❝O, Romano, Romano! Wherefore Art Thou Romano?❞
「 ACT 1, SCENE 3 」
Débil Corazón
"Affection is not rated from the heart:
If love have touch'd you, nought remains but so,
'Redime te captum quam queas minimo.'"
—William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew
A stream of radiant sunlight snuck in-between the almost-inexistent space of the scarlet curtains, illuminating the entirety of the room in a warm, pleasant glow. Buried under the covers was a peaceful young man with a messy tousle of short brown locks, luscious and evenly-tanned skin, and a perpetual and smallish smile that seethed of eternal jubilee and mirth. His dark lashes began to flutter swiftly upon the immediate he felt a disturbance in the lighting of his room, revealing a pair of groggy emerald orbs, dull with bromidic confusion yet subtly shining with ebullient vigor. His dazed just-got-out-of-bed expression remained intact to his face for a few more confused moments before his face brightened up substantially, his smallish smile turning up into a behemoth of a grin.
He jumped out of bed whilst slipping into his slippers in the process, stretching out his tense muscles and yawning as loudly as the busy streets of Madrid. He then stared at the various bags thrown against a precarious corner of his tawny yellow walls, the bags obviously overflowing with a sporadic myriad of his significant belongings. With a satisfactory nod, he rushed to the bathroom and examined himself with the squeaky clean mirror, laughing wholeheartedly at his rather silly demeanor.
Today is the day, thought he with such enthusiasm, he could have very well exploded from such. His musings were centered around the importance of today, to which he described as "possibly the most important day of his life".
Not so long ago, the Spaniard and his enormous family had moved to a small town in the very middle of Italy. They have lived there for quite a long time, and the cheery Spaniard learned and habitually succumbed to the carefree lifestyle of the Italians, even adapting to their curious ways of speech as well as their taste in fine cuisine. It was in Italy where the Spaniard had also met three of his very best friends, of whom he promised himself he would never forget. And he hadn't, to this day—he could have never forgotten them, especially that one particular person.
He smiled with a slight hint of forlorn. Because of some unexpected circumstances, the Spaniard and his expansive family returned to their homeland: in the heart of Barcelona. They have all abandoned their Italian-inspired habits and returned to their true roots. But the Spaniard never forgot about them; no, not even with their lack of communication would the Spaniard ever forget about his three absolute favorite people in the world. Especially his precious lo—
Ring!
Having broken away from his prolonged reverie, the Spaniard frantically searched for the source of the familiarly irritating melody and stared at it stupidly. How could he have forgotten to pack his old telephone, from which he received from his parents as a parting gift, giving it the status of grave importance? Then again, was it not him who forgot even his own phone number and, apparently, his own birthday sometimes?
Nonetheless, he softly chuckled bemusedly to himself and picked up the phone. But the voice that escaped from the other end—the all-too-familiar voice he had loved as a child and would forever endear—almost gave him a spontaneous heart attack, for Antonio would have never expected the optimistic Italian to call him after all these years.
"Ve, ciao! It's me—Feliciano! How have things been?"
"F-Feliciano?" the Spaniard asked dubiously, almost cautiously, his mind filled with surprise and deadly curiosity and a bountiful of happiness. "Long time, no talk, mi hijito lindo! Everything is muy bien here. Sunny, family reunions, tending to my tomato crops… It's all rather soothing, mi niño!"
"That's good"—ah, just the sound of the adorable little Italian's optimistic voice brought Antonio in a sort of heaven. He smiled happily, clutching the phone with a deathly grip that dripped of anticipation, and began chattering away: "Oh, Feli, mi niño! I'm so glad to be talking to you again! Oh, it's been, what, four or six or ten years already? I forgot already, because it's just been that long!"
"Scusi! We should hang out soon, then?" The Spaniard chuckled softly; they would definitely hang out soon, he thought with a hint of mischievous intent, looking at the plethora of suitcases stashed away in that one particular corner.
"I'm in Spain right now, remember, Feli?" He supposed his slight foreshadowing would be lost in Feliciano's thought process, but it never hurt to try making subtle hints.
"Oh, teehee… I forgot you were in Spain!" Oh, the younger Vargas twin was such an adorable little cutie! If anything, Antonio could have exploded from the overload of cuteness a la Feliciano, but he remained still and attempted to keep his calm composure, if calm could also be referred to as slightly fidgety and excited.
"It's alright," Antonio said hastily, smiling softly. "Say, Feli… I have a surprise for you guys tomorrow."
"Ve, really, Toni?"
"Sì, sì, for you and my little Lovi!" Just saying that particular name again made Antonio's smile grow into an ebullient grin, toothy and white and illuminated with jubilee. Romano… no, no, his Lovi, had always been such a cranky and annoying and useless and insanely difficult little boy when they were but children. Regardless, if anything, the Spaniard preferred that petulant little Italian over the rather popular Feliciano, for reasons he himself couldn't exactly fathom.
The Spaniard could hear a soft giggle from the other end—all angelic and serene and pretty. He couldn't help but giggle himself; Antonio had always been moved by anything cute, especially—especially… "Teehee, I'll tell mio fratello you said hi, okay?"
"Alright, Feli. Well, I have to go now. Te quiero, mi niño! Stay sweet!"
"Ve, grazie! Love you too, Toni!"
And with that, the Spaniard carefully returned the phone to its case, untangling the cord wrapped tightly around his pointer finger. Laughing sheepishly at his childish habit, he returned his gaze towards those suitcases. What was he talking about before? Something about… moving… Oh, right!
Antonio beamed a smallish smile to no one in particular, but one could assume he was smiling at the image of his love, who was currently dominating his thoughts with such flaccid ease. Today, which he constantly referred to as "possibly the most important day of his life," was the day he would be hopping on a plane and return to the lands he originally grew up in. To return to the place he breathed for the majority of his childhood. To return to the place that taught him so many things. To the place where he met those three kids, whom of which he had never forgotten regardless of the circumstance—regardless of the lack of communication, or the lack of notable memories, or anything really. He, again, especially wanted to see… his love… a fiery little child whose anger, when provoked, was deadly but whose smile was the prettiest little thing he had ever seen in his entire life.
Nodding to himself satisfactorily, the Spaniard snatched the suitcases out of the corner of his room and rushed out of his now-former house, breathing in the intoxicating scent of an exceptionally sunny Spanish day. He would miss the Spanish sun, and the streets filled with laughter, but what he missed more than anything was his former Italian life…
He gazed back at his house, a prolonged ogle full of whimsical reminiscence. Then, he turned his head back around and gazed at the morning sun, a symbol which he took as moving forward to the path of happiness he so yearned for.
The Spaniard threw his suitcases in the back of his car seats and sat comfortably in the front seat, clutching the steering wheel with all his life. He then stared back, the last time he would ever look back, and stared into the direction of the airport, which was only but a few minutes away. An expectant smile, a few saddened tears, and he was off, leaving behind his old Spanish life. He convinced himself it was worth it, though, for his love.
Anything for his love.
• ❈ •
The sound of crickets chirping under the dreary moonlight reverberated against the vacancies of the Italian air, the Spaniard trudging alongside the empty roads, in search of that one house. The airplane ride had been rather tedious and vexing, as he had nothing to do, really, and also because of the fact the person he sat with was… weird, per se. The person he was sitting with—a blonde and bushy-browed British gentleman—exhibited a peculiar sort of rancor for Antonio, of which the Spaniard was perplexed of. He had never seen the man before in his entire life. Nonetheless, Antonio pushed those thoughts away from his mind and returned to his frantic search to seek the house he would inevitably staying at. With his lover.
He smiled happily at the thought. Just to see that person again made his entire day bright, even when he was dead tired and his bromidic and half-lidded eyes were practically falling into a desperate, much-needed slumber. It fired him up with so much excitement, he could barely contain it. Especially when, after what seemed like a very long time searching, he finally found the place he was looking for: a small and shabby one-story house, which, from the outside, filled with varying flowers and plants, looked very warm and comely.
A placid and dazzling smile etched itself on the Spaniard's flushed face, his emerald orbs examining the small mahogany door with impatient anxiety. Then, as the door opened, revealing a rather petulant-looking and tousled angel who apparently just woken up from a good beauty sleep, Antonio's smile brightened substantially. He dropped his suitcases on the ground and practically skidded towards the smallish figure, wrapping his tanned arms around that petite waist with such fervent happiness, a product of the bottled anticipation he had been feeling since the morning he left Spain. It was so nice being able to be here, caught up in a moment of long and Romeo and Juliet-esque sentiments. Everything felt absolutely perfect, even if he couldn't feel any happy reciprocation from the figure he was hugging.
He looked into those trite yet dazzling orbs of abysmal contempt, and he smiled. "You haven't changed a bit, mi amor…"
I don't like this chapter, but the actual plot is really close now, I'm serious. I think it'll be in the next chapter, since (SPOILER) Antonio and the Vargas twins will be interacting in person (END SPOILER).
Hmmhh, I wonder who Spain really wants to see so badly that makes him move back to Italy? ;)