A/N: This is an incredibly short chapter compared to the others, but I just couldn't think of a good way to extend it. But hey, you get a new chapter anyway.

In other news, I've a contest for y'all! The question is: How old do you think I am? The one(s) that get/gets my age wins a prize. They either get a one-shot with a pairing of their choosing (unless it's something I really cannot stand, but I think I'll be fine with mostly anything you people will throw at me, since I'm sure that you know some of my limitations... i.e. I will not write FrUK or Itacest, so get that out of your head right now) or they could hear my voice either serenading them or reading something of their choosing (I could even do a dramatized reading of your favorite fic or something if you want me to xD), or you could pick both, if you like. These are lame rewards, but it's the best I can do.

The reason I'm doing this is 1) I AM (AT THE TIME OF POSTING) ONE REVIEW AWAY FROM 69 (I REALLY WANT 69 REVIEWS), and 2) I am honestly curious as to what age you assume I am.


The first time Antonio saw him, they were five, and Lovino was standing impatiently by his house, waiting for his brother to reach him. Unfortunately, Feliciano had stopped to pick some flowers, smelling them with a bright smile on his chubby face. Lovino was frowning disapprovingly, and shouted something at his brother that Antonio couldn't catch. Feliciano seemed agitated, though, and ran to catch up, his arms outstretched, mouth stretched open in a cry.

Antonio remembered thinking that Lovino was mean, and he pitied the child that stood beside the boy, wiping his eyes and hiccupping as Lovino yelled at him. Then Lovino did a complete one-eighty and hugged Feliciano, though he still looked grumpy. Feliciano sure looked happier, however, and his tears stopped. Antonio thought, then, that he misunderstood; Lovino must be an okay kid to be able to cheer someone up that quickly.

Antonio couldn't remember how many times he saw Lovino after that. For some reason, the siblings passed by his house almost every day, seemingly on their way home; he didn't know their names until much later, and he never talked to them, but he liked them.

The first time they talked—and maybe Lovino didn't remember it—was on the Italian's birthday in fifth grade. He walked up to them as they got their stuff out of their locker, and wished them a happy birthday. Lovino had jerked his head in acknowledgement, clearly unwilling to speak, while Feliciano had grinned brightly and thanked him enthusiastically, adding that he hadn't thought anyone would remember. He turned and nudged his brother, telling him to say thank you. Reluctance obvious in every way possible, Lovino grudgingly thanked him.

Antonio wasn't sure why he remembered it, but he didn't really mind. There could be more meaningless things to have memories of.

He turned over on his bed so he was on his back, staring up at his beige ceiling. Why was he thinking about that? He supposed it had something to do with hanging out with Lovino; memories tended to resurface when you were around someone. Sometimes, they were bad, but other times, they were good.

He raised one of his hands, as if reaching for the sky, and looked at his fingers. They were slender and long, like a pianist's, but they held calluses from playing the guitar and possibly other things, like building a tree house that one time in sixth grade in Gilbert's backyard with Gilbert and Francis. He remembered having to draw his fingers for a project in art in eighth grade. He never did have an aptitude for art; his creative talents lay elsewhere.

A figurative light bulb lit up above his head at that thought, and he sat up, lowering his hand. How did he not think of it earlier? He practically fell off of his bed in his hurry to scramble out of it, a grin lighting up his face. He was so preoccupied with attempting to become a part of Lovino's every day life (thus meaning that Lovino needed him on some level) that he never thought of another way to complete the dare! He scurried to his bookshelf, pulling out a thick notebook that was already three-fourths full. He brought it back to his bed, where he sat down, one leg under him, and opened it to the page a pencil was stuck in; after wriggling it out, he turned the page to scribble down words and notes.

He would, of course, serenade Lovino. It would be showing off his best skills, and, well, what sort of person doesn't like being serenaded? It would be the perfect opportunity to show Lovino how he felt! There was still a question, however: when would he do this? He could do it in the middle of the night, in a somewhat Romeo-and-Juliet-esque scene, but Lovino might get really annoyed at him for interrupting his beauty sleep. If he did it during school, Lovino would be too embarrassed to ever think about talking about him again. If he did it on the weekend, he'd have to figure out if Lovino would even be home, which would require asking or stalking, and while both options would work, it would ruin the secrecy of the whole thing. He rubbed his nonexistent beard (which meant that he settled for rubbing his clean-shaven chin) in thought. He also had to consider the possibility it would be too soon to serenade his amor. To wait or not to wait, that was the question.

His pencil paused in the act of crossing a t. There was also the question of whether he should make his own song or use an existing one. Lovino might be flattered about Antonio making a song just for him, but he might also wonder who the heck would ever do that. If Antonio used a song someone else sang, there was always the chance Lovino might like it, but he might not, and he would possibly throw a boot at him.

Okay, using a song of his seemed the least dangerous. Then again, how could he proclaim his love if he were afraid of the consequences? Even his mental image of Lovino screamed danger. Did the beauty not scare underclassmen? Did he not curry displeasure and unease among his own peers? Was he not the one unanimously voted 'Most Likely to Be In the Mafia' for the yearbook?

His mind made, he resumed writing the words and notes with renewed vigor. He would make this song, a favorite of his, worthwhile. Maybe he'd have to think of another song later, but no matter: it was going to work. He just had to execute it perfectly, and learn how to play it on guitar. He would have to imbue the words with the very essence of his love so that Lovino might understand, and so Gilbert could see that he was doing the dare just fine.

He worked until his fingers ached and his head spun with all the concentration he had put into this piece of art. He set the notebook onto his bedside drawer, setting the pencil beside it, and rolled onto his side, not bothering to check the time. He promptly fell asleep.


Antonio was sleepy the whole day. He made an effort to speak to his friends before class started. He put an arm on a shoulder of theirs, and said, "I have the solution."

The change was instantaneous: from being bored and just shy of being morose, the other two looked startled for a moment before radiant smiles graced their faces as they realized that he did not mean the last answer to their math homework that they hadn't managed to puzzle out. "Seriously?" Gilbert exclaimed, his hands, now done clutching his desk, becoming fists and then opening with flourish in quick succession.

"Tell us," Francis urged, an arm snaking out to wrap around the Spaniard's shoulders, drawing him closer. "What is your plan, mon ami?" With his other arm, he tugged Gilbert over gently until their hips bumped. Gilbert made a face and uttered a noise of distaste, but didn't move.

Antonio pinched himself when his eyelids felt heavy. He grimaced at the prick of pain. "I'll serenade him," he proclaimed, quite proud of himself for thinking of it. "I know of two songs at the top of my head that I could sing to him. I know their notes and everything; all I need to do is memorize how to play it on guitar. I can't pick which song, though…"

Francis glanced at the clock. Time was swiftly being taken from them. "We would discuss this during lunch, but you are still going to sit with your cœur, oui?" When Antonio nodded, he released the tanned teen to rub his stubble. "We will talk about it after school, then."

"And we are totally going to sing with you," Gilbert decided, stepping away, as if the Frenchman retracting his arm from Antonio meant that he had permission to pull away. "You know, like back-up, if you need it. If it's anything gay, I swear—" The bell rang, signaling homeroom had begun. Gilbert sighed, discontinuing what he had been about to say. "You better know what you're doing."

When lunch came around, instead of sitting down beside Bella as he had twice before, he plopped down to Lovino's right, burying his head in his arms. Lovino raised an eyebrow at that while Bella smirked in understanding. "Antonio, you really need to work on your sleeping habits," she stated, using her fork to scoop meat into her taco shell.

The only response was a muffled groan.

Lovino resisted the urge to poke him with his fork. "What's up with you?"

Antonio briefly contemplated answering; he didn't bother lifting his head to do so. "I died."

Bella nodded in thought. "I see. I have always wanted to dine with a zombie. Thanks for making Christmas come early for me."

Lovino rolled his eyes. He didn't particularly care one way or another.

Lunch passed by in relative quiet as the two friends ate their tacos. Antonio's head somehow found Lovino's side and deemed it a comfortable pillow by the middle of it. Lovino was going to shove him off, but he never quite got around to it. It nearly killed Bella to not make a comment about it, but she did settle for grinning so hard and wide, her mouth hurt for days after.


Antonio wasn't sure when his feelings came to be. Perhaps it was so gradual that he just never noticed, or maybe it had been there all along. All he knew was that he felt the way he did, and that was that. He could make lists of what he liked about Lovino; it would be much longer than the list of what he disliked.

He liked Lovino's eyes and how they changed colors with his mood. He liked how they glittered in anger and sparkled in mirth. He liked his hair and the lock that never failed to defy gravity. He liked the color of it, red-brown and soft. He liked his smooth complexion and how the tan implied that he spent time outdoors. He liked Lovino's voice, deeper than he would have thought but still more fitting than his imagined voice for him would have been. He liked Lovino's personality: irritable and hotheaded, but capable of affection and loyal. He liked how he could never exactly describe him. He liked how he didn't insult him with the intent of pain. He liked how Lovino had those moments where he looked like he was thinking some very intense thoughts. He liked how he paused sometimes while working, just to glance around and maybe mentally make fun of people, before resuming his writing. He could think of a lot more things he liked, but maybe that would seem creepy.

The point was that—well, he didn't know what the point was. Maybe he just wanted to think of Lovino. Perhaps he just forgot what the whole point of that mini-rant was. Whatever the reason, it made him readjust his guitar strap and glance up at his friends. They were at the park, and they were presently standing while he sat on a bench that still smelled like paint.

He began strumming a plucky sort of melody, a smile on his face. It was clear he adored the song, judging from his expression and the slightly accented voice that came out of his mouth. "I won't hesitate no more, no more. It cannot wait, I'm sure. There's no need to complicate—our time is short. This is our fate. I'm yours."

Gilbert and Francis nodded as the last note of the excerpt faded. "Yes," Gilbert said, "your boy-toy would so throw a boot at you for that, but it's good."

"Oui," Francis agreed. "Let us hear the other song you were considering."

"It normally has other instruments," Antonio admitted, "but I'll try my best." His lips quirked, not quite a smile but not quite a line, and he began singing, huskier than before. "All I need is the rhythm divine. Lost in the music, your heart will be mine. All I need is to look in your eyes. Viva la musica, say you'll be mine…"

Francis rubbed his stubble for the second time that day. "French is the language of love, but Spanish is the language of romance." The compliment hung in the air like holly hung from a doorway; Francis's expression was of cat-like satisfaction, clearly pleased. "I like how there is a Spanish phrase. It sounds more natural on your tongue than English."

"That, and you have wet dreams about it," Gilbert said with a sneer. "Frankly, I like both because the first one had a nice tune to it, and when you do the second one, you sound completely different than you usually do in a good way. I say go with the first one—there's less of a chance of him throwing something that belongs to his foot at you or screaming rape."

"I prefer the second," Francis stated. Then, looking abashed, he conceded, "It is, perhaps, simply because of the Spanish. By the way, isn't it by Enrique Iglesias?"

Gilbert stared at him. "Enrique? Who the fuck names their kid Enrique? Fuck, I'd die if my name were Enrique. Verdammt, seriously, who the hell gives Enrique as a name? Who the fuck even came up with it? It's a naming nightmare. It's like they wanted their kid to be gay as fuck. I can't believe you guys. You listen to someone with a faggoty name like that? I had thought that you were the closest to my level of awesome, but it appears I'm wrong. Disappointment is imminent."

Antonio cleared his throat. "It's the Spanish form of Henry," he said crisply, or as crisply as he could with a demeanor like his, addressing only the main topic of Gilbert's mini-rant. He did, however, look mildly offended. "Besides, an even worse name is Aloicious."

"You're shitting me," Gilbert denied in amazement. "Holy fuck, how do they come up with these names?"

Francis sighed. "I believe we are straying from our original topic."

"Fuck you. We're talking about crazy names now."

Antonio laughed, his grip on his guitar loosening into a more relaxed hold. "Gil, we should listen to Fran." He grinned at Francis. "Sorry, amigo. Yes, it is by Enrique. It's called 'Rhythm Divine.'"

It was Gilbert's turn to sigh; he ran a hand through his snowy hair, frowning. "Right. I still say go with the first. It seems like your best chance. Besides, I don't think your cucciolo, or whatever the fuck you'd call him, would appreciate the Spanish. He twitches every time he hears it."

Francis raised a perfect blond eyebrow, incredulous. "Does he? I hadn't noticed."

"Yeah." Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Obviously. Am I the only sensible person around here? Oh, wait, that's right—you two can't even compare to my awesomeness, so of course I'm the most awesome one." He began rolling his jacket sleeves up to his elbow, apparently uncaring of the chilly weather. "All right, anyway, the point is that your Italian doesn't like Spanish. He might throw more than a boot at you if you say anything Spanish to him."

Antonio's expression resembled a wounded puppy. "Really? Well, I guess it makes sense… He makes funny faces when I use it around him…"

"Exactly. The awesome me am never wrong."

"Then, mon chéri," Francis drawled, still with an arched brow, "would you mind predicting our futures?"

Gilbert smirked. "Just remember that you asked for it." He raised his left hand to press his index and middle fingers against his temple, using his right hand to point at Francis. "I see lost love in your future, but it leads to one that has been there all along. There are some complications, though I think that you're gonna get through it just fine." He directed his finger to Antonio, squinting in concentration. "Oh, you'll get your boy-toy… It'll just come at a cost. He'll throw more than three boots at you; there will be an epic Titanic scene; the slag he hangs out with will make endless retarded pop culture jokes about you two; and, whoa, there's one other thing that I don't think you'll like…"

Antonio blinked, his eyebrows drawing together and his mouth making a frown in a picture of confusion. "What is it?"

"I'm sorry," Gilbert stated solemnly, looking at him with imagined pity, his arms falling to his sides, "but he'll start to fall in love with someone else."

The Spaniard's lips formed an o, but before he could ask a question, Francis laid a hand on Gilbert's shoulder. "Why would you say that?" he asked with false calm, only the twitching of the corner of his mouth betraying his unease. "You said that they were going to get together, right? I mean…" He cast a glance at Antonio, filled with something that was almost concern. "I know that this prediction thing is unlikely to ever come true, but it's odd that you'd choose to give him such a bad omen."

"Come on," Gilbert complained, not seeming to notice Francis's hint. "It's not like the Vargas kid is Cas—"

"Don't," Francis hissed, but it was too late.

Antonio's fingers flexed almost spasmodically in order to not become fists. His lips pressed together, and he looked on the verge of tears, but his gaze was searing when he locked eyes with the albino. "I had thought," he said quietly, eyes darkened with an unfamiliar emotion, "that we had agreed to never speak of her again." Somehow, he looked more menacing than if he had them at gunpoint. His look sharpened as Gilbert opened his mouth to reply, and for one startling moment, he looked, as he would have if they lived centuries earlier, regally dangerous, and his friends could almost imagine him at the prow of a sea vessel, clothed in their ideas of pirate clothes, directing an attack on an enemy ship. It was gone when Gilbert closed his mouth, which was a second later, but it was enough to remind them of their vow just a few years ago.

Francis yearned to hold him, to tell him that it was over, that it was okay, but something held him back. No, he thought to himself, surveying the green-eyed man in a new light; it was just that Antonio would not accept the comfort. Well, either way, Gilbert had sure gotten himself into a tight spot. The fool could get himself out of it; he wasn't going to help this time… or, at least, he wouldn't until it was absolutely necessary.

Gilbert looked at a loss. "You know I didn't mean…" He faltered, and lifted a hand to reach toward him, but retracted it quickly. "Antonio, you know that I would never purposely dig up old wounds." His eyes pleaded the forgiveness he was too proud to beg for. "It was by accident—I wasn't thinking…"

Antonio simply stared at him, offering no response.

"I…" Gilbert pressed his palm to his forehead, grimacing. "Verdammt. Nothing good is happening today." His lip curled in distaste. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to say it. It just slipped out. I'm the most awesome guy ever, but even I slip up sometimes."

Antonio looked to the side. He knew that Gilbert detested apologizing with a passion, and loathed admitting a mistake even more. It made him feel even worse, and the expression he had kept up fell. "I understand." His voice was soft, forgiving. The words he did not say were plain to see. There would be no more mention of this.

There was a silence that seemed to drag on forever, with no one sure how they should interrupt it. When the sky began to darken, Antonio stood up. "I guess it's time to go home," he proclaimed with a laugh.

Francis gave him a gentle smile. "Oui. See you tomorrow."

"Good luck with what's-his-face," Gilbert said, turning to leave.

They parted ways with no more words than that.


HANDY-DANDY TRANSLATIONS

SPANISH
amor=love
viva la musica=long live music (I think?)
amigo=friend

FRENCH
mon ami=my friend
cœur=heart
oui=yes
mon chéri=my dear

GERMAN
verdammt=dammit

ITALIAN
cucciolo=puppy; an endearment