(( Holy moly, you guys! So many people have already read over this and it's only been up for about 2 days. THANK YOU SO MUCH. 3

Well, this chapter isn't nearly as good as the first one, but I do what I can. I typed this up during class today, so, I'm just a little frazzled, but I needed to get something out, Y'know? Anyway, I hope you like it. It's more of a filler than anything, because it's short. By the way, my chapter titles are in Spanish. You can translate them if you like. Hee hee. 3 ANYWAY. Enjoy. ))

Fog blanketed the royal estate the next morning. October had settled comfortably into the year, and its dreary undertone obediently followed. Light pierced Antonio's open bedroom. He stirred with a groan of dull pain. "Me duele la cabeza," he mumbled, as he sat up, running thin fingers through those thick brown locks. Beside him slept his faithful companion of many years. The sweet Italian, so perfectly tanned and perfectly sculpted, almost beautiful enough to eat. The Spaniard smiled at his sleeping partner, and gently brushed the auburn hair from his loosely closed eyes. "Oh, Lovi," he would coo, as if clockwork, to the child every morning.

The Italian was notorious for his sour outlook on life, and grudgingly, he would stir for Antonio. "Che cosa รจ, bastardo?" the small child would say, rubbing the sleep from his hazel eyes. Antonio took the supple body in his arms, and with the utmost care, cradled him gently; he would then return Lovino to his spot and get out of bed. Antonio stood by the side of the bed, his arms stretched above his head in attempt to wake his muscles from their own slumber.

He could almost feel those hazel eyes admiring his muscular back. The carpet beneath his toes was plush and delicate, though it had grown worn through out the years. "You bastard!" Lovino shrieked when Antonio turned around. His shock left the boy half petrified, "What have you done?" Evidence of the night before had lingered on Antonio's chest, neck, arms and hands. He had neglected to wash before climbing into bed with his Italian. Tears welled in those beautiful hazel eyes, stricken with disbelief and fear of what had happened. "Antonio..." he whispered, scooting back as far as possible, covering his nether regions with soft sheets.

All the Spaniard could do was gaze down at his bloodied palms and arms, wide-eyed. "Lovino, I..." he started, giving the other a concerned look, "No se`." Tears built up further, and finally trailed down the Italian's soft tanned cheeks, leaving thin warm trails. He damned Antonio out of the room until he washed. Whatever it was that he had done, the dejected Spaniard resented himself for it.

Nothing made him more upset and full of self-loathe than making his beloved cry. It was unfathomable what he did, as much as he racked his brain for memories or evidence; it was all gone. "What have I done?" he said to himself, slipping into a tub of hot water. The steaming water had turned a dull red-brown colour. The blood seemed to melt off Antonio's body. It swirled about his ankles and legs, taunting him.

The Spaniard could not help himself. His own eyes wept. He wept for Lovino. He wept for himself. He wept because he did not know how to feel.