Febbraio

"Hey," Ludwig greeted. He was standing stoically against the brick wall when Lovino exited the apartment complex.

Lovino's eyes took a while to find his. But eventually he glared and muttered, "Buongiorno."

Ludwig's lips turned up slightly—at least Lovino replied.

"It looks like the weather's going to suck today too," he continued. Lovino tucked his hands into the pockets of his black coat. He turned his gaze to the gray sky.

"Actually, I think the weather's supposed to hold out today," Ludwig commented, and he pulled out his phone to triple-check. He wasn't planning on bringing an umbrella.

Lovino huffed, and mumbled, "Yeah, well we'll fucking see about that." He coughed into the sleeve of his coat.

Ludwig glanced at him. "Are you sick?"

"I'm a smoker, asshole."

Ludwig grimaced and turned away. Every damn tim

"I'm going. See you later." Lovino strutted past him and was already crossing the street.

Ludwig didn't say anything in return. It took him too long to realize that for the first time in their odd relationship, Lovino said hello and goodbye to him.


The metro in Rome was simple. Very old, only two lines, you could hardly mess it up. Lovino was used to taking the metro. It was more dependable than the buses.

He swiped his metro card and lingered behind the yellow line. He stared at the train sitting on the other tracks.

"These cars are so fucking old. Do you think they'll ever put in new ones?"

"Ve~ I think they're rather charming. They're so old and covered with paint."

"That's exactly why I don't like them. Weren't you listening?"

Feliciano laughed.

When would it stop?

Lovino wanted to ask Ludwig something. He'd been meaning to ask him for a while, because he wanted to know: does it happen to him too? Was Lovino the only one?

When could he walk around Rome without seeing and hearing Feliciano at every turn?

The voice of the metro announced he had reached his stop: Spagna.

They would always go there on the weekends, when they were off from work. Feliciano would insist on going early in the morning after they stayed out far too late for aperitivo the night before. Feli would make it through a cappuccino, and through walking to the nearest metro stop. But every time, when they reached Spagna, Lovino would look over and Feliciano was fast asleep in his seat.

Lovino was ready to kick his foot and wake him up.

But Feliciano wasn't there.

Lovino was ready to yank him by the collar and pull him away from the take-out pizza place right outside the metro.

But Feliciano wasn't there.

Lovino dove into the usual tabacchi and bought another box of cigarettes. It was too much. He needed to calm down. How could there be too many people and yet not enough?

It was glaringly obvious. Rome was a mosaic. And at every monument, every building, every street, every restaurant, every bar, every café, someone swung their hammer and shattered the painted glass and stone. Everything was incomplete now. And it had no hope of being fixed. The missing pieces are buried ten feet under the ground in a box of hard wood.

"Do you like what you see?" someone asked flirtatiously. It was English with a distinctly French accent.

Lovino dropped the cigarette to the ground and blinked the thoughts to the back of his mind. He stared at the busker in front of him. Lovino hadn't realized he'd been staring. How long has it even been?

The man – a tall, slim blond – was sitting on a stool, and an easel was placed in front of him. He had small painted canvases sitting around him.

"Are you interested in any of these?" the man asked, and he gestured to the paintings on the ground. Some were of monuments, some were of streets, and some were of people.

Lovino frowned automatically and turned away. "No, grazie," he muttered. In the past, he was never so polite to buskers; but the soft Italian voice that frequented his head was changing that.

The man's dark blue eyes glinted. "Ah, a local. I should've known," he said as he rose from the stool. He extended his hand. "My name's Francis. I'm an artist…obviously," he added with a wink and a coy smile.

Lovino kept a straight face. It wasn't hard. "I'm Lovino," he replied and shook Francis's hand shortly.

"What a beautiful name," Francis murmured, and his gaze crept knowingly along the edges and curves of Lovino's face. "You seem kind of familiar actually. Have we met before?"

"I live in Rome. Who the hell knows?"

Francis chuckled lightly and musically. "What a practical and reasonable answer. Not romantic at all, if I may say."

Lovino looked at him with tired annoyance.

Francis appeared to appreciate that look, and he stared at Lovino with a bit more intensity. "Would you allow me to paint you? You have a very interesting face. It's familiar, but…melancholy, somehow. I don't know if I can explain it properly in English."

"Then don't," Lovino mumbled, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets. A slight warmth tinged his cheeks. "And don't paint me either."

"Really? That's too bad," Francis said, and his eyes glazed over Lovino's face once more. It was unnerving. Then he asked, "Do you mind if I show you something?"

Lovino's eyes flickered from him to something near the corner of his eye. He was being approached by someone and—

"Ah, Lovino!"

It was Antonio. His eyes were bright, green, and all-encompassing. For a moment, Lovino thought he fell through them and discovered the secrets behind the construction of the glass…but then Antonio smiled. He raised the curtains, and his hand – half out-stretched to touch Lovino's shoulder – retreated back to his side.

He laughed a little to smooth over the transition and continued, "I didn't expect to run into you. It feels kind of improbable, don't you think?"

Lovino eyed him warily. "Do you need something?"

"Oh, well…" Antonio glanced to the sky a bit helplessly. "I was just walking around the city. I was hoping to find Piazza Navona, but then I ended up at the Spanish Steps. Isn't that kind of funny?" He rubbed at his jacket sleeves. They were slightly tattered, and not so warm.

Lovino didn't know to respond to that. He managed to bite back any crass words and give Antonio a blank and tired stare.

Something akin to mischief glinted in Antonio's eyes and he smiled. Then he turned to Francis—he finally noticed his presence. "Oh, ciao! Are you a friend of Lovino's?"

Antonio's eyes slid back towards Lovino and he chuckled. "We're neighbors actually. I moved into an apartment across from his about a month ago."

"Is that so? Well, how do you like Rome?"

"It's," Antonio paused to lick his lips. "It's…refreshing."

Francis grinned and he looked at Antonio for what seemed like the first time. "What an interesting way to put it. I don't think I've heard that one before," he said. "You're Spanish, right?"

Lovino watched the two of them carry on a basic and boring conversation and his attention span waned. He started to walk away.

"Hm, Lovino? Where are you going? I wanted to show you something," Francis called. Lovino pretended not to hear.

With the steps came the relief of escape, but this time, there was also a thorn poking at his heart. He didn't know why but—

"Lovino, wait up!" Antonio said. He'd interrupted Lovino's spiral again, and suddenly he was striding side by side with Lovino and looking at him curiously. "Are you in a hurry to go somewhere?"

Lovino glanced at him. "Not really. I'm just…just walking today."

"I see," Antonio murmured, and his smile was a little bitter. "Walking away from your problems then?"

Now Lovino's eyes were glaring. "I'm just walking."

"Whatever you say."

They kept going.

"Are you following me?" Lovino asked.

"I need to go to Piazza Navona."

"Why?"

"I just wanted to I guess."

"That's a shitty reason."

"If I said I was supposed to be meeting the love of my life there, would it be better?"

Lovino opened his mouth to reply, but he was stuck on the border between NO and YES. Feliciano's conscious might've been melding to his; he didn't know what he thought anymore.

As Lovino was stumbling with no words, the two of them approached a considerable crowd. They were in the shape of a crescent moon, and surrounding two people – a man and a woman – and they were dancing.

Antonio and Lovino shared a brief glance, and the two of them, as if in a trance, approached the couple and watched them dance. They were elegant: she was wearing a dress and heels, with a false rose pinned to her hair, and the man flowed with her across the smooth pavement.

"They're just buskers. I see things like this all the time," Lovino muttered, though his eyes betrayed his interest. Music, singing, dancing…Lovino thought all of it belonged in the past. He thought he would never hear it, never sing it, never see it again. And yet, it still existed. All of it. Quietly, Lovino murmured his curiosity: "I wonder what the dance is." His glance shifted to Antonio, and he was slightly stunned to see that Antonio might have been more affected than him.

Antonio was engulfed. His eyes were tied to the dancers. His expression was heavy with the emotion and angst. He felt it. He understood. The secrets of his eyes opened up to them.

"It's an Argentinian tango," he said. His lips caressed the words with the most fragility. "It's improvised. The dancers hold each other throughout almost the whole dance," he explained. "It's a lot about trust. They need to know how to follow the other's move, and continue it. It's very fluid, very smooth…it's all about trust."

The words narrated the tap and slide of the shoes, the acoustic rhythm of the speaker, and the occasional trickle of change into the box out front.

Lovino realized that not only were Antonio's hands tender, but his lips were as well.


They were at the Pantheon when it was raining. Lovino cursed Ludwig's name under his breath before marching over to a street vendor selling umbrellas. He haggled one for himself, and after watching raindrops fall from the tip of Antonio's nose…he caved and got one for him too.

They walked side by side with their umbrellas. And now the white noise of rain filled the empty spaces. Lovino was a little pissed he couldn't smoke, but he supposed the rain would do for a while. The hum and hiss and roar of rain had the same effect as the slow and steady drift of smoke to the moon.

"Do you like music?" Antonio asked.

Lovino didn't stop his mouth to lie. "…I do," he admitted instead.

"Please sing for me Lovi. I love your voice. Please sing for me. I love falling asleep to your voice."

Antonio's voice was gentle when he replied, "That sounds a little reluctant."

Lovino bit his lip and stared at the cobblestones in front of him.

"I understand though," Antonio added smoothly. "Music is too complex to have one feeling for. It's like a person really. There are so many dimensions, so many sides and complexities. And you have memories and experiences that change your perspective…it's complicated," he sighed with a small smile. "I love music, but it hurts to hear sometimes. It's easier if I'm the one making it."

"Did you used to be a musician?" Lovino deflected.

"Something like that. It didn't last long; I'm a terrible performer. I can't make music for large audiences. I prefer things more intimate."

The back of Lovino's neck felt hot, but he chose to ignore it. "Yeah, I…I know what you mean. I used to sing—sometimes. But only for my family," he stuttered softly. "I haven't sung in a long time."

Antonio looked at him, and he ordered with as much earnestness, "You should change that."

But what's the point? I only sang for…and he's not here anymore.

"Music doesn't belong to anyone. Don't lose it for a person. It doesn't matter who it is, it's just not worth it."

Lovino lowered his umbrella to shield his eyes. He was in his bubble, surrounded by the rain and the sound and the city. His breath still came. He thought he could give his reply, and all at once he whispered:

"Perhaps."


Aren't you?

You're blind and you're deaf too

Aren't you?


Antonio wasn't a happy person. Was that why Lovino was so drawn to him? Sometimes he wondered if sad was attracted to sad. But then Feliciano's ghost would float back in the room and he'd say no. That wasn't quite it.

But Antonio's sadness was different. It wasn't even sad. Not in the literal way.

Lovino asked Ludwig about him. He had to find out from someone and Ludwig was always more than eager to talk—as to establish their friendship or whatever.

Apparently, Antonio was twice-divorced. He married a Belgian first. Then an Austrian. Each time apparently ended in some serious scandal. The first had something to do with the spouse cheating, and the second has something more to do with an ongoing and endless series of arguments. That's the way Ludwig put it.

So it made sense. Antonio wasn't exactly sad. But he wasn't happy.

He was damaged. A cracked, chipped, broken, and glued-back-together marble statue. He was just as valuable, just as strong, but so much more cautious. So it might've been that peculiar gleam in his eyes upon first introduction that screamed Stay. The. Hell. Away.

Because he didn't trust anyone. His dance partners stepped away and found someone else. He was alone on the pavement while the music still played.

Lovino was alone. And he felt like he couldn't do anything about it. He couldn't find a way back to the stream and swim where the rest of time and space continued to flow.

Antonio was alone too. But he was doing everything to stay that way.


"Why do you smoke?" Antonio asked. He spoke loud enough so his voice could be carried between the balconies.

Lovino was exhaling. But before he could give his answer, he had to take another drag.

Antonio continued, "I tried it a few times. I never found it very satisfying. It's kind of dull, don't you think?"

Lovino shook his head and smoke escaped his lips. "It takes practice. It's an acquired thing."

"Yeah?"

Lovino nodded, and he tapped the ashes to the ground. "I started when I was thirteen. My grandfather did it, so I thought I should too."

Antonio laughed a little. "That's rather sweet."

"No, it's not."

"I think it sounds adorable."

Lovino glared at him and placed the cigarette again between his lips. And he exhaled. "It's hypnotic. And kind of isolating. The smoke just becomes everything and the world doesn't exist anymore."

Antonio weighed his expression and his eyes were keen. "That's quite an answer."

Lovino face heated and he looked down at the ground. "It's also just…nostalgic. I find my nonno in each pack of cigarettes. It's kind of nice like that."

Antonio smiled and rested his arms on the railing. "You're as romantic as the rest of the Italians it seems."

Lovino flinched. "I am not."

"Oh, but you are."

"I'm a pessimist."

"No, you're a cynic," Antonio corrected, and his eyes danced. There was sun these days, and caught the flecks of olive and gold. "Intelligent romantics are always cynics. It's their tragedy. It's their curse."

Lovino stubbed his cigarette out. "It's just reality," he said.

And he left the balcony.


"Antonio, you do this to yourself."

He watched Lovino place a pot on the stove. Surely, it was full of water. He was going to have it boil and put in pasta: that's what he did every Lunedi.

"Why do you think I started seeing him? Do you think it was because of me? Do you think I'm a whore? Is that it?"

Perhaps it would be farfalle today. Was he pulling out a bottle of wine?—yes, he was. Red, most likely.

Lovino appeared back at the window with an apron tied around his waist. He started chopping vegetables. Those heavy dark eyes lingered on the colors, the knife and the chopping board. Then he finished, and he slid the vegetables onto the griddle.

"It's your fault Antonio. It's all your fault."

There was an intensity to Lovino. Dios, it was overwhelming. He was all emotion and no rationale. It was pure in that way. It was beautiful.

"Don't think I didn't notice the eyes you were making at that man at the restaurant the other day. Don't think I didn't notice the way your face lit up when he was in the room—when you got a chance to talk to him and not me."

It wasn't so hard to read him. He was as clear and open as the night sky, and it was just as enchanting to follow his stars into their constellations.

"You fell in love with him, Toni. You fell out of love with me and in love with him and it hurt. You think you I'm the one who cheated because I slept with some stranger and you're as pure as a rose, well you're wrong."

The night. The night had finally settled; Antonio was thankful for it. Life was easier this way.

And like a moth, Antonio's eyes couldn't miss the glowing light of Lovino's window. He was stirring vegetables and sauce into the pasta.

It was cold, but Antonio hoped Lovino would tour outside anyway. He wanted to see him. He was tired of sitting by himself. He was lonely, he—

"You give away what matters most. You give anyone your heart."

Antonio's fingers froze. He was reaching for his guitar to play a tune, but he couldn't. An icy fear spread across his skin. What was happening?

"You're just addicted to falling in love. You do it so easily. You love too many people and I hate it Toni! I can't do this anymore."

Antonio's eyes were wide, and his heart was racing. Why would he hear her all of a sudden? Why now?

Just as his grip settled icily over the arm of his guitar, he raised his eyes to the window again. And Lovino was looking back at him. Bright and dark eyes, with lips set somewhere in between a grimace and smile.

And without thinking, Antonio grinned and raised the guitar to his lap.

"Is it the thrill of the chase you love? Am I too boring now that we're married?"

Antonio's fingers dug in between the strings. He tried to block her out. It wasn't worth thinking about.

"Are you going to play some of your music or not?" Lovino asked, his rough and smooth voice caressed Antonio's ear. It was the most intriguing sound in the world.

Antonio managed to dig out a laugh from deep down and glance at Lovino wittingly. "Will you sing for me?" He barely caught the glint of Lovino rolling his eyes, but he knew it was there.

"I'm eating, asshole," Lovino muttered and made a show of waving his fork around. He'd set his dinner on the wire table.

Antonio laughed again. It was easier this time. "What should I play?"

Lovino's face pondered. He did a lot of that before slowly he mumbled, "It doesn't matter to me."

"Okay," Antonio replied. His lips were turned up, and he had feeling in his fingers. And when he strummed the guitar, a jolt of life shot up his spine.

He played and looked at Lovino; and Lovino looked back at him.

Eventually, Lovino lit a cigarette. And they both left something in the space between the balconies.

"You're a slut, Toni."


Aren't you?

Aren't you?


The calendar had to be wrong. It had to be false. A forgery. A trick. A lie.

How could it already by March?


Rome was changing. The clouds were swept away into the mountains, the rain poured somewhere else; Rome was running to spring.

The sun returned to it. He appeared each morning and pulled Antonio out of bed. He guided Antonio to work—to his humble job in construction and repairing old buildings. He burned the stubbornness from Antonio's brow and made him sweat. The sun was his captain. Antonio tried to follow his way.

But the moon was very loyal. She came back every night, and followed Lovino on his long trek to the bar. The darkness of the night cloaked the city that haunted him, and the moon was the lantern to make sure Lovino wouldn't trip. He could see just enough to go to and from the bar. He didn't need more. He didn't need time to keep going.

There were only ten days left.


Ludwig was sitting at the café across the street. He was staring at his cappuccino rather pensively as his German newspaper laid on the other side of the table ignored. He was debating on the foam again. It was always the little things that caught him.

Ludwig didn't like the foam. Well, he'd never tried it to tell the truth. But he ordered cappuccinos because Feli liked the foam. He'd insist and beg for it, and Ludwig would get it kind of begrudgingly, but secretly very happily.

He still ordered cappuccinos, but he never drank the foam. It seemed wrong somehow. He would wait for the foam to melt away.

"Hey," Lovino's voice echoed warm and near. Suddenly, he pulled out a chair and sat across from him. "What are you doing?"

"Having breakfast," Ludwig replied simply. He pretended not to notice how familiar the depths of Lovino's eyes were. They didn't look alike, but sometimes…Ludwig lowered his gaze again.

Lovino sighed and he settled more comfortably into the chair. "Do you want me to drink it?"

Ludwig's shoulder's stiffened, and he instinctively reached for the ceramic cup. "No, it's fine," he insisted, and took a brief sip.

Lovino frowned, but didn't say anything.

Ludwig thought perhaps he should. "So, do you have any plans?"

"What?"

"I was asking if you have any plans?" he repeated. Then more belatedly, he added, "…for the seventeenth, I mean."

How could a number have so much power? Since when did the number seventeen possess the ability to silence a heartbeat and freeze skin? Since when was it capable of shattering spines and not allowing anyone to escape—even though the number itself was a warning to Run for the hills.

"I—" Lovino started, his voice was very gritty. "I don't."

"Okay," Ludwig said slowly. So far so good. This wasn't bad. "I was thinking of getting flowers and visiting the grave. Perhaps gardenias? Or something else. You know what he likes."

Lovino's lips were firmly pressed together, his eyes didn't waver from Ludwig's, and now they no longer looked like Feli's. Feliciano never looked like this; not even when he tried. Where Feliciano had to talk to explain all of feelings, emotions, and thoughts that flickered through his mind, Lovino could state it in one simple glance. His dark and molten brown eyes could tear at one's throat.

But Ludwig was accustomed to them now. He'd been looking at them since their first introduction two years ago.

"Feliciano, I am about ninety-two percent certain that your brother despises me," he said once.

Feliciano laughed first. That was always his first reaction. Then hurriedly, he exclaimed, "Don't be silly, Luddy. Lovino's very good at giving off a bad impression. But I promise he only gets better with time."

"Why does that not sound very promising?"

Feliciano smiled a little wider. "Lovino's more sensitive than I am. He cares a lot about the people he knows. And I think…he feels a lot more at once than I do. It confuses him, and in the end, doesn't know what he thinks."

Ludwig held the cup delicately in his fingers, and he took a deep breath. "I think Feliciano would like it if you came."

Lovino's eyes darted down and away. His hands retreated to his pockets, like he was preparing to sprint.

"Lovino, please," Ludwig pleaded, and his voice was slightly desperate. "I don't want to go by myself."

Lovino sat there very still and frozen. He didn't reply. He didn't say anything at all.

"I promise, Lovino doesn't hate you. He doesn't let himself feel so much for people he hates."

Then he stood up, plucked the box of cigarettes and lighter from his pocket and dove out the door. He was pacing away and leaving only a trail of smoke.

"I think secretly, he might even love you."

Smoke was a warning for fire, wasn't it?

"Mein Gott, now you're just being ridiculous, Feli."


There was something beautiful to things that belonged to the imagination. They were flowers that were kept free, fresh and untouched. They didn't die. They only blossomed and grew, and continued to grow. Forever.

And a romance that was left to the imagination was much the same way.

Antonio was in the habit of seeing Lovino everyday now—if only a small glimpse of him. He'd see him hanging laundry in the mornings, while smoking. He'd see him eating lunch outside, while smoking. He'd see him drink wine outside, while smoking.

And then there were occasions on the street where Antonio would see Lovino taking a walk—staring only at the road directly in front of him, perhaps wishing that road led to somewhere else.

There was one time that Antonio saw Lovino writing: and he was fairly certain he wasn't supposed to see that. Purely by circumstance, Antonio was lost in the further region of Prati, just wandering around the area in search of a particular grocery store Gilbert had recommended to him. Antonio passed by a park almost entirely shaded by the leaves of trees. There were some benches strewn about, and on one of them sat Lovino. He had a journal in his lap – it looked old from afar – and he was writing stop-and-go.

It was another piece added to the puzzle. The flower blossomed even more.

It was an unknown romance, because did Antonio and Lovino really know each other? They knew each other's tragedies from the loose-mouthed German brothers. Antonio was quite sure Lovino knew about his marriages; there was a sign in the arrangement of planets in Lovino's eyes that said I'm sorry, but I know.

Antonio even knew how Lovino lived. It was smoke and booze, smoke and booze. And Antonio was sure Lovino knew how he lived: daydreams, nightmares, and acoustic guitar in between.

It made Antonio believe that he did know him, because he saw more of Lovino than even Ludwig did. It made Antonio feel protective, because he saw the tears that fell after midnight, and he played music to them to make them dry faster.

He was confident that he carried a piece of Lovino's heart in his guitar now.

And so that might explain the sudden sting of possessiveness that surged through his veins nowadays. It began with the Cigarette Lady down the street.

The Cigarette Lady was a woman Antonio had seen only once before when he stepped into a tabacchi to buy some bus tickets. She was tall with four-inch stilettos, a slender figure and a fur-trimmed coat; she had a slick blonde ponytail, and black eye shadow that accentuated her feline spark.

When Antonio entered she stopped him and asked if he was buying cigarettes. He said he wasn't interested and that was the end of that.

But then he saw her again, and it was with Lovino. Antonio was passing by that same tabacchi on his way back to the apartment and he spotted Lovino inside chatting with the woman. It made Antonio halt in his tracks because he saw a side of Lovino he'd never seen before…happy.

He was smiling and chatting with her. The Cigarette Lady had her purse open – or what Antonio thought was a purse – and multiple brands of cigarettes were proudly on display.

Antonio wasn't an idiot. He knew it must have been a very charismatic and impassioned talk about cigarettes. He knew it was about money and spending money and smoking and all that jazz.

But in the moment, he didn't fucking care.

It was a part of Lovino he didn't know. A part of him that he never saw; that he didn't own, that wasn't his. So it just pointed out the obvious:

Lovino didn't belong to him.

And another day, Lovino was sitting with Ludwig and Gilbert at the café across the street. They were talking, joking, and probably bantering. But the three of them glistened with some sort of comfortable familiarity. They loved each other. It was obvious. In one way or another, they were family.

Lovino didn't belong to him, did he?

And it hurt.

The first time Antonio thought about it, his eyes stung: he could've cried. He was repairing a window of some fancy men's clothing store and he was horrified at the despair in his eyes. Because this wasn't love was it? It couldn't be. Antonio couldn't have fallen once again for the same goddamn arrow. Cupid couldn't have stabbed his heart again. He couldn't go through this again. He would bleed out. Other people would fall.

He thought it was a romance, because romance was something purer. Antonio kept it safe in his mind: where all of the possibilities existed without the danger.

It was a flower that would keep blossoming untouched.

Antonio would never dare pick it, for then it wouldn't be too long before it died.

And then dried petals would be all that's left.


There's people that we know, there's places

And there's seldomly things we must replace


Five days.


The bar Lovino worked at was very popular. It was in the center of Trastevere – where all the young and wonderful lived – and it lived on a street full of many other bars.

Apparently, this was where Gilbert would go out most of his weekends. Ludwig would come out once in a while, but it was never quite his thing. So Gilbert was ecstatic when he finally managed to convince Antonio to try it out. It was the mention of Lovino's bar that did the trick in the end.

That Friday night, the two of them went out. They stopped at a pizzeria for dinner and split two bottles of wine. They felt properly tipsy so it was onward to Caravaggio's—that was the name of the bar.

People of all sorts were leaking out the door. Most were holding cocktails and drunkenly conversing outside as they smoked. Some, like Gilbert and Antonio, were fighting for their way in. It was a small establishment: it was Rome, so it's not like there were any large bars.

Gilbert marched his way to the front of the bar to order a B59. Antonio tagged behind him, but his wits were slower, and his dizzy eyes fluttered around the room for the flower he'd been fawning over.

It took two inebriated steps forward and a sloppy rest of his elbow on the kitchen counter for him to hear:

"What the hell are you doing here?" Lovino's dark and murky eyes were sparkling in front of him.

Antonio's stomach flipped and he his smile came fast and natural. "Gilbert wanted to take me out, and I wanted to see where you work," he said, and his voice was very giddy.

Lovino alternated his glare in Gilbert's direction for a hot second, but he was busy flirting with the female bartender. Lovino pursed his lips and looked at Antonio again. "What do you want?"

Antonio glanced down at the menu. "Um, how about…a Moscow Mule? I don't know what that is, but it sounds interesting."

"Great," Lovino muttered. He grabbed a plastic cup and held it under a sink. In less than seconds he handed the cup to Antonio, "Here you go."

It took a while for Antonio to process it. "This is water."

"It is."

"That's not what I ordered."

"You wouldn't be able to taste the difference anyway."

"What are you saying?"

"That you're trashed."

Antonio laughed and laughed and rested his face on the bar. "Dios mio, you're so funny. You should talk more, you know?"

Lovino's hands were on his shoulders and struggling to lift him up. "I talk when I need to talk. I don't waste my words on nonsense," he mumbled. "Now get up already. This bar is filthy. You don't want to know what happens here."

Antonio raised his head faster than either of them expected and he was eye to eye with Lovino.

"You know, Toni…I wish you never talked to me that one day at the restaurant."

How many barriers did Antonio stumble through? Had the two of them ever been so close before?

"You have planets in your eyes," Antonio mused wondrously. He was enraptured in Lovino's gaze. He felt privileged to be this close. The universe really did exist in Lovino's eyes: that's why he was all chaos. So much was inside him and he couldn't know.

Lovino's lips turned up at the same time his eyebrows knit together. "What are you talking about idiota?" he asked. His voice was that familiar melody of honey and charcoal.

Antonio tried to grasp Lovino's face, but he couldn't catch it—wasn't that always the way? "Your eyes," he murmured. "They have planets in them. The three dark black spots."

Lovino chuckled kind of amused, and grasped Antonio's hand. It felt like fire, but only for a moment, as Lovino guided Antonio's hand around the cup of water. "Here," he ordered. "Drink this and they'll go away."

"Why couldn't you be just fine with how things were?"

Antonio laughed for some reason, and he smiled with more confidence than he knew he possessed. "Do you want to bet?"

"Sure, sure," Lovino shrugged dismissively. He encouraged the cup of water down Antonio's throat.

Antonio coughed a little, and some water dribbled onto his shirt. "Hey," he complained.

Lovino dropped the empty cup in the trash. "You'll thank me tomorrow. Let me dig up something to eat for you." He wandered behind the counter, opening and closing cabinets.

Antonio pouted, but was kept highly entertained as he watched Lovino work. It was unnatural to see him move so quickly—what happened to the man that would sit on the balcony for hours into the night, just smoking and relighting cigarettes?

In a flash, Lovino was in front of him again, and he was holding a few packets of crackers. "It's all we have," he said. "How about you sit down on the couch and eat these and I'll order the German bastard to take you home?"

Antonio took the crackers and stared at them in something akin to wonder. "These are for me?"

"They are," Lovino snickered. He started wiping the countertop.

Antonio's eyes were still fixed on the crackers, but only because his mind was trying its very hardest to think. His head was full of water; he could think, but everything was distorted. It was kind of free this way.

"We would look at each other from across the room. I'd play my piano, and you'd play your guitar. Wasn't it fine like that?"

"Are you still standing here?" Lovino asked him.

Antonio raised his gaze to look at Lovino again. "Can I eat them outside?"

Lovino raised an eyebrow. "I mean, yeah. If you want to, go ahead."

"Can you join me?"

Lovino's cheeks colored slightly—Antonio thought they always looked better that way. He crossed his arms protectively. "What for?"

"Just to keep me company."

"…You don't need company."

"We can keep each other company then," Antonio settled, and he gave what he hoped was a knowing look.

But Lovino turned his head away, and he busied himself with wiping his hands on a towel. After a minute of wringing his fingers, he muttered a fast, "Fine. I need a cigarette." And in a few fast steps he was on the other side of the counter, suddenly shorter than a few seconds ago, and much more like the Lovino of the balcony Antonio used to know.

They fought their way outside. Lovino was very lithe and exceptional when it came to maneuvering through a crowd. Antonio was never good at it, so he followed behind. He didn't realize Lovino was dragging him by his hand until they were hit by the bite of cold air and he no longer felt a warm palm in his.

Lovino leaned against the brick wall of a secluded alleyway and fished out his box of cigarettes. He lit one in a second, and there was smoke in the air again.

"You're addicted, aren't you," Antonio said wistfully. It wasn't even a question. He didn't know why he said that. It must have been the wine.

Lovino only reacted by taking another long drag. "Eat your crackers before you puke."

Antonio chuckled and began opening the wrapper. He broke of pieces and started eating them one by one.

"Do you like Rome?"

"I live here."

"But do you like it?"

Lovino was quiet for a moment. "I don't like it. At all, really. But," he sighed. "I love it anyway."

Antonio nodded his head. "Yeah, there's some sort of bittersweet romance with the place you're from. I feel like everyone ends up hating it, but always returning. Perhaps home is our siren."

Lovino rolled his eyes. "God, you're drunk."

Antonio's lips spread slow and lazy. "I'm not that drunk, really," he said. "I've been far more drunk in the past, and that was when I was sober."

"Start making sense you imbecile."

Antonio's laugh was breathy and he murmured, "All right, then." He rolled off of the wall and stood next to Lovino. By his stature, Antonio was almost looming over him, and his eyes were so intent. Not intense. They were intent. Because he always had a purpose.

"You ruined everything, Toni. You had to have everything. You had to have me, and it's all ruined now."

Lovino matched his gaze, and inhaled the smoke.

"Love," Antonio explained. He chuckled almost helplessly. "I'm always an idiot in love. There's nothing like the merciless plunge into love. You become powerless – all of your free will is stripped away – yet despite it all, you feel the most invincible you've ever felt. I don't think any amount of alcohol could match that. I would have become an alcoholic if that were the case."

Pain. Pain. Pain. Squeezing the heart, stinging the eyes—just push it down. Lovino's voice was soft: "Addictions never solve anything, really…Feliciano would always—" His voice stopped. He couldn't talk anymore. Lovino's throat closed and he could only close his mouth and look down.

Antonio didn't reply right away. Lovino didn't know if he was expecting something or not. Feliciano was never brought up with anyone other than Ludwig. No one was permitted to say or know or hear.

Then Antonio's husky Spanish accent whispered, "When I met my wife, I was a barista."

Lovino dropped his cigarette and tried to breathe instead. He listened to Antonio.

"I was a barista, and she was a baker. This was in Lisbon. I was living with my brother at the time, and I just got any little job to get by," he continued. "Then Emma walked into the café. She ordered an espresso macchiato. And she came back everyday and ordered one."

They were looking unwaveringly at each other now. Lovino noticed the glass in Antonio's eyes…it wasn't there any longer.

"After we separated," he said. "I stopped drinking coffee. I couldn't stand the smell. I couldn't stand the sight. I just couldn't stand it." Antonio's hand reached down, and it grasped Lovino's shaking one—his hands were always shaking. "When I met my husband, we were both playing music. It was lovely music. We played everyday when we were happy." Antonio grasped Lovino's other hand. It was shaking too, of course. "And when we broke up, I lived in complete silence. I couldn't hear the music. I didn't want to. I didn't want to hear anything again."

It took so much for Lovino to scrounge an ounce of courage and retort, "So?"

Antonio smiled, and this time gentler. "I'm just saying, I tried to give up life and keep living, and it just didn't work. I thought I should give you a head's up."

"I'm doing just fine," Lovino muttered.

"I don't believe that," Antonio replied swiftly. "And I know because I'm not doing fine either." His eyes were green and lost and they shifted to the wall beside Lovino's head; they looked at nothing. "What I wouldn't give to be drunk like that again," he said wistfully.

Lovino couldn't take it.

He slipped his hands out of Antonio's grasp and fisted them in his dark, curly hair. Then he yanked Antonio's face forward until their lips crashed in a rough, uncoordinated kiss. Neither of them expected it. Antonio was tipsy. Lovino was sad. Or perhaps both of them were sad, and both of them were tipsy. And perhaps that's also why when they did kiss, it didn't feel like a surprise. It felt like Finally.

Suddenly there were hands on hips, and hands on skin, and lips and tongue pushing deeper, more passionately. It was more.

More tan skin.

More green eyes.

More dark hair.

More tobacco breath.

More Italian.

More Spanish.

"How am I supposed to play music again without thinking of you?"

And then Antonio opened his eyes and he heard a violent SNAP. It was a tear, a pluck, a break in the fibrous green stem. What was he thinking?

It wasn't Finally, it was What the fuck are you doing?

Antonio pushed Lovino away. Lovino fell back against the wall; his hair was mussed and splayed, and his breath was short and panting. Antonio cursed the moon for lighting Lovino's dark, dark eyes and smooth, smooth skin in just the right way. It made his swollen lips glisten. He was talking.

"Wh-what?" he coughed. His voice was shaking. Just like his hands. Just like his everything. Because he was a picked flower now. He wasn't safe.

Antonio's blood was cold and his eyes were distant with fear and dread. "What?" he repeated back. His voice was just as weak.

Lovino's eyebrows knit together in something akin to concern or frustration. "What's wrong?"

"Didn't I just finish telling you," Antonio replied lowly. Some mysterious fierceness spilt in his chest. "Everything's wrong. Everything. Every goddamn thing."

"I know, but—"

"I can't do this again. I can't. I shouldn't. It's never worth it. It never is," Antonio continued rapidly. He sounded more desperate than angry. "I need you to leave me alone. I need to be alone. I need to be. Don't you get it?"

Now Lovino could feel the faint throb in his head. His heart stopped fluttering. His eyes could no longer see stars. "No," he murmured. "No one needs to be alone."

"I need to be."

"No, you don't."

Antonio took a step back and ran his hand roughly through his hair. "You don't get it. You don't get it at all."

Lovino's eyes were very heavy. He let his gaze fall to the ground. "You think I don't understand loneliness?"

Antonio didn't seem to hear him. He was chanting, "I can't do this. Not again. What did I say earlier? That love was like being drunk? Dios, it is. It is. I don't think of the consequences. The hangover. The pain in the side. The pain in the head. Pain. Pain. Pain. That's all it is. Emma. Roderich. Some guy named Tim. Some girl in Hungary. I can't do this. I…"

Lovino had his hands on Antonio's. They tore them away from Antonio's scalp and held them tight. Their breaths mingled together messily for a moment and Lovino dove in. He kissed Antonio more precise, more lovingly, more purposefully. He was trying to convince him of something.

Then he unlocked their lips to whisper, "Who was the one that said that giving up life to keep living doesn't work?"

Antonio's expression turned severe. He distanced himself further and muttered, "Love has nothing to do with life and living. Love is the pain before death. It's torture. And it's not worth it."

What was Lovino supposed to say to that?

Antonio didn't wait to find out. He wrenched his arm from Lovino's pathetic grasp and marched out of the alleyway—back into the anonymity of the crowded night.

Music was his aid. It blocked everything.

Italians were screaming about a football game—Antonio couldn't hear Lovino's breaths.

American tourists were asking for directions—Antonio couldn't hear Lovino's rough voice.

A few drunk boys collapsed to the floor in a big hoopla—Antonio couldn't pretend to hear the songs Lovino never sung, the confessions that hadn't been told, the poetry that hadn't left the confines of a private journal.

Antonio picked his flower.

Roderich was fucking right.

Antonio picked his flower.

It was going to wilt now.


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Just one more part left!

To be continued...