready to fall even if he tried to hold them back and be strong, because the truth was too much for Lovino and had always been. And so he lay there by the gravestone and cried.
E quando arriva la notte—e resto solo con me,
La testa parte e va in giro, in cerca dei suoi perché…
His chest hurt, his heart hurt. He hurt all over, inside and out. There was a tightness and a crippling pain that he could not get rid of no matter how many tears he let fall, no matter how hard he sobbed. Oh, if only, if only things could go back to the way they were before when they were together and strong and healthy and had a family... Things had been so perfect then. So perfect, so wonderful, that he had never wanted any of it to change, ever.
Why did Fate have to be so cruel, so heartless, and take away the one kindest, most joyful man ever to have lived on the Earth? Why couldn't she have taken Lovino instead? The world needed Antonio, still needed him—needed his optimism, his cheerful blunders, his jokes, his laugh. His constant, genuine smile that always put the sun to shame and chased away the darkest clouds on a rainy day. Why him, why him? Of all the people in the world he deserved the most to be alive and happy, and yet...
Lovino was dimly aware that small drops had begun to fall from the sky. They landed on his face, his hair, his clothes, only adding to his abundance of tears. He didn't care. It was about time the heavens themselves cried for Antonio.
"Come back," he whispered through the patter of the rain and the mourning of the wind. "Antonio, please, please come back. Ti amo, I love you, I still love you, so much. You promised me you'd never leave... I'm here now, Antonio. Come back to me."
He didn't know how long he stayed there, pleading over and over again while the tears rolled down his face. He was still there when the rain finally stopped and the moon shone again over the soaked ground. Lovino wanted to stay there forever, if it meant being able to see Antonio again.
Né vincitori né vinti... si esce sconfitti a metà,
La vita può allontanarci,
L'amore continuerà.
"I can't live without you..."
The wind was still blowing, and the rustling of the grass and the trees was even louder here than back on the streets. They made quiet murmurs of grief and remembrance, and it made Lovino feel less alone in the darkened graveyard with its resting souls.
And that was when he heard it.
"... Lovino... Lovi..."
"A-Antonio...?"
It... it had to be. Just a whisper on the wind, but it was his voice. It had to be him. Lovino jumped up and spun around wildly, trying to find the source of the sound. It was so real, so close by, and Lovino suddenly knew with certainty that Antonio was here. He was here and waiting for him, just hidden away somewhere, ready to jump out and tackle Lovino with a laugh and tell him he had simply been delayed, that he had been on the journey back the whole time.
"Lovi... mi Corazón..."
He had promised he wouldn't leave.
He had promised.
"Antonio!"
The second time he called his name, something happened. A sudden flash of light filled the cemetery, blinding white in its intensity, chasing away the darkness before it could close in. It was gone in a moment, but the brightness lingered in Lovino's vision and through it he could see a glowing figure standing a short distance away.
His brown hair shimmered in the moonlight, his green eyes sparkled, and the angelic smile on his face had not lost its luster even after a year. He wore white, all white, and the color set off his skin in the most magical way possible. Everything about him radiated health and vigor and... and happiness.
Lovino would have recognized him anywhere.
"... Antonio...?"
"Lovino, mi amor..."
Everything happened in a blur. The next thing Lovino knew he was in the Spaniard's arms, surrounded by his scent, his warmth, his vitality. It was as though nothing had changed; the world was all right again; and only when Antonio reached up to dry his tears did he realize he was crying again, unbidden.
"Antonio... it's you... it's really you..." he choked out.
"Sí," the Spaniard said gently. "Lovi, mi amor... don't cry. It'll be all right..."
There was the familiar touch of his hand, his sturdy arms around Lovino. He felt so real, so substantial, so alive and well. For what seemed like forever they stood there, the angelic-looking Spaniard and the shabby little Italian, holding onto each other for dear life. Their lips met in a kiss, not a passionate but a sweet one, gentle and with the longing borne of separation. Lovino never wanted it to end.
It still seemed too soon when Antonio pulled away, rested his forehead against Lovino's contentedly, and brushed away the traces of sorrow on his face. It was just as he had done so many times before whenever Lovino had come to him with his problems and spilled everything. Even now it was comforting, and the hole in the Italian's heart slowly stitched itself back together.
He was whole again.
"Where did you go, Antonio...?" he whispered, emotion threatening to overwhelm him once more. "It... it was so tough without you... why didn't you come back sooner?"
Antonio smiled at him, a sad little smile.
"They wouldn't let me, mi amor. They wanted me to stay up there and watch over you, because that was where I belonged after... after..." He stopped and shook his head and started again. "After the illness. A-anyway, I... it was hard for me too. I saw how sad you were, Lovi. I watched you when you slept, when you woke up and took Lucia to school, when you came back and cried alone..." Even now Antonio's green eyes were oddly brilliant, and Lovino realized the brightness was his tears.
"I told them I couldn't stand it anymore. I told them I had to come down here and see you again, even if it was just once. They must have known, too, because they agreed, and let me return for a while. And now that I'm here..." Antonio took a breath and met Lovino's eyes squarely. "... I just want to tell you, te amo. I love you, Lovino Vargas. I loved you in life, I loved you in death and up in heaven I love you now. And it will always be this way... always."
Water that was not rain rolled down Lovino's cheeks as he clung to the Spaniard.
"Antonio... you're not leaving me again, you hear me? Don't tell me you are. Please, Antonio, please don't. Don't do this to me again..." The Italian's eyes shone with desperation. "Because I love you too, more than you can ever know... I... I can't live without you. I can't..."
A finger on his lips silenced him for a moment, and he stared up into the Spaniard's face, so full of tenderness and love.
"I'm sorry," Antonio murmured, his voice heavy with sorrow. "If I had my way I'd be here with you, forever... but I can't. This is the only time. But Lovino, don't say such sad things like that... You might not see me, but I'll be with you all the time. Around you, in the air you breathe, in your dreams, watching you from the sky. I'm always with you... do you understand?"
Lovino nodded numbly, unable to speak. The Spaniard let out a small sigh and cupped the Italian's face in his hands.
"I won't ever leave you, Lovino. I promised, remember? I won't, ever."
It was with shock that the Italian noticed the light around him dimming, the Spaniard's brilliance dimming. Slowly but surely he was fading away, soon to return to that realm in the heavens high above, where great and noble souls like his belonged. But he couldn't be leaving already, not now... Not now...
"I'm sorry, Lovino. Lo siento... take good care of Lucia for me, all right? Make sure she grows up happy and strong... Don't tell her about this until she's old enough to understand. And take good care of yourself, mi amor. Just know, I'm always here... One day, we'll meet again. In that kingdom up high, and I'll be waiting for you..."
"Antonio!" Lovino shouted, reaching out to grab him, to try to keep him from disappearing. But his hand passed through the Spaniard's now translucent one, and he could only watch helplessly as Antonio made his leave.
"Te amo, Lovino Vargas."
He felt a light touch on his lips, a ghost of a breath across his face, and then the angelic vision before him gave way to nothing; he was left once more in the darkness among the graves. Alone, and yet not alone.
The night air should have been chilly, the dreary moonlight melancholy and sorrowful, but somehow he didn't feel it anymore. The sky was slowly brightening, the stars casting benevolent light over the entire landscape. Quiet sounds came from the wind and the streets far beyond, defeating the overwhelming silence that had previously reigned over the cemetery. And Lovino's heart no longer hurt with the hollow, gnawing pain of separation, of loss.
"... Ti amo, Antonio..." he whispered to the air.
There before him still was Antonio's gravestone, adorned with its red carnation; but as Lovino gazed at it the stone seemed to glow ever so slightly, the words carved into it coming alight with a life of their own.
Life and death separate, but love will always go on.
Lovino gave a small smile.
L'amore continuerà.
The End
Eh I guess I lied about not coming back because of this. I don't know where it came from; probably just the product of a late night and an overworked mind and particularly sorrowful music. But here it is anyway.
The song that inspired this (and from where I pulled the quotes) was "La Notte" by Arisa, but I think it turned out much sadder than the song was supposed to be. But yeah. I apologize in advance for any unhappy feels. ;n;
Translations
Non basta un raggio di sole in un cielo blu come il mare... (Italian) – A sunbeam in a blue sky, in a sky as blue as the sea, is not enough
Quando arriva la notte, E resto solo con me… (Italian) – When the night comes I stay alone with myself
Perché mi porto un dolore che sale, che sale. Si ferma sulle ginocchia che tremano… e so perché. (Italian) – Because I'm feeling a pain that rises and rises. It stops on my trembling knees and I know why.
E quando arriva la notte—e resto solo con me, La testa parte e va in giro, in cerca dei suoi perché… (Italian) – And when the night arrives—and I remain alone with myself, my mind goes away and walks around to look for your 'whys'
Ma c'è il dolore che sale, che sale e fa male; Arriva al cuore, lo vuole picchiare, più forte di me… Prosegue nella sua corsa, si prende quello che resta, Ed in un attimo esplode e mi scoppia la testa. (Italian) – But there is the pain that rises and knows and hurts; It arrives to the heart, it beats more strongly in me... Continuing in its rush, it takes what remains, and in a moment my head is pounding
Né vincitori né vinti... si esce sconfitti a metà, La vita può allontanarci, L'amore continuerà. (Italian) – Neither the winners nor losers... come out half defeated, life can separate us, the love will go on
L'amore continuerà. (Italian) – Love will go on
Red carnation means "My heart aches for you." It's also the national flower of Spain.
For anyone who's interested, the song "La Notte" can be found at this site (remove all the spaces): www . youtube watch ? v = PWu71JMwGWE.
Yes, it is in Italian.
And the full translation for the song is here: lyricstranslate dot com/ en / la-notte-night . html-1