A/N:

Madeline Williams – Nyo!Canada. Although for the purposes of this fic, her nationality is French.

David – Random unimportant OC who exists for literally one scene and has literally one line.

Today. Now.

Antonio can't help but forget, sometimes. Lovi usually has such a long list of things he wants to buy from the market. All of them somehow involve foods Antonio hasn't even heard of, things he didn't even know existed. ("Truffles? Oh, you mean the pretty sleeves that those old dress shirts had, right?" "No, you moron! Those are called ruffles!") Now, however, he's making soup. Simple soup. Although nothing is ever simple with Lovi and food. The two are intrinsically combined. Antonio strongly believes that Lovi's heart is shaped like a tomato. He loves food just that much.

Tomatoes. He stares at them in the supermarket aisle. There's a middle-aged woman just up ahead, scanning the dairy section. But Antonio has stopped, picking up one perfectly red fruit and watching his reflection in its polished skin. Lovi had wanted him to buy shredded chicken, but there are small things that remind him of three years ago, and each time, the memories threaten to swallow him whole.

Not that he minds. He could swim all day in those memories.

Three years ago

Antonio is playing with a rolling pin. He's sitting at the dining table of his Francis's apartment. It's a cute little thing with a ton of charm. Cream walls, flowers, wine cabinet, elaborately-stocked kitchen, one small bedroom and a fold-out sofa in front of the TV. He moves the rolling pin across a blue placemat and then moves it back, repeating the motion again and again, until his friend turns around from where he's cooking and says, "Toni, I need that now."

"Hmm?" Antonio says, glancing up.

"What's with you today?" Francis has an unsettled look on his face. He's worried because he needs to leave the house in fifteen minutes, and Antonio is acting like his dog just died. Antonio knows he's being a bit of a downer. He really doesn't want to mess up Francis's evening. But. But.

"I hate sleeping around," Antonio says finally, slumping back in his chair.

The doorbell rings.

"Oh, come now," Francis mutters to himself, wiping his hands on his apron as he goes to answer it. Antonio hears him say, "Gilbert!" before a loud German voice floods into the otherwise quiet apartment.

Antonio grins slightly as his other friend approaches. "Toni!" Gilbert cries, and they hug. In fact, Gilbert holds on for a second longer than expected, and when he pulls back, there's an almost peaceful look in his red eyes. Antonio's heart breaks. He doesn't want to hurt his friend. He hasn't seen Gilbert in a year, but this meeting will not be a long one.

There is too much going on. Too much going on in his mind. Too much. Too much. Too much.

"So, what were you saying about sleeping around?" Francis asks.

"What? Oh, this seems like a good conversation." Gilbert pulls out a beer from Francis's fridge and sits down on the couch. Antonio looks between the Frenchman at the stove and the German, feeling slightly trapped. He pulls awkwardly at his collar.

"I allowed myself to get seduced by this really attractive guy today," Antonio begins simply. Francis stops using the rolling pin and Gilbert wolf-whistles. It makes the Spaniard smile slightly. "I think he was Italian or something. He didn't say, but I've heard that accent a lot when I was in Florence. Anyway, his name was Lovino."

"Well, good for you," Francis says with a smirk in his voice. "Sleeping with a sexy Italian in Paris. C'est parfait, non?"

"No, it's not perfect. I feel a bit…I don't know, lonely, I guess. I hate it when I do that. I hate it one-time things like this."

"Oh, come on," Gilbert says. "It's okay. Did you enjoy it, at least?"

"Of course I did."

"Of course he did. He had sex. With an Italian. In Paris. There's no way that wasn't extraordinary." Francis waves a spatula in the air as though it were a magic wand.

Antonio stands, moving towards the window. It's night now. Cute little French streets and flowers and smells and cobbled footpaths and cars and Francis and Gilbert and food and wine and perfume and it's all so overwhelming and the Eiffel Tower is somewhere in the distance and it's watching over him and it's too much too much too much too much toomuchtoomuchtoomuch—

"I need to go."

"What?" Gilbert asks, and Francis glances at Antonio.

"Out. Of here. Somewhere. Anywhere. Not Paris." Antonio turns wildly back to face his friends. "Out. Somewhere," he repeats. "I was thinking about it today. Lovino and I saw the Eiffel Tower together, and I was thinking, well, I've seen it twenty times already. The view never changes. Nothing ever changes. Paris is so stagnant."

"Hey!" Francis protests, frowning in fake anger.

"I need to go. Out. I need to go, I need to go, I need to go."

"All right, all right." Gilbert gets up and puts his hands in front of him, a motion to pacify Antonio. "Just calm down. Where do you want to go?"

Antonio shrugs. "Anywhere. Just out of this city. Maybe Sweden, I don't know."

"Just out of this city – maybe Sweden!" Francis mocks, rolling his eyes and turning back to the stove. "There are a hundred things wrong with that idea, starting with money. Lord knows you don't have much of it. And Sweden, mon ami, is expensive. Not to mention extreme. Who even thinks of leaving Paris for Sweden? What's the capital of Sweden, anyway?"

"Stockholm, Francis," Antonio replies dryly. "I mean, come on. How do you not know that?"

"I forget! I'm not like you! You know every capital in the world!"

"Look, guys, no – Francis, shut up! Toni, just let's all calm down for a second. You've been in Paris for only three days." Gilbert is not very good at being the mediator, but he has a point. Antonio bites his bottom lip. "Check out the museums and the monuments and stuff."

"Ugh, I've done that so many times I could probably be a tour guide myself."

"Well, you could always do something off the beaten track. Maybe explore the lesser known parts of Paris," Francis suggests.

"No! I've done that! Whatever you suggest, I've done that." Antonio runs a hand through his hair. "No, it's time to go. I need to go now. Coming here was a bad idea. I should have gone somewhere else…somewhere…like maybe North Korea or something…somewhere I haven't been."

"First Sweden, now North Korea," Gilbert mutters.

"Next he'll say Mars."

"Don't give him ideas."

"Guys, I need help here," Antonio snaps, finally losing control of his emotion. He's on the verge of panic, though. He's been to Paris one too many times. He won't be coming back here for another five years, best friends be damned.

"Okay, okay, look," Francis says gently, turning off the stove and putting his hands on Antonio's shoulders. "You can't go anywhere right now. Whatever you plan to do, you're going to do it in the morning, right? Now here's my idea. Why don't you go check out Normandy? You've only been there once, right? There's a lot left to explore. A very dear friend of mine runs a nice hotel there – very cheap, very comfortable. If she knows you're my ami, she'll treat you really well. Do you want me to call and tell her you're coming?"

Antonio looks right into Francis's blue eyes. They're a very clear shade, almost like polished stone. He can sometimes imagine the whole universe's wisdom residing within them. Francis is unusually sagacious, despite appearing shallow. His voice is also very calming. It's helped Antonio in the past, and it helps him now. He loves the sound of Francis's voice. It's as easy as a breeze, and yet is as firm as an anchor. Antonio feels his heartbeat slow and he realises he's not breathing quite as rapidly. "Normandy," he says, as thought the word is new to him.

"You can borrow my car," Gilbert offers, and Antonio looks to his direction, giving him a weak, shaky smile.

"That sounds good. Thank you."

"No problem. Now can we all just calm down?"

"Oui, Gil's right. Wear something more sensible, Toni. We're going to the restaurant together. I don't want you sitting here alone, feeling miserable. Carry your guitar. I'd like you to play something tonight. The customers always love you."

"Call your friend first," Antonio says, crossing his arms. His tone leaves no room for argument.

Francis rolls his eyes. "Oh, all right." He takes his phone out of his pocket, scrolls through his contact list, and puts the mobile to his ear. He's speaking in rapid French, but Antonio can discern quite a bit of what he's saying. "Ah, Jeanne, so nice to speak to you again! Yes, yes, lovely, and how about you? Yes, those were very exciting days, no? Definitely, definitely, we must meet up sometime. Yes, I know. Jeanne, I actually called you for a favour. It's nothing big. A friend of mine should be arriving in Normandy tomorrow. His name is Antonio – Antonio Fernandez Carriedo – and I wondered if you could help him feel a bit welcome? Yes, he'll be alone. One room should be good. Oh, I see. But isn't it off-season? Ah, yes, that can be a bother. Oh, you can?! Excellent, thank you. That should be perfect. You're a saint, my dear. I really do appreciate it." His voice drops now, and Antonio gets the feeling Francis is becoming a bit intimate over the phone. He looks away, to Gilbert, who's started on his second beer.

"I feel better," Antonio says, sitting on the couch next to the German. It's not even surprising to him that his two best friends are from different countries. Gilbert moved to France after he fell in love with Madeline Williams in their college days. They'd both studied in Canada, and when Gilbert realised he couldn't see her anymore, he decided to learn French and move to Paris with her. Antonio had met him and Francis at Francis's restaurant the first time he'd travelled to the city.

Gilbert rolls his eyes and chuckles. "You're a piece of work, seriously."

"You won't need the car, though?"

"Maddie's got hers. And it's okay, really. You're going to drive back here anyway to fly out of France, right?"

Antonio makes a face at the prospect of driving back to Paris. "I think so."

"Then that's how I'll get my car back! Don't worry, really. Just don't wreck it and we're good."

"Thanks. Really, you have no idea how much I appreciate it. I just need to get out of here, you know?"

"Why?" Gilbert asks although he already knows.

Antonio looks away, pulls at his collar, and replies, "Because I can't breathe."

Francis's restaurant is called Joie de Vivre and is a little bit different than most. It's a very upmarket establishment – there's no doubt about that. But it's fun. It's an adorable place with cream walls and flowers and wooden tables, yellow lights hanging from the ceiling and black-and-white pictures of yesteryear French icons. An open space is slightly elevated - a stage, with large speakers and musical instruments. There's also a garden with more tables and yellow fairy lights and freshly mowed grass. Almost every night, Francis has performers. Singers, comedians, dancers, and sometimes even karaoke. It's popular because it's nothing like the other Michelin Star restaurants in Paris. It doesn't demand expensive jewellery and designer clothes on its customers. It only wants people to have a good time.

At least, that's what Francis says.

It's right in the middle of dinner rush when Francis drives the three of them there, and he tells a waiter to make them comfortable as he dashes to the kitchen to oversee what's happening. Francis is a stellar chef himself, but his job usually involves little cooking and more managing. The restaurant is almost full, although Antonio and Gilbert get a special table outdoors, and they take it, despite the nip in the air. Arthur is sitting not too far away.

Antonio has never, ever, ever understood the relationship between Arthur and Francis. Francis says they grew up together, Arthur says they've hated each other since childhood. Francis flirts with Arthur all the time and Arthur yells at him for it – but then flirts right back. But they're not dating, because Arthur always claims to be sleeping with some American named Alfred and Francis has a new woman in bed every weekend. And there are times when they act like each other's mothers. This usually happens when Francis falls sick, or when Arthur attempts to use the stove in the restaurant's kitchens. They often help each other get laid with someone else, but then Francis also tells anyone who cares to listen that he an Arthur are sworn to each other. Arthur shouts at him, but doesn't deny it. Not to mention, Arthur's always at the restaurant. Every night. During dinner rush. That's his usual table, at the corner of the lawn. It's reserved for him. Francis even has Arthur's name carved into the wood.

Arthur is drinking his usual beer and reading a book. He looks so out of place in France. He's always dressed in the most plain clothes, in such shocking contrast to everyone else around him. Then again, all of Antonio's clothes are shabby and patched-up. He's not one to talk.

"How have you been?" Antonio asks Gilbert. The German has been travelling for work, and this is really their first meeting since Antonio's been here. He hasn't seen Gilbert all year.

"Good, good," Gilbert replies as he takes a sip of his beer. "Maddie and I are trying to fix a wedding date. That's causing a bit of drama!" he laughs and rolls his eyes. "I still think it's awesome if we just stay together without being married. Breaks convention and all of that." His eyes glitter and twinkle with amusement. "But she doesn't want to hear of it."

"Aw, that's so sweet! Would you be getting married this year, though?"

"Probably not. She wants a spring wedding. It's already October. And then there's the eternal question of where to get married. Have you tried to book a place in Paris in spring? Literally the whole world decides it's a good romantic destination for a wedding. Not that I can blame them. But it's fucking expensive and they're probably all taken, anyway. Plus, Ludwig was not-so-subtly suggesting we should do it in Berlin."

"Berlin is a good idea." Of course it is. He's only been to Berlin about three times, so he can still handle it there. If they decide to get married in Paris next year, he won't be able to come. It'll be too suffocating.

"Try convincing Maddie."

Antonio laughs along with Gilbert. Francis has promised them that anything they order is on the house, so Antonio indulges in a little wine. He knows he's going to have to play his guitar soon, but after the day he's had, he can use a bit of liquid courage. Wine would do well. The waiter recommends a Vargas 2001 and then says something technical about wooded flavour and dry texture which Antonio doesn't quite understand, but the waiter assures him of the choice, and Antonio just goes along with it.

"Remind me, I need to go back and plan for Normandy," says Antonio after his drink arrives.

"Oh, I won't have to. You'll remember," Gilbert replies.

And that's true too.

Twenty minutes later, Francis comes out of the kitchen and nods at Antonio. That's his signal. He picks up his guitar and walks slowly inside, to the stage. It might be off-season, but the restaurant is packed. Most of these people are French, though, and he can spot only a few tourists from maybe China or Japan. Antonio approaches the mic. It's just him – no band. "Hola, everyone!" he says, and there's a clap. Some say 'Allo!' in response.

Antonio doesn't know why everyone likes him so much. He isn't doing anything special. Francis says it's because he's charming and handsome and cheerful, and all of that is rather endearing. Francis also says he's talented and he has stage presence. Antonio can't really agree or disagree. If that's what Francis says, then that's good, right? It's definitely a decent way to earn money. Francis always pays him handsomely for performing here.

"What do you want to listen to tonight?" he calls into the mic, and there's a chorus of responses. He doesn't really understand what they're saying, so he goes on, "I have an idea. Since it's a beautiful evening in beautiful Paris – and let's face it, all of us are feeling at least a little romantic, no?" he winks cheekily, and the couples – for there are at least eight couples here right now – blush and laugh. "Why not start with a love song?" And then the first thing he can think of is That's Amore, because that's what Lovino had wanted him to play earlier today, and he can still taste Lovino on his tongue, despite the wine he's just had. "I know just what to play." Antonio feels like the chirp in his voice has lessened just a bit.

When he sings the song, it's with Lovino in mind. This is exactly why he hates sleeping with someone only once. It gives him terrible heartache. How can you be intimate with a person and not feel for them? At least slightly? Lovino was so good with him. But also his voice. Antonio notices sounds quicker than he notices other things. Lovino's voice had a surprising depth to it. The way he spoke, it could send shivers through Antonio. His hands had been so warm, and his eyes such a molten shade of gold. It almost reminded Antonio of the Golden Temple in India, swarming with mystery and grandeur and grace.

Why did he say yes? He feels so heavy and sad now.

As the song ends, Antonio almost doesn't notice someone standing at the side of the stage. He almost jumps when he hears a sharply whispered, "Listen!"

Oh. It's only Arthur. Antonio approaches him and leans in. "Yes?"

"That girl there, Michelle," Arthur discreetly points to a young woman with ebony skin in a pale blue dress and long hair in two ponytails. "It's her birthday. Her boyfriend asked if you could sing something for her? It's a surprise. You know how it is." Antonio also knows that Arthur helps out around the restaurant like this sometimes. He nods slightly.

"Sure, I can sing something."

"Not something pathetic like 'Happy Birthday'."

Antonio narrows his eyes and makes a face. "Give me some credit, Arturo."

"Shut it, Anthony."

Antonio rolls his eyes but goes back on stage. He smiles cheekily into the mic and says, "And now, ladies and gentlemen, here's a little song to celebrate Michelle's birthday!"

He watches the girl's eyes light up in surprise and her boyfriend smirks happily. He's suddenly not so sure about his song selection, but it doesn't matter, really. "Michelle's boyfriend," Antonio calls out to him, "What's your name?"

"David!" he calls back.

"Excellent. David would like to sing this for her himself – but he's not on stage right now, and I have the guitar."

Everyone laughs. Antonio grins.

"Michelle, ma belle, these are words that go together well, ma Michelle." It's a Beatles song he heard on the radio in London. "Michelle, ma belle, sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble, très bien ensemble…" She's blushing and giggling, and her boyfriend pulls her into a kiss and it's just adorable. Antonio wants something like that, but he travels too much. Nobody wants to handle that sort of lifestyle. He knows. He's tried. None of his relationships last more than a few months.

There's resounding applause and a lot of "Awww!"s when the song comes to a close and Michelle is lifted into the air by David and twirled around. Antonio bites the inside of his cheek. He's not sure what he's feeling right now, but it sure as hell isn't happiness. He steps off the stage because he senses the crowd needs some time to become attentive again, and Gilbert hands him a glass of water.

"When did you learn a Beatles son—"

"Oh my god."

Gilbert frowns in confusion, but Antonio isn't even looking at him. No, his eyes search for the figure behind Gilbert, sitting at one lonely corner table, nursing a glass of water. He's wearing another fancy jacket and scarf, and that stubborn curl of his seems a little crinkled. How hasn't Antonio noticed him before?

"What?" Gilbert asks, turning around.

"That's Lovino."

Lovino hasn't looked up from where he's staring deeply into the tablecloth. His shoulders have slumped, and his eyes are filled. Not with tears, but with a visible sadness.

"Oh Gott, yes, he's very attractive. And rich, by the looks of it."

Antonio walks forward automatically. Is this a good idea? Does it matter? He's always lived with one foot in the danger zone, so this shouldn't be too bad. He's dealt with worse, hasn't he? Lovino looks up as he approaches, and in a flash, his golden eyes are electric and crackling. "Hi there," Antonio says quietly, slipping into the free seat.

"Oh. You."

"Yep. Me!" he laughs awkwardly, running a hand through his hair.

"What sort of guy sleeps with someone and then three hours later serenades another woman?" Lovino mutters into his glass of water, a dry eye-roll gracing his face.

"Technically, it's been like…five hours. I think."

"Hilarious."

"I wasn't serenading her."

"I know."

"Oh, good."

"You were."

"I'm sorry?"

"You. The singing. The guitar. It was pretty good."

"Oh. Thank you!" Antonio laughs again.

And Gilbert and Francis take that exact moment to show up with two chairs and a bottle of wine. Antonio gives them a weak glare, but Francis just grins at him. Lovino raises an eyebrow. "Can I help you?" he drawls, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Gilbert, Francis," Francis introduces, thrusting a hand out for Lovino to take. "So good to meet you. We're friends of his."

"Francis. Yeah, he mentioned you." Lovino stares warily at the offered palm, and then slowly shakes it. "Lovino."

Antonio watches Francis's gaze actually pause. It's like someone's stopped him in mid-sentence. He's regarding Lovino oddly, like he's just remembered something important. "Oh," says Francis suddenly. "You're the Lovino he was talking about?" and then he shoots Antonio a very strange look, like he's trying to say, Did you REALLY?

"Is Lovino that common a name?" the Italian mutters in response.

"What do you do?" Gilbert asks after a moment.

"Wine industry."

Francis looks at Lovino again, and then signals for a waiter. One scrambles up to them, saying, "Yes sir, Mr. Bonnefoy?"

"He owns the restaurant, I think I told you?" Antonio explains.

"Oh. Right." A pause. Lovino seems to be deliberating something. "It's a Michelin Star restaurant. So I decided to check it out."

"Ja, it's excellent," Gilbert agrees. "Try the lamb."

"We'll see."

"What would you fellows like to drink?" Francis asks, but he's still looking only at Lovino. "Here's an idea," he tells the waiter. "Budweiser for Gilbert, and the rest of us can share a bottle of Vargas – something from their 2003 range, red, please. Surprise me."

"No," Lovino suddenly blurts. "Two Budweisers. I don't drink wine."

"I thought you Italians were like the French - you're Italian, right?" Gilbert says, slumping against the back of the chair. "Guzzling wine like water. But eh, whatever. Beer is better than that girly crap anyway."

"Wine isn't girly," Francis snaps.

"It's not," Lovino agrees. "I just don't like it."

The waiter walks off. Antonio's not sure what to do now. He's feeling awkward, and he wishes Francis and Gilbert would just please go away. But then Lovino asks, "You run this place?"

"Me?" Francis replies. "Yes. Do you like it?"

"What's your food like?"

"It's the best in the city. In the country, perhaps."

Lovino's lips become a thin line. "I see."

"Ah, do we have a food critic on our hands?"

"Something like that."

Francis lets out a confident, airy laugh. "Well, Monsieur Lovino," – he stretches out the word 'monsieur' practically unto the next continent – "Please do your worst."

Lovino's expression doesn't really change, but Antonio senses a bit of…well, not tension, but amusement hovering between the two of them. They're both so confident about their own opinions. It's like a friendly challenge.

"Although I must say," Francis goes on, his eyelashes fluttering, "French food is best consumed with wine, no?"

Lovino's brow creases. "No, no wine. That's non-negotiable."

"Ah, fine, fine." Francis is smiling slightly, but there's still a very weird expression on his face. It's nothing like Antonio's ever seen before, and he doesn't quite like it.

Just then, another waiter shows up. He looks slightly pink in the face and rather harried. "Mr. Bonnefoy! Sir!"

"Oui?" Francis turns, his lips curving downwards. "What is the matter?"

The waiter leans in and whispers desperately into his ear.

Francis turns pale and jumps to his feet. "What do you mean Arthur's in the kitchen!? I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, do not let that man near the food."

Gilbert rolls his eyes so emphatically it's a wonder they're not stuck pointed upwards.

Antonio bites his bottom lip to keep himself from laughing.

Lovino is just looking curiously between the three of them.

"We're really sorry, we tried to stop him, but –"

"No, if he wants to help, he can handle the customers. He's good with that. Sort of. Actually no, don't let him near the – why do I even keep him around? I should just ban him from this restaurant. Oh mon dieu, I need to check the status of my kitchen." He turns to the three of them. "Excusez-moi, this is an emergency."

Lovino doesn't look particularly impressed.

Francis just turns and leaves, almost galloping to the kitchen as though he's about to save his pet cat from a fire.

"What was that?" Lovino asks after a moment.

"That's Francis," Gilbert replies simply. He stands up too. "I have to call my fiancé, she's probably wondering where I am."

"Your friends are interesting," Lovino says after Gilbert's a safe distance away. Lovino's Budweiser has arrived, and Gilbert's on the phone with his beer bottle in the other hand. Antonio watches him laughing as he talks, and he can't help but shake his head. Maddie has him wrapped around her little finger. It's hilarious.

"They're a hoot," Antonio agrees.

There's a silence at the table, and Antonio's not sure about what to do next.

"What is your plan for tomorrow?" Lovino asks.

"Tomorrow? I'm leaving."

His golden eyes flash. "Leaving?"

"Yes. It's time to go. I'm driving up to Normandy." And then a crazy, insane, stupid idea occurs to him. "Do you want to come?"

"What?" Lovino says the word so loudly that people from nearby tables turn to look at them. He puts his beer down with unnecessary force, and repeats in a softer voice, "What?"

"Normandy. It's a place."

"I – I fucking know that!" and then his eyes widen, and Lovino's hand clamps down on his mouth. "Sorry. I didn't mean to swear."

Antonio tilts his head to the side. "It's okay. I don't mind."

"It's bad for…business," Lovino finishes, his face turning bright red. He looks away, towards the empty stage. "Normandy, huh?"

"Yeah. It's a totally random idea. But it's been a while since I saw it. I'm bored of Paris."

"I can't come."

"Why not?"

"Well…my brother's booked me tickets for museums and stuff, and…"

Lovino is still not making eye-contact.

"So what?" Antonio asks. He genuinely can't understand. He likes museums, and honestly, there's a lot to see in Paris. But if someone asked him to just pack up and go somewhere completely new, he'd jump at the chance without thinking. It's hard to imagine that someone like Lovino – someone who seems so obviously free-spirited – would refuse for something as silly as tickets to museums.

"I just can't," Lovino finishes. He resolutely avoids looking at Antonio. "I barely even know you."

"I mean, you did sleep with me…"

"That's different."

Huh. Is it? No, it doesn't seem different…not in Antonio's mind. Travel and sex are both a matter of comfort, right? You usually only do it with people you're familiar with. But they only knew each other for a few hours before they had sex, so why can't the travel together too?

"What's to know?" Antonio says after a moment. "I'm Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. I'm twenty-eight. I was born in a small town in Spain where not much happened. I can play the guitar. My favourite colour is red. I like tomatoes! Um, what else? Oh, I'm scared of heights, and I love puppies. But then, everyone loves puppies."

Lovino's blush is so deep that it has spread to his ears. He's still looking right at the empty stage, but Antonio knows he's been listening to every word. "That's not what I meant," Lovino finally says, shaking his head.

Antonio sighs. "Well, think about it. It'll be fun! It's always fun to travel with someone new. You get to know them, you make a new friend, and you have great experiences." Antonio takes out a pen from his pocket and writes his number and Gilbert's address down on a tissue. "If you're interested, meet me tomorrow at six am. Trust me, you'll have a great time. Unless you'd rather stay in Paris, of course…" he looks up with a dubious frown, as though the word 'Paris' is synonymous with the word 'gutter'.

Pocketing the tissue, Lovino says, "All right. Whatever. We'll see."

There's a huge smile on Antonio's face.

Francis arrives with the food himself, which ought to be seen as an honour. "I cooked it," he boasts to Lovino, who merely raises an eyebrow. "I'm sure you will find it to your liking, mon ami," he goes on, flicking some hair out of his face and shooting the Italian a smile that makes Antonio's blood boil. It's exactly the sort of look Francis gives people before they're in bed with him. It's stupid to get this jealous, Antonio knows. It's irrational. He barely even knows Lovino. But if Francis sleeps with him too, Antonio would feel like he'd been used.

Lovino studies the food on his plate. Antonio doesn't really know what it is. Some sort of meat and gravy with greens. "It looks okay, and it smells okay," Lovino concludes after peering at it for a few minutes. Francis's eyes narrow as he hovers above the Italian, awaiting his judgment. The word 'okay' is seldom used in context of Francis Bonnefoy.

Slowly, he cuts the meat, staring at it on his fork for another minute. Then, with the same slowness, he puts it in his mouth and chews. Francis says nothing, but Antonio can see a visible tightness to his features. He's usually so confident about his creations, but Lovino seems to be testing his patience.

"It's salty," the brunet finally declares, putting his fork down and sliding his golden eyes towards Francis with the slightest of smirks.

Francis's jaw drops. "No, it's not. I made it myself!"

"It's salty."

"It is not!"

"It is."

"No!"

"Yes, it is. Taste it yourself."

"It's not – excuse me?"

"Go on." Lovino pushes the plate towards Francis now, that smirk still there. Francis is glaring. Literally glaring, hospitality business be damned. Antonio's sure that Francis has never been told his food is anything but exceptionnel. "Are you scared I'm right?" Lovino eggs, and that's when Francis snaps.

"I'll prove it to you!" he declares, grabbing another chair and sitting down. He pulls the plate towards him, cuts a piece of meat, dips it in the gravy on the plate and puts it in his mouth. Antonio watches Lovino. His golden eyes are studying Francis so carefully, that pure confident sneer to his lips. Francis's face begins to fall. It starts in his eyes – they lose their shine. Then there's that frown.

"I told you."

Francis swallows. "Oh god. That was a little salty." He looks like he's living his worst nightmare. Wide eyes, pale skin, slight tremble to his frame.

"But I liked the rosemary in there. Nice touch. And that dash of saffron was a good idea, although I would probably have used basil instead." Lovino raises an eyebrow again. "Francis? Can you hear me?"

"I…I…" he stutters, and Antonio rolls his eyes. Francis can be so melodramatic. "I'll get you a fresh plate."

"What? No, it's okay." Lovino holds onto the plate and drags closer towards him. "It's really not that bad."

"It's not okay." The fire in his blue eyes is back, and Francis stands, pulling the plate firmly out of Lovino's grasp. "No diner of mine must have salty food. It is unthinkable. I deeply apologise. Desert is on the house."

"What –"

And Francis turns on his heels and marches off.

Lovino is silently gaping. Then, his eyes turn to Antonio. "Is he always like that?"

"Pretty much. He's very good at his job. Apart from the…uh…occasionally salty food." Antonio smiles at him slightly. "Hey, think about my offer, okay? I better go back to playing music."

It's way past midnight when Francis and Antonio drive back to the Frenchman's apartment. The ride has been strangely quiet. In fact, Francis has been acting a little funny ever since meeting Lovino, and Antonio knows it has nothing to do with the food incident. "There's something you'd better know about him, Toni," he says as they unlock the door to his place.

"Oh?"

"Yes. Sit, I'll show you."

While Antonio starts organising the pull-out sofa, he's also randomly throwing things into his bags. He only really has two. A backpack and a large shoulder bag. Francis has gone to his room, and Antonio can hear things being moved and cupboard doors being opened and closed.

Five minutes later, Francis returns with his scrapbook. He has a bit of a habit of collecting newspaper and magazine clippings relevant to his line of work. New developments in the food industry, reviews and critics, a rival restaurant, perhaps inflation in the produce market…

Now, he opens it to a section titled 'Vin': the French word for wine. He flips past a few pages, and says, "So, there's this very, very popular brand of wine I'm sure you've heard of. They're originally Italian, but they've rather successfully breached the Spanish and French market with regional varieties." Francis's sky-blue eyes look at Antonio with not a trace of humour. "When I saw your Lovino, I couldn't help but think that he looks rather familiar…and then it struck me. See." And he points to a slightly yellow newspaper clipping.

Antonio is not so interested in the headline. Something about the Vargas brand having produced a new line of red Bordeaux. No, he's keener on the picture. There's a colour photograph of a man with greying brown hair standing in between two younger gents. One of them has his eyes slightly closed – perhaps due to the camera flashing – and the other is…Lovino.

"Lovino Vargas," Francis says dramatically, his eyes never leaving Antonio's. "Your little boytoy is none other than the heir apparent to one of Europe's largest wine producers."

"Oh." Antonio's pretty sure his ears are ringing.

"Oui. He's rich. He's very, very rich. Not to mention famous. No wonder he paid in cash and didn't reveal his last name. He probably doesn't want the attention."

"This explains a lot," Antonio says after a moment. The expensive spending habits - Lovino really knew how to tip. The strong opinions on food...he's probably used to eating the best. Lovino did seem rather rich, actually. Not to mention cultured. And he'd also said he worked in the 'wine industry'. "But wait, why does he keep avoiding wine, then?"

"He probably gets too much of it." Francis pauses for a moment, and then says, "But that's not the point. The point is, you can't throw his name around lightly. You have to be a bit careful."

"Huh?" Antonio finally tears his eyes away from the newspaper clipping and blinks at Francis. "Why?"

"Because your little rendezvous with him? That there is a gossip story. He's known for being rather promiscuous. You really don't know, do you? He's bisexual, apparently. He's dated celebrities and heirs. Sleeps with money, if you know what I mean. Last I knew, he was seeing some Alfonsina something…daughter of one of those dot-com millionaires."

"Oh my." Antonio's is gaping, and he can hear his heartbeat in his head. "Francis, I messed up."

The Frenchman narrows his eyes. "What did you do?"

"I asked him if he'd like to come to Normandy with me."

"Oh mon dieu."

In the morning, Antonio is nervous. He could barely sleep at all last night. He feels like such an idiot. Lovino is probably laughing about it over wine and bonbons or something with three French belles slathered in strawberries and cream. The very image makes him shudder. The idea of Lovino being with someone else disturbs him, and that in itself is an unsettling thought. Antonio knows he gets too emotionally invested in people too quickly. And he also knows this is going to blow up in his face.

He's actually hoping Lovino won't show up.

He won't, though. There's just no way.

Gilbert is a morning person, weird as that seems. He's perky and wide awake when Antonio comes knocking. Shoving the car keys in his face, he takes a step back and asks, "Did you sleep at all last night? You look like shit."

Antonio rubs his eyes. "I hate waking up early, you know that."

"True, you sleep like a rock. Anyway, look, Maddie's asleep so I don't want to wake her up. Have a safe trip, 'kay?" He pulls Antonio into a quick hug. Gilbert is better than Francis, that way. Antonio knows the German misses him like crazy, but he's better at hiding it. Francis bawls. Literally. There's still a wet patch on his shoulder from where Francis was sobbing over him only twenty minutes ago.

Antonio zips up his jacket as he takes the keys. "Thanks, Gilbert. I really owe you one."

"Don't worry about it." The German is grinning.

When the door closes behind him, Antonio is actually a little relieved to find that Lovino is not around. It is five minutes past six now. Antonio throws his luggage in the backseat. Francis has given him an umbrella and several hundred Euros, apart from the payment for Antonio performing at the restaurant last night. Antonio had tried to argue, but Francis had forced him. "You need this more than I do," he'd said. And well, it's true. Antonio sits in the driver's seat and starts the car.

That's when he sees a shadow approach.

Lovino is dressed in thick layers, his hands in the pockets of a black trench coat. He's carrying a couple huge suitcases with him, and the two of them just stare at each other. The light is pretty terrible, but it's enough to see Lovino's unsure face. Antonio opens the car door.

"Do…do you need help with your bags?"

"It's fine."

When they sit in the car, there's a real awkwardness that makes the air seem a little overwhelming.

"Apparently," Antonio says, "You're the grandson of Romulous Vargas."

"Did the French bastard tell you that?" and Lovino winces. "Sorry for cussing – it's a habit I usually try to suppress."

"Don't worry about the cussing," Antonio says with a smile. "But yeah, Francis told me."

"I thought so. He seemed pretty perceptive last night."

"Lovino Vargas," Antonio says quietly, more to himself than to the man sitting next to him.

"For these two weeks," and his golden eyes glitter in the lamplight, "I'm just Lovino."

A/N: I think I'll update on a weekly basis. So every weekend (either Saturday or Sunday, haha). Let's see how that works out xD I usually like to update at least twice a week, but I honestly don't have the time right now. Argh…

Anyway, thanks for reading! Please review! :D