OH MY GOODNESS, YES I AM ALIVE. (Brace yourselves, here come the excuses.) No. No excuses. I was studying, applying for student abroad, had health issues, real life dramas, and went on holidays to Japan for a month. (This author here, really. You guys wait patiently for an update and she's off gallivanting in Japan giving questionable glances at girls in maid outfits, climbing ten million sets of stairs to temples and shrines, and looking up the skirts of figurines to check for panties.) In all seriousness, the last few months were hectic. BUT, on the plus side, I got accepted for study abroad so I don't have to work so hard, I wrote a lot in Japan whilst on holidays, and I've grown a set of balls to tell people when they're pissing me off. (Shucks my influences on this girl are fabulous.)
Anyway, now that that's out of the way, WELCOME BACK READERS FOR CHAPTER THREE OF BUSKING FOR HEARTS! (*Cracks a party popper* Le joy.) This one took ages, but, it's, uh... (Fucking huge.) Yeah. So I hope the length makes up for the delay... (You've got something else regarding the story you want to say, don't you?) Oh yes! A few more things.
PLEASE READ THE FOLLOWING AS THEY ARE IMPORTANT.
One: There is a HUGE inconsistency in this story that will only become apparent to those who do a bit of research, and you'll only be able to tell later on unless you squint now. Don't spoil it if you know, just send me a PM if you think you might know, because the first reader to notice AND explain why it's wrong will get a prize. (Maybe. And only if they're correct on BOTH.) I really tried to make everything as accurate as possible for what I'm going for, but then I derped pretty hard and to make it easier for you guys, and also myself because it's hard to find information on this one little but vital thing, I'm leaving it as is. I doubt most of you will notice anyway, but it's just something that will bug me forever now. *Sigh* There's a few more derps, but, I hadn't planned the story out far when I wrote said things, so, as much as it irks me, I'm letting them slide.
Two: I am extremely aware of your concerns regarding the age difference between Antonio and Lovino. Rest assured, I plan to handle this tastefully and later on, hopefully you'll feel less apprehensive once you understand what I'll be doing. (No details now or giant spoilers. Just trust this idiot for now, m'kay?) I do appreciate that people are expressing their concern because, hey, this is the internet, and who has morals on the internet these days? But in all seriousness, there will be NO PAEDOPHILIA in this story. Now, that does not mean that there will be no relationship. Look up the definition of a paedophile in Wikipedia- none of that will be happenin'.
Three: If there is any ten year olds reading my story, please read the Author's Notes at the beginning and end of every chapter. They contain warnings and notes I find important. I don't write them here for the word count or to be annoying. I have no control over who reads what, and all I can do is state in bold and italicised letters when things above PG are gonna happen. If you don't read these warnings or pay attention to the rating changes- of which there will be-, I am not at fault if you are "scarred before your time". If you're that concerned, have a parent sit and read with you. But, honestly, what is a ten year old doing watching Hetalia and then going onto fanfic websites? That's questionable itself, but hey, I'm no one's mother so I have no rights to lecture.
Four: I don't care what the rating will be in the future, the rating will reflect the story rating to the most recent chapter, but IT WILL BE UPGRADED TO M for various reasons in the future. PLEASE KEEP AN EYE ON THIS AND READ MY WARNINGS BEFORE READING THE CHAPTERS I POST. I will not be held liable for you not reading them.
Rant over. (Thank fuck. We don't care.) Now, all srs bzns aside, please enjoy Chapter Three of Busking For Hearts~!
Chapter Three
We shared a hot chocolate and a plate of churros that day, Lovino and I.
I made sure to request extra sugar with caramel and chocolate dipping sauce alike for the churros, and got a table just for the two of us in the café I had found on a particularly chilly winter's day a few years ago. It was a small thing; nice and homey and warm, easily passable if you weren't looking. Business was slow, but they served the best quality of food I'd ever tasted by staff that had the kindest attitudes. It was run by an elderly couple who made everything by hand that very day, and any leftovers at the end were given away to the homeless and needy.
"Aquí tienes, Antonio. Dos chocolates calientes y un plato de churros con salsa chocolate y caramel," the elderly lady spoke, placing the tray with churros first on the table before me and Lovino, then the two steaming mugs of hot chocolate.
"Gracias," I thanked her with a smile, wrapping my chilled hands around the mug, warming and thawing out my fingers.
"De nada," she replied kindly, her smile crinkling about her eyes as she turned and hobbled away slowly back to behind the counters.
I took a small sip of the hot chocolate, sighing happily, turning to look at the boy opposite of me who sat with his shoulders rigid and up to his ears, frown on his red face and watching me intently. I laughed, lowering the mug from my lips and placed it on the table, my hands still wrapped about it for warmth. My gloves needed replacing or re-stitching.
"What are you frowning for? My treat; eat up," I encouraged, plucking up a churro and dipping it in caramel sauce before taking a bite, nearly burning my tongue on its molten heat.
"Mmmf, bueno," I hummed as I fanned my mouth, chewing before swallowing, "Try some! They're very tasty, and I assure you they're not poisoned."
Lovino lowered his eyes to the food before sniffling, turning his glare to the pale outdoors, staring through the window by his seat. "I don't want it, bastardo," he grumbled.
I tilted my head, nudging the plate closer. "Porqué? Try some," I encouraged.
He shot me a scowl. "I fucking told you, I don't want any!"
Sighing and slumping in my seat, I gave the other an exasperated look. "Where on earth did you pick up such language from, honestly?" I asked. Rhetorically it seemed, for I didn't get an answer. I decided to try again.
"Lovi, when did you start learning English?"
"None of your fucking business, you whore."
I huffed, cocking my elbow on the table as I rest my chin in my hand, tilting my head to the side, some brown curls tickling my cheek which I brushed aside languidly.
"I bought these for you. I'm not really hungry so I was hoping you would eat them."
I'm lying. I'm actually quite hungry. I had just spent my day's earnings on this tiny dessert meal to cheer up the child. It seemed he took no notice, or care, continuing to glare out of the window. It was time for reverse psychology. Children were easily susceptible to that, right?
"Well," I hummed out, drawing his attention back to me, "I guess I'm going to have all the fun eating these churros on my own~!"
The boy scowled, and for a while, he watched me nibble at the churro I'd already taken a bite of, then dip it in the caramel, then take another bite, and then as I was dipping again and reaching for his hot chocolate, I got a smack to the hand.
"Don't fucking double dip!" he snapped, yanking off a glove, his other hand grabbing his mug of hot chocolate to bring it closer protectively.
I smiled and laughed, twirling my churro to prevent caramel sauce from dripping back to the table before popping it in my mouth happily as he reached for his own churro. At least now he was eating. I win.
We ate in silence together, the pleasant hum of some instrumental music playing in the background from a crackling radio, the atmosphere putting me at ease with its old lace curtains, aging timber floors worn with the many shoes that had graced its surface and the faded but beautiful floral printed chair cushions. The dessert was delectable as well; fluffy and melting in my mouth, the sugar tickling my taste buds and trickling into me in little bursts of energy that my body needed after sprinting about the streets in pursuit of two insanely swift children. The caramel sauce was thick and hot; it warmed my mouth which only heated up more once I drank more of the hot chocolate- sweet and thick like the sauce, but as easy to drink as water. It warmed me up from within and made me smile, thanking God I was able to have food placed before me.
My eyes flicked up to the Italian as I licked my lips of stray grains of sugar, watching as he mimicked my actions of dipping the doughnut-stick snack into the chocolate sauce, twisting it about awkwardly in his hand to turn it back to him, a few drops of chocolate dripping to the table and falling on his chin before he managed to snag a bite, looking a mix of surprised and delighted at the taste that danced on his tongue.
I chuckled, drawing the boy's attention to myself, "You're getting chocolate sauce everywhere."
The boy glanced down and frowned, cheeks heating up brightly.
"I don't fucking eat these things often—how the hell am I meant to know how to eat them!" Lovino protested through a half full mouth, wagging his bitten churro at me.
I couldn't help but laugh, picking up a napkin and leaned over the table, careful not to dip my clothes in the food or spill the hot drinks or sauces as I gently placed my fingers beneath his chin and tipped his head up, beginning to clean his face softly of the sauce.
"I'll have to teach you how to eat them properly then," I told him with a smile.
"Fuck off."
I sighed. "I'll have to teach you some nicer English than that, too; and maybe some Spanish as well."
The little Italian frowned at me, smacking at my hand until it left his face, shuffling backwards in his seat, face a molten red. "Creeper, why would I need to learn Spanish?" he spat, rubbing rather aggressively at where I'd cleaned.
Sitting myself down in my seat once more, I cleaned up the speckles of chocolate sauce from the table, placing the dirtied napkin nearby for later use in cleaning. I had a feeling that the boy was going to keep being messy.
"It's a nice language, sí? It's similar to Italian too, so, it shouldn't be too hard for you to pick up," I explained, giving a small gesture to the eight year old, "Besides, you've learnt English quite well for a boy your age. You're as good as me! That's impressive. English is a hard to understand language."
The boy snorted, scowling at his churro as he dipped it once more in the sauce, trying again to eat and be neater, and failing once more as a hot drop of chocolate dripped onto his hand.
"I hate English, but no one understands me if I speak Italian, and I hate stupid people not understanding me," he grumbled through a mouthful of churro.
I gave him an awkward smile. "That's not people being stupid, that's people not speaking the same language. It can't be helped if you go into other countries," I pointed out, taking sip of my hot chocolate, trying to preserve the heat in the liquid by wrapping both hands around the mug, covering the top with half my hands, the steam condensing on my palms in a sticky but pleasant heat.
Lovino merely rolled his eyes and grunted out a short, "Whatever."
We dissolved into another silence, a bit less awkward than before, but nonetheless I wanted to have him talking again. I surveyed him quietly, absently eating my churro as I inspected how similar he looked to his brother. They weren't twins, but they could be easily be mistaken for twins, I presumed.
"I didn't know you had a brother," I commented casually, watching as the Italian stiffened up, "Don't you like him?"
"Why the hell should I?" he shot back almost immediately.
"Well, he's your brother, right? He really loves you."
"I don't care."
Well, this seemed like an almost fruitless effort. The little Italian seemed stubbornly reluctant to discuss family. Not that I could blame him—me and my own family were quite the group when we were all together… Nonetheless, I made a slight face of exasperation towards Lovino before sighing and shaking my head, reaching out for the last churro, my hand hovering above it before I pulled my hand back, opting to finish my drink while it was still hot.
"I… I do."
I looked up from my drink, the remaining steam curling and fading about my lips like a smoky moustache.
"Qué?"
"I do care about Feliciano… but… I want…" Lovino trailed off, face turning red as he scowled at the plate of powdered cinnamon sugar and the last churro. I smiled at the Italian, not wanting to push too much, but in the end, it seemed a prompt was needed when he didn't continue.
"What is it you want?" I urged gently, watching in amusement as his little fists clenched and his face burrowed a bit into the neck of his coat.
"I don't want to share," he muttered grumpily, voice a low muffle in his coat.
I smiled brighter, finishing off my cup of hot chocolate before pushing the plate forward, offering the final bit of food as tribute to my words.
"I'll only ever take you out for churros and hot chocolate."
Lovino cherished that last churro, just like he treasures my promise. I cherish the smile he tried to hide with a mouthful of pastry and cinnamon sugar he thought I didn't see. I never did take anyone else out for churros, and I don't regret that he was the first I took out either. I can't eat another without seeing his smile again.
"Here, bastardo, take it."
Looking up from my guitar strings, I stared on at the Italian in confusion, and then my eyes lowered to the bill in his hand, outstretched to me. I nearly had a heart attack when I read the bold 50 along its neat and new surface, my hands stilling the tune that they had been plucking from my heart to the open air for all to hear.
How did Lovino get a hold of 50 Euros?
"I said take it, fuck nut!" He snapped, jerking his hand and the money towards me once more, frown set deep in his face in irritation.
I must have made a perfect imitation of a gaping fish with the way my mouth opened and closed repeatedly, my eyes wide and staring. After a few moments of gawking, Lovino snarled.
"Are you seriously retarded or something? Take the money, dumbass!" he ground out.
"L-Lovi, where did you get that from?" I managed to choke out when I found my voice.
"It doesn't matter, just take it."
"It does matter—that's a lot of money you're holding there!"
Lovino shrugged, scrunching up his little nose as he pursed his lips. "I know, and I'm giving it to you."
"I can't accept that."
Oh, how I wished I could, but there was something so terribly wrong with taking such a large sum of money from a child. I'd love to take that note and go buy myself some hot food, or maybe even a new pair of gloves, or socks, but, I just couldn't take that money.
"Why not?" he asked, looking like he was growing irritated with me, snubbing his little nose in the air, "I'm in a higher class than you, so you have to do as I say."
I forced the smile that I gave him, slightly strained because I knew that he was also telling the truth: the boy was clearly from an upper class neighbourhood or well endowed family. Subconsciously, I tried to hide the beginnings of frays at the base of my jacket where the hems had begun to give way.
"I don't want to accept fifty Euros from a child."
"Would you accept it from an adult?"
I frowned in thought, my eyebrows scrunching together. "Depends on the situation," I replied slowly.
"Cazzo, what's wrong with accepting it from me then?" he snapped, "I'm not a stupid random adult, or just some kid!"
"You're still eight," I reminded with a teasing sparkle in my eye.
"Fuck you, old man, take the money so you can afford dentures when I break all your teeth out," he shrieked, throwing the money at me in a violent manner, only for the bill to flutter harmlessly to the sidewalk.
We both stared for a while, Lovino taking in deep and angry breaths, and me just watching the note flutter slightly, brushed by faint breaths of wind.
Wind.
In barely an instant after I had the realisation, I reached out and curled my fingers around the Euro, the paper hot in my hands and scolding me. I didn't want to let it go anymore. I wanted this so bad.
"It's about fucking time."
"Take it back."
It wasn't even a thought anymore, just words. I had to give it back. It wasn't right to keep it, and was definitely wrong to accept it from a little boy.
"You're the most difficult piece of crap I've ever dealt with!" he complained, crossing his arms.
I smiled. "That's a bold statement for someone your age. Come on, take it back," I urged, an idea popping into my head, "Or do I have to give it to your mother?"
Lovino bristled within a split second, amber eyes growing wide and angry, shoulders stiffening and lips twitching into a snarl.
"You don't even know my mother!"
"Hm? Are you sure I don't?"
I don't, but, whatever makes him take the money back.
It seemed to work as well, and I found myself mentally thrilled that I could work out the mind of a child so easily. The little Italian appeared to have a little debate with himself, and I could see the conflict in his eyes as he chewed on the inside of his cheeks in contemplation.
"Fine, I'll take it," he grumbled, reaching out to take the note from me, but as his fingers grasped it, I held on, "Look, I said I'd take it!"
"I'm going to make sure you return it to your mother, sí?" I told him, expression serious, raising my eyebrows a bit and giving him the best you-will-do-as-I-say look. I wasn't really good at them, and judging by Lovino's unimpressed scowl, I'd say he thought so as well.
"How the hell will you do that?" he challenged, voice flat and annoyed.
"Simple."
It wasn't really.
"I'll take you right back to her and watch you give her the money!"
Little fine eyebrows shot up and twisted together with the force of the frown, the Italian's little body tense as he analysed my face, trying to decipher whether I was lying or not. I would take him back to his mother, but, he'd have to lead me to her. I'd never met the woman. Actually, I'd never met either of his parents. I'd seen his little brother only once before, and that was it, in the whole month or two we've known each other, I'd never seen a single sign of parental guardians.
At this stage, if I hadn't met Feliciano who had talked about Lovino not telling their parents where he was going, I would almost believe the boy was orphaned, or, on a school trip to Spain. Not only did Lovino never mention family, he also seemed reluctant to take me to them.
It wasn't like I would mug his parents or anything, no matter how rich.
"Come on. I'll take you now," I decided, beginning to slowly pack up my instrument, brushing aside a few Euro I'd received so I could press them to the edge of the guitar case and scoop them all up neatly together, depositing them in my pocket.
"Moron, you'll lose all your money that way!"
I looked up at Lovino as I slid in my guitar to rest in the velvet interior case, giving the boy a small, "Hm?"
He gestured to my pocket. "Your money will fall out if you're not careful! Cazzo, you're such an airhead!" he scolded, digging his hand into one of his coat pockets, grumbling as he searched about with his gloved hand.
"I've never lost any money like this; it's fine!" I said with a smile, tightening the straps around the neck of my guitar, and the one that went just about the base, giving my beloved songstress a gentle stroke and smile before closing the case, zipping it up securely.
"Well you will!" Lovino growled, yanking out a little drawstring satchel—a black fabric base with cute little tomatoes patterned along the cotton and the occasional white spot, the drawstring dyed a pretty tomato red. How utterly cute!
"Here, take it," he said firmly, as though he was leaving no room for argument as he thrust the little bag towards me, "It's empty, I don't want it anymore, and you need it more than me. Buy yourself a wallet or a purse or something. Cazzo. This will do in the meantime."
"Aww, more gifts for me? So cute of you to do that! You must have a crush on me if you're spending so long with me and getting me gifts~!" I cooed, pressing my palms to the cement (icy, freezing, still slick with bits of ice and burning in its coldness at the unprotected skin on my hands), standing up and slinging my guitar case on my back.
"Jesus fuck you dick muncher!" Lovino shrieked, face turning tomato red, and I chuckled a little at his outburst, even if it drew the attention of a nearby store attendant who looked over in a mixture of shock and disgust, "Just take the fucking bag! I bought it for half a Euro! It's not a gift! It's me pitying your sorry ass when you lose your purse change down the gutter! Now take the fucking bag and put your money in it before I change my mind and toss this bag and your three and a half Euro into the pond across the road!"
I didn't want him doing that. Not at all… These three and a half Pesetas were dinner, breakfast, and maybe lunch if I could stretch something out. Maybe skip dinner, or even save some food from my other two meals? I was scrounging about enough as is without him tossing my earnings off into the semi-frozen, if not completely frozen, pond in the Jardín Botánico de Madrid.
"I'm only teasing," I assured with a pet on the head, ruffling his hair (to which he scowled at and snapped at my wrist and hand as though he was trying to bite me), plucking the little cloth drawstring bag from his hand and extracted my money, slipping it into the fabric and closing it with a smooth tug on the red drawstring.
"There, it all fits~! Thank you Lovi~" I chirped, leaning in and giving him a little squeeze of a hug, to which he, of course, protested with shrieks of cusses and curled fists banged on my shoulders and chest. So precious!
"I'll treasure this gift from you always!"
The little beatings stopped and I straightened up, smiling at the shocked look on his face, only barely picking up the lick of another emotion before it was gone as quick as it came, gone too quick before I could recognise it and he was turning away, walking in a shuffle.
"Lovi?" I asked slowly, voice laced with a hint of concern as I watched him go.
"Come on, asshole. My mother's not going to stay in the city all day."
With a smile, I jogged to catch up to him before settling into a slow walk set by his little steps, watching his expression endearingly. As much of a rude, angry and tough exterior he put up, he got adorably embarrassed by simple almost-sentimental statements. It was such an endearing trait I couldn't help but find myself admiring. Even with his constant cursing and mouth fouler than a sailor's, Lovino had his cute moments.
"Creeper- you should stop staring at me before your eyes burn a hole through my fucking skull."
I chuckled at being caught, petting his head despite his grumbled protests and let my hand fall to his shoulder as I walked along beside him.
"I'll try not to burn a hole through your skull," I joked, turning my eyes back up to watch Madrid pass around us.
I could feel it melt and mould away, almost like we were in our own little bubble and the world collided with us, but then smoothed around the sphere and never reached us. The wind had picked up, and even though my brown waves and curls floated in the caresses of the cold breaths, I couldn't really feel it on my face. Even through my thinning clothes, the chill didn't bother me; not as much as usual, or how it once did. Winter wasn't a cold time anymore, not really. It was tinged with the tiniest spice of warmth that smelt of olives and pasta sauce, and radiated a warm heat like a freshly cooked pizza.
These metaphors do nothing for my hunger, but with that small warmth by me, I could almost ignore the sharp little pains in my stomach, reminding me I hadn't eaten yet- not today. But it didn't matter, because I had three and a half Euro, and that would afford me a nice warm plate of churros I could share with Lovino, and I knew I'd thaw out in that cute little café I took him to, and I'd be full just watching him lighten up and enjoy the food.
My hand tingled in cold, and I blinked as the bubble around us burst violently, the atmosphere broken, enticing a shiver through my body as the wind picked up and drove its tendrils through the woven fabrics of my clothes and crawled along my skin, drawing forward goose bumps.
What was causing that unnerving chill?
I scanned the area, and then glanced back at Lovino who had stopped walking, my hand by my side again, no longer resting on his little shoulder. Another breeze picked up and shifted some of his hair about his face, his unnerved scowl only barely hidden from the angle, lighting and hair.
"Lovi?" I asked, turning and walking back to him, kneeling down in front of him, my eyebrows knitting in concern and offering him a gentle smile, "What's wrong?"
Pretty amber eyes lifted to my face, done with staring at the cracked and snow slicked pavement. I frowned a bit, reaching up to brush some dark chocolate strands of hair from his face, studying the warm colours in his eyes. He'd never let me look this long before, and I took this moment to inspect every detail, every fleck and hue, but most importantly, I took the time to inspect his emotions and what he was trying to say to me.
Lovino didn't speak—his eyes did.
The precious amber orbs I was watching lifted from mine to stare off somewhere behind me at the scenes of high-end cafés and restaurants dotted between brand name boutiques. I turned my eyes to look behind me as well, following his gaze, feeling uncomfortable with how I, in my not-brand-name clothes and less-than-high-class appearance stood out like a sore thumb in this neighbourhood.
I never came here; not during the winter, but in the summer- with the right clothes- some cafés and restaurants would hire me to play for them if I offered and bluffed. According to some of them, I was a successful and well respected musician overseas in America and Latin America. I didn't like lying to them, and, in a way, I wasn't. I'd never said that directly. I'd just told them I'd played in America and parts of Latin America before, and they mistook that as though I had played in concerts overseas. By the time I realised that was what they believed, an uncountable amount of time had passed, and it was too late to correct the mistake. So I simply smiled and let them believe. I never lied—they had tricked and deluded themselves, and I was simply too needy to point out the falsities.
I hated liars.
I'm not a liar.
I had to be careful about being seen here in this neighbourhood in my current attire.
Scanning the area quickly for familiar faces and recognisable places, I searched for the object that Lovino's eyes were focused on, and then I spotted it; a quaint café, its name in such fancy cursive that it could have been written in any of the languages of romance. Its soft golden painted exterior was clean of dust, dirt and imperfections, its windows scrubbed surgically clean so that I could see my reflection perfectly, even from this distance separating me from its sheen glass, but I could also see inside equally as clearly.
A woman, short brown hair cut into a bob sat sipping at a coffee daintily, her coat shed, leaving her in a perfectly creaseless and fresh-out-of-the-store look of newness. She was like a model, and I caught myself staring as well, fascinated in how her painted red lips pressed to the cup, long and dark lashes brushing light olive skin as her eyes fluttered shut against her cheeks.
"Mia madre," Lovino spoke, from beside me, and my eyebrows rose in shock.
This beautiful woman was Lovino's mother? She seemed so lovely…
Why was Lovino's voice strained and afraid?
I turned my eyes back to him, inspecting his expression. He remained staring ahead at the woman—his mother. Amber eyes were uncertain and showed the discomfort in his posture, stiff and emitting an aura of wishing to flee. The little Italian didn't want to be here, and I felt cruel all of a sudden, as though I shouldn't be forcing him to be here. But it was his mother, and all I wanted was to make sure that Lovino gave her the fifty Euros he had obtained.
She didn't look like she really needed it.
What am I thinking? It's wrong to accept the money—wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.
As I went to open my mouth, the jingle of a soft bell met my ears, and the click of stiletto heeled boots resonated across the icy pavement, approaching me and Lovino. I turned back, catching her walking- strong, confident and proud-, moving with the grace of a swan, with a scorching passion as hot as an inferno, and with eyes as sharp and disapproving as any Italian mother. She was fierce, but that could be chalked down to seeing her son with a strange man.
I hadn't even noticed when she'd put down her coffee, or seen us, to be exact, but I did realise when she was standing before me, because it pulled me to my feet as well, standing up straight and looking down at her, but only by a bit. I was tall, but she had long and slim legs women killed for, and her heels added an extra three inches to her height so that she was now almost at my level.
"Lovino, vieni qui subito. Non stare così vicino agli uomini strani," she hissed, her crimson painted lips parting to have the perfect Italian slip into the air, and the small brunette by my side reluctantly trudged over, shoulders drooped and tense, head down.
I don't speak Italian, but if I strain my ears and concentrate, I can almost make out what Italian words mean, if only because Spanish and Italian sound so alike. It's the same with Spanish and French, and I find myself picking up bits and pieces of one of my best friend's words when he speaks in the "Language of Love".
"I am sorry, but who are you?"
I was drawn out of my small attempts at translating Italian to smile at the brunette before me, hoping I looked pleasant to her, but I had the feeling that no matter how brightly I smiled, she would still be judging me on my clothing as she was now: scrutinising me with chocolate brown orbs, a look of disapproval shining behind them that never reached any other part of her young face.
"Lo siento, my name is Antonio," I introduced, holding out a hand for her to shake.
She didn't accept.
"So, Antonio," she began, my name disliked on her tongue, "What were you doing with my son?"
I lowered my hand slowly and gestured towards Lovino. "You see, I've come to make sure he returns something to you. Well, gives it to you," I corrected with a small laugh—I didn't know if Lovino had taken the money from her or obtained it from elsewhere.
"Oh?" she drawled, quirking a perfectly shaped eyebrow, arched and shaped in a way that made her look even more displeased, and angrier, than she may, or may not, have been, "What does he have for me?"
Chocolate eyes lowered to the boy by her side, her long and slim fingers curling about Lovino's upper arm and gripping (too tight, I noted, mentally grimacing as the way her fire engine red painted nails dug into the soft coat that Lovino wore).
"Lovino, what does this man want you to give me?" she spoke coldly, angrily, and I felt discomfort settle in my gut, more so when I watched Lovino squirm and try and tug his arm back, frowning.
"Nothing!" he bit out, and my shoulders drooped slightly, still attempting to keep on a pleasant smile, if not for the sake of appearances, then for reassurance to Lovino that things were okay.
"It's fine; it's only your mama," I said gently, catching Lovino's panicked and angry eyes with my own. Would it have been better to simply accept the fifty Euros in the end? No. I had to tell myself that this was the right thing to do.
"Yes, now give mama what you have for me," she spoke, voice cold.
A shiver forced its way down my spine. I'm not sure why, but, I didn't like the way she spoke to Lovino. I didn't like her tone, her attitude, the way she looked at him, the way her fingers gripped tighter…
Too tight, too tight!
"I-It's just some money!" Lovino blurted out, making a loud whine as his other gloved hand pawed at the one grasping to his upper arm, "Madre, fa male!"
"Money?"
Now those chocolate brown eyes were definitely angry, but now that ferocious look was directed at me and I tensed, held still by her serpent like stare.
"How much money?"
"Fifty Euros," I replied honestly, "He tried to give it to me, and I couldn't accept because—"
My sentence was silenced by a harsh slap, and it hurt more with my icy cheeks, her nails catching my skin and leaving a sharp biting pain behind. I cracked open my left eye which had closed instinctively as that side of my face was struck, the sting remaining.
"Thief! You robbed me! You coaxed and threatened my son into robbing me, you filthy low breed!" she spat, and I flinched.
"Q-Qué? N-No, I didn't!" I replied quickly, shaking my head.
"You did, lying scum!" she bit back without pause, "Just look at yourself! Of course some filthy, creepy, soulless beast such as you from a dirt poor country would force a child to steal money from their mother!"
There was no need to bring Spain and its economy into this… It wasn't just us, I was certain the world was going through a tough time now…
"I-I didn't, honest!" I pleaded, glancing down to Lovino when I heard him make a whimper that sounded almost pained. She was holding him too tightly, and I wished to say something—anything! But I wasn't in the right place. I had no status, nor was Lovino my son, so I couldn't tell her to loosen her hold on her child, even though I am a man, and she, a woman.
"Lies," she growled, yanking Lovino back harshly, the boy stumbling a bit to keep his balance, grasping to his mother's coat.
"Not lies! I stole the money! He didn't ask for it, and he made me come here to give it back!" Lovino shouted, silenced by a slap and my hands shook, eyes widening in horror.
I hated watching people abuse their children. I was too soft, my friends had said, and I had a weak spot for children. I knew that. But it didn't stop me from flinching and becoming discomforted by displays of child abuse or discipline. The line was so fine for me that they were almost the same thing. I couldn't stand watching children be hit—slapping a child was surely abuse and not discipline, no matter what people said.
"Stai zitto immediatamente. Sto dicendo tuo padre su questo," she whispered angrily to her son, and I was left gaping at her as she stood up straight, tugging Lovino backwards with her, her next words directed at me.
"You're lucky I don't call the police on you, poor beggar. We don't need filth like you littering the streets with your worthless existence. Stay away from my son."
I watched her take Lovino away as snow drifted from nearby rooves, highlighting the place where stilettos had stood beside small boots. I did nothing but watch in numb shock, even as Lovino struggled, cursed and shouted in angry and rapid Italian as he was pulled away. His voice carried to me until it was silenced by the slam of a car door somewhere a few streets away and the sound of a roaring engine took him to heaven knows where.
I was numb- my thoughts haunted by that small eight year old struggling and how he was struck so coldly by a beautiful woman with a hideous interior that he called his mother.
I don't like women—too cruel, cold, and covered with masks of deceit.
I only barely caught myself before I praised my mother's fate, turning and leaving the streets of upper class Madrid in silence to return to the place I called my home.
My heart still clenches when I think of the way that small hand desperately reached out for me, and how my name was lost in the breeze when he cried it out, louder than any of his curses, and all I did was stand there and stare.
I hadn't seen Lovino for over a week—weeks in fact. It was starting to get to me now, and I worried for my mental health—I'd grown so attached to the boy that it was almost instinctual to look about for him as I played my guitar, waiting for him to come and sit by me and listen to me play. Day after day I waited in my usual spot opposite the park, watching the streets fill and empty with faceless people, all in a rush to get to their destination; all unappreciative of the music I played to coax them out of their tunnel vision world.
It was lonesome without the scowling boy beside me, reassuring me my music wasn't as shit as it could have been, or grumbling that I was so cheerful that the shine I emitted would damage his eyesight and it would be my fault if he ever needed glasses. They were roundabout compliments disguised as insults, but they were still compliments in Lovino's books.
You play very nicely. I like how you're so bright and cheerful all the time.
That was what his words really meant, or what I thought they really meant, and I was starting to get the hang of understanding him a little, but I'd be lying if I said I completely understood the boy. A lot of the time I was at a complete loss as to what he meant, and whether his insults were true or just his shy way of complimenting.
The world was touched by the warm fingers of oncoming spring before I knew it, the thick snow that had built up throughout the winter thawing out at the faintest breath of heat that finally reached España. Birds began their joyous twittering and accompanied my guitar in their merriness with the promise that warmer nights were coming. This winter had been a harsh one.
January came and went, and mid February was warmer than the years previous. It crackled the ice-frozen leaves into life with the calling of a scorching summer, or an early summer.
Streets became livelier, and I smiled kindly to every fraction of a Euro dropped in my case, breathing sighs of relief at the end of each day when the sum was big enough for me to eat three meals the following day without worry of starvation within the week. I stored all of my coins in my pocket, inside the little tomato satchel that Lovino had given me back in December. I kept it safe and always with me, my tan and guitar-calloused hands seeking its soft fabric to confirm it was still there. The Italian would be pleased to know I used it. Or maybe he would be angry and flustered?
I almost missed his insults, even if it earned us odd stares and me scolding looks from disapproving mothers and citizens for Lovino's foul mouth.
Every time I heard a curse, English or Italian, I'd turn about, searching, only to feel disappointment tug at my heart when it wasn't a tomato-cheeked Italian's lips the curses were falling from. It was unhealthy how I waited for him, I decided, too ashamed to really tell my friends. They'd say it wasn't healthy too. But I suppose it was my own wish for children that made me so fascinated with Lovino, doting on him like an older brother or father.
At least, like older brothers and fathers should behave. I was never a part of the conventional type of family.
I sat twirling the churros about in the caramel sauce as I thought of what could have happened to the boy, and his mother. It still unsettled me, thinking of the way she had treated him. It just wasn't right.
I sighed for the millionth time since the incident, lifting up my churro to watch the caramel drip back into the little pot the sauce had been delivered in and finished the snack, licking my fingers clean of cinnamon sugar and pressing a few coins to the table to pay for my meal as I stood.
"Gracias!" I called out to the back, picking up my thinning coat and tugged it back on, "Tan delicioso!"
I smiled warmly at the laugh tinted with age as the grandmamma who owned the store hobbled out, nodding her head in appreciation.
"Gracias Antonio," she cooed, shuffling over to pick up the tray with aging hands, wrinkled and shaking.
I took the tray before she could, leaning down to peck at her cheek gently and moved on towards the kitchen, placing it on the right counter before she could object, flashing a kind smile back to her.
"Trabajas todos los días- duerma un poco, ¿de acuerdo?" I advised her as I helped guide her frail body to a nearby chair, brushing off her thanks she spoke repeated to me.
"Gracias, Antonio, gracias, gracias."
She was getting on in years, and I hoped she would take my advice to get some sleep and rest a little. I only paused in adjusting her blankets around her frail legs when I heard it. It was faint, but still, there was no denying that that curse was shouted out by the lips of a small, pre-pubescent Italian boy.
Lovino.
I turned my head to the window, listening to the screams and cursing getting louder, and I moved over briskly, placing one hand on the edge of the windowsill that ran horizontally, the other pressed to the one that ran perpendicularly, leaning forward to try and get a good view out of the misted window.
"Antonio?"
I glanced back at the elderly lady who smiled in concern, and I realised I must have worried her.
"Estoy bien, pero, lo siento—tengo que ir ahora. Yo oigo mi amigo," I explained before turning, hands grasping for the sash on my guitar case, slinging it onto my back and darted out of the little café, sprinting out onto the road.
Which direction was that voice coming from? Where was he?
I glanced from left to right to left again, my eyebrows knitting as I heard the voice screeching again, this time accompanied by rapid fire Italian by a female voice. I moved to my left, following the sound of the angrily spat words in the twilight, my eyes searching, my footsteps becoming hurried, and soon, I broke out into a light jog, the guitar case banging my hip with each push I made forwards.
Surely he was around here… I heard him! I heard him! There was no mistaking that voice anywhere! Even if I hadn't heard it for two months now…
"I'll fucking cut off your hand and shove it into your ovaries through your fucking nostrils if you touch me again!"
That sounded wonderful. Not the sentence meaning, but the fact that that was my little Lovino spewing insults and curses. I didn't even need to ask if it was odd to be happy at the sound of cursing, because I knew it was, yet I didn't care. That was Lovino!
I grasped onto a pole, using it to catch my balance as I nearly toppled forwards, moving to run once more when a weight barrelled right into my leg, crashing back to the ground, making me stumble, grasping to the lamp post with both hands to stop myself from body slamming the curled up ball of twitching crimson in front of me.
A brown head lifted, an errant curl bouncing out, crooked with agitation as golden brown eyes lifted, at first infuriated, but then they grew wide, little lips that had parted to undoubtedly curse now remained agape in surprise. I stared back equally as stunned, but before I could smile or react, the little boy was scrambling awkwardly to his feet, skidding and slipping and making a quick dive for behind me.
I twisted my head, lifting an arm to glance down. "Ehi! Hold up a moment!"
"Lovino!"
I turned my attention to the panting woman before me, her hair silky soft but with slight disarray, large chocolate brown eyes wide in a fury that was no longer hidden, an ugliness on her face so obvious I nearly gagged. She was beautiful still, but only in body. There was something about her that just made her seem so hideous to me now.
"È questa? E 'questo che vuoi?" she hissed, standing up straight.
The little Italian behind me grasped to my coat and snarled- amber eyes ferocious and wet.
"Sì."
His mother—the lady before me—sighed heavily, standing up straighter.
"Bene," she whispered, her eyes carving a path up my clothes and body, resting on my face and I swallowed, straightening up.
For some reason, I felt the need to protect Lovino, and I lowered a hand to his shoulder, gently easing him behind me so I could serve as a shield. The boy had no objections, shuffling behind me, little fists curling into the base of my coat, his face stuffing into the small of my back, only occasionally peeking out to cast a glare at the brunette opposite of us.
"Take him."
Her words surprised me, and my eyebrows relaxed from the frown, only to shoot up as she waved her hand dismissively.
"If his father doesn't want him, do with him as you please. I'm done with this."
It didn't end like a drama novel, nor some painful parting like those passed down from the wars, but it wasn't smiles and tears of remorse, or best wishes and promises to meet again. It was a coldly breathed statement, punctuated with the click of angry heels and echoed with small hiccupped breaths for a minute before the silence was broken.
"I hope you die, bitch!" Lovino shouted out at the vanished back, little voice breaking with the tease of puberty approaching, shooting his voice up an octave, but I believed the change in tones was more from distress than the boy actually going through any physical changes. Instead, he seemed to be going through emotional ones.
"Lovino…" I began, swivelling to look at the child, falling to my knees to wipe at tears, "I'm confused… What happened? Did you have a fight?"
"No, dumb shit, my mother and I were just discussing Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa and expressing our opinions on the bitch's lack of eyebrows," he spat out, rubbing at his eyes, "What the fuck do you think?"
I flinched at the tone, sighing and glanced back, giving a wary look to the streets.
"It's not very nice to fight with your mother," I lectured, "It's also not a good idea to fight in English. More people will understand you."
Lovino snorted, lowering his hands to glare at the ground.
"What the fuck does it matter?" he grumbled.
"Well, I can only imagine what your mother's going through having to chase her son around while he screams not-very-nice things in English around a crowded city," I pointed out.
Speaking of which, we should probably move off to the side so we can stay out of people's way.
"Poor fucking her. I don't give a fucking fuck."
"Lovi, why are you swearing so much? Please, keep it down."
"So you're ashamed of me now too, is that it you fucking asshole?"
I blinked, taken aback at the accusation.
"A-Ashamed? No, not at all!"
"Don't lie, jerk!" he snapped, "You're ashamed of me! Just like everyone else!"
I heaved another sigh. I was getting lots of oxygen today and creating quite a lot of carbon dioxide.
"What makes you think I'm ashamed of you?" I asked slowly, gently.
Children had different mindsets to adults, and though they were prone to tantrums easier, they were also easier to calm down with logic and by speaking to someone who was calm. Lovino was still only eight- he had quite a way to go before he'd be able to control his own emotions properly.
"B-Because… You're just like everyone… I hate you… I hate everybody… Why can't everyone leave me the fuck alone?"
It seemed today I was playing therapist to the little Italian, but I didn't mind, not even the little smack I was given on the wrist when I wiped more of his tears away. Somehow, I felt comforted by the feisty boy's presence—that he'd returned. I just had to be persistent, and then he'd open up a little bit more to me. I was an adult! How hard was working a child out?
"Do you want to tell me why you're so mad?" I asked softly, kneeling before the boy who was holding back emotions that he was struggling with, trying to be strong but wanting to cry.
It was tough being that age, wasn't it? I could see the conflict in the wet amber, making the gold and brown glitter like a precious stone, dark eyelashes fluttering with the rapid blinks as Lovino tried to hold the tears in. Boys went through that stage, didn't they? They would try and prove they were boys—men—by not crying and being more independent. Only wimps, babies and girls cried! That was the mindset. Lovino was struggling internally with the natural urge to sob as he seemed prone to doing when too stressed or when overwhelmed by things like fear, anger or sadness (though he'd only ever admit to one of those feelings, yet deny his tears until he was on the verge of throwing a tantrum), but also undoubtedly his upbringing of being a boy, and boys don't cry because that's weakness! It was a sad lie passed down in Europe that I wished would stop its circulation of falsities.
Men could cry…
What was wrong with men crying?
"Lovino," I prompted gently, and it seemed my hand on his head did the trick, for he shuffled forward, hitting his head on my shoulder bone as stuffed his face into my collars, once again wetting the fabric.
I was used to comforting Lovino by now and dealing with his tears.
"My parents are getting a divorce," he croaked out, voice unafraid to hide he was crying openly onto me, "They're fighting over who takes me and my brother."
I flinched but stroked his hair softly with one hand as the other wrapped a strong arm about his body, tugging the lithe figure close for an embrace I hoped was comforting, even as he gave little twitches and nervous shifts while I cooed soft shushes against his ear and breathed meaningless nothings of how things would be alright.
I didn't know. I wasn't either of his parents, nor was I the judge that would be announcing the outcome of the trial.
"They're fighting for Feliciano… The loser takes me."
Lovino only kicked and punched for a few minutes when I picked him up and held him close in a tight hug, and then he sobbed and screamed out his grief as he gripped onto me, begging me not to leave him. I didn't care that onlookers were giving us odd glances as I walked through town with him in my arms causing a scene. Oh well. It didn't matter. Half of these people would never see us again, or remember. My only concern was comforting Lovino right now.
He was halfway through mumbling out his insecurities to my shoulder when his words became a bit more distinct, rather than muffled distress I couldn't decipher.
"I can't be perfect like Feliciano," he bit out, his brother's name bitter, "I'm clumsy, and can't cook anything but pasta, and I make more mess than I clean. But he's perfect! He's good at everything! He can already cook enough things to make a recipe book, is good at cleaning, and he doesn't break things because he doesn't have my stupid twitch!"
Ah, so the way his foot had been jabbing into my side hadn't been on purpose?
"Twitch?" I asked, trying to divert his attention to help him calm down.
"Dannazione," I heard him grumble, "Chorea. The doctor called it Chorea. I can't stop moving sometimes and my arms and legs do things I don't want them to."
I frowned, moving down streets in thought. Chorea… I hadn't heard of that before…
"Do they know what causes it? Or how to fix it?" I asked curiously, spotting the main street ahead and the park behind it.
"No and no. I just suddenly got clumsier and useless," he said with a sniffle, his little body quivering, and again I felt his feet twitch at my hips, the movement jolting all the way up his legs and causing a small spasm in the arms.
"Does it hurt?"
"No."
"Let's cure it."
"Che cazzo?"
I smiled and placed him down on the path that lead through the emptying park, wiping his eyes as I watched his movements. It wasn't every second, but, it was frequent enough to be troublesome. I began to see why Lovino had looked so clumsy earlier when he was running. I nodded as I decided.
"Yes, we'll just have to cure it!" I declared as I sat myself down on the edge of the pavement, looking up at the Italian as the lamp posts flickered on, illuminating the darkened park slightly.
Lovino sniffled and wiped some of the tears away that rolled down his cheek. At least I'd distracted him from his distress of being fought over, but in the worst way.
"How the fuck do you think we can do that? The doctors don't know!" he spat as he shifted from foot to foot, his hand twitching and doing an odd curling motion at his side that rippled up his arm until it rolled at his shoulder, the other side of his body arching upwards in a sway as he tried to fit into a stance that appeared natural whilst simultaneously attempting to disguise the jerky, yet flowing, movement.
It was almost like a dance.
An idea came to mind and I smiled, my eyes lighting up, blinking a few times as light caught in them when Lovino shifted, allowing the lamp light to hit my poor retina.
"We'll dance it out!"
Lovino stared, and for a good minute, that was all he did, completely forgetting about his sadness, or crying, or the fact that his foot was tapping in smooth sways from side to side.
"You're pissing me off."
"Really, maybe that would help!"
"You're making fun of me, bastardo."
"No, really!"
I beamed as I settled the guitar in my lap and strummed, my cold-numbed fingers tingling as the vibration of the strings echoed in the approaching night's air.
"If you want to move, just let it out! Maybe that will help?" I said as I plucked the steel strings in a fiery and passionate tune that flickered and danced like sparks on the water, "There's no harm in trying."
"Fuck no," Lovino grunted, crossing his arms stubbornly across his chest, scowling at me.
"Try," I repeated, continuing a slow and purring rhythm that dripped about us.
It told us we were alone, that no one was watching but me, Lovino, the stars and sky and the sinking sun and rising moon. It pooled at our feet and where I sat, spreading like a growing puddle that seeped into our ears, beating our hearts like the drums that should have accompanied it. I smiled at Lovino, watching as his muscles twitched again, making him sway his hips to the other side, cocking them to lock them in place and stop any further movements.
"Lovi."
"Che?"
"Just dance… Nobody is watching you," I soothed, my eyes falling to my hands as I watched them pull the slow tune from my instrument which served as a medium to pull the song from my heart.
If he didn't want anyone watching, then that was okay with me.
I pressed my fingers to the strings firmer and released them from the pressure so they would cry out louder, my calluses gliding across its throat as a series of notes fell from the mouth of my guitar in perfect pitch up and down the scale in replica of Spanish melody. The beat rocked us slowly, and I let my eyes shut, not needing to watch where it was I was touching, knowing the guitar like a lover or a part of my own body. We were one and the same, my instrument and I.
"Dance," I repeated in a breath that was taken by the breeze.
It was small movements, at first. I could hear them if I strained my ears, to which I did, and focused on the shift of fabric, and then the steps of boots on not-quite-unfrozen ground.
Cautiously, I opened my eyes to look to Lovino.
The picture he painted was one I wished I could capture forever in colour and movement; the way he moved shyly, slowly, his eyes closed, dark lashes resting on his cheeks that I could easily tell were blushed red, even in the darkness. His little awkward sway that expressed his uncertainty of what he was doing, and undoubtedly his feeling of foolishness for dancing in a park with a stranger.
The moon rose above the trees, diving along the whiteness and stretching out to illuminate the gardens around us like a cage of purity and crystal colours of white, lavender, baby blue and gold. The street lamps made the path mysterious, almost otherworldly, and their curled black and intricate designs made the electrical bulb in them look almost like a flame.
And how it made Lovino glow…
My fingers raised the tempo of the song, my fingers tapping the wooden body to add the illusion of a drum, and I watched as the Italian let himself loosen and relax as the music reached up to caress up his body and move him along in an elegant trance, his eyes still shut.
What a beautiful dancer…
His hands rose and moved in an exotic mixture of Spanish and Italian traditional dance, his hips swaying and legs perfectly twirling him about. I was captivated. My heart beat fast with the song and my fingers, the call of the guitar climbing higher into the night sky so that even the moon could hear as the melody and Lovino moved faster in synchronistic motions that consisted of sways, curls, arches and quick steps.
The spontaneous muscle movements seemed to decrease the faster he went, and in encouragement, I set the final pace- a brisk tune that had my fingers flying, my body swaying and me joining in with the way that the music would take me away with Lovino's dance to a place no one but we knew existed; a place in the land of white, lavender, blue and gold, and within the happy shine of amber that caught the reflection of the moon and stars when they opened and caught my eyes with the barest of curl of lips that quirked upwards in the almost-there beginnings of something that wasn't a scowl.
"Lovino," I whispered, afraid to break the atmosphere as the guitar reached its peak, the Italian's movements fast and getting faster, my fingers almost hurting with a combination of speed and numbness from the cold, and then it all stopped at once—the music, the dance, the exhilaration and I was left breathless and staring as strands of brown fell back around creamy olive skin, the curl soft and less rigid.
He glanced down at himself, light catching off his lashes and the remnants of tears that clung to them like crystals, watching his body for violent twitches and spasms.
I'll never forget his look of stunned surprise when he lifted his eyes back up to me, when after five minutes of stillness he realised that the Tarantella had taken away a cause of his great clumsiness.
"I'll always be here for you, Lovino…"
It probably wasn't the dance that had cured him, but the fact that he had opened up that little bit more and shared his burden. With the thrum of guitar strings still echoing in our ears, the little smile he tried to hide by turning his head was thanks enough for me, and I pretended not to see it, even if the illumination from the moon made his tomato red cheeks give an obvious glow…
Hopefully that was worth the wait for you guys! Forgive any badly written Italian, I don't speak a lick of Italiano in the slightest, and to all the Spaniards out there, forgive me if I've translated anything wrong- I'm still in the process of learning, but, I AM studying Spanish, so all of these were translated by me, so, uh, incorrectness ahoy. Please correct me if I've majorly messed up. (Like verbs. Pretty sure there's some wrong verbs in there.) Also forgive OOCness, if any, and if the story's pace is too fast or too slow. You guys decide.
Anyway, drop by a review to tell me what you think- trust me when I say that when I'm not feeling up to writing, or when my muse is a bit of a flop, I come back and re-read reviews for inspiration to cheer me up and motivate me. (No joke.) Love ya'll and hopefully you won't have to wait too long for the next chapter! (Don't hold your breath though.) Adios~. (Ciao~.)
