A/N: Don't write me off yet! I'm so sorry for this super late update xD But man, what a crazy couple of weeks this has been D:

At the end of this chapter, I'm going to give you guys the full sound-track I used while brainstorming this fic. You have no idea how much these songs helped me set the tone xD

And oh – in this chapter, I'm jumping around POVs quite a bit, unlike the previous chapters.

The guitarist strums a song filled with melancholy and nostalgia, raw and yet soothing. The sun rises long and slow, each golden drop of light falling like tears upon autumn-swept open roads. It's not raining, though. That's good. Lovino's not sure he can stand the thought of rain at the moment. It's one thing if the sun cries – the sun is the sun; it's the giver of life, and it's not going anywhere. Eventually, it'll stop weeping like it is right now – but the sky is a reflection, a mirror, a movie screen. The sky changes with the mood, the hour. Lovino projects onto the sky. And it is clear, lightly cloud-spattered and calm.

Surely that means that things will be okay.

The sun cries because of what it's seeing, what it's hearing.

But the sky depicts what Lovino is feeling, so that must mean he feels confident.

God, what is he even thinking? He doesn't even know. All this 'celestial body' crap. It doesn't even make sense. Lovino's hands loosen slightly from the steering wheel. He can't look at Antonio, who's pushed his seat all the way back and lies there staring at the open sunroof of the car, strumming away with a faraway expression in his eyes, as though his world his falling apart and the only thing he can do is play music to keep everyone calm.

Instantly, Lovino remembers the Titanic movie, but then he pushes that thought out of his mind, too. That's what he's been doing all morning. Dismissing his emotions, just like he used to. Before Paris. Before Antonio. It's easier this way. He doesn't want to deal with things right now. It's too painful. When he's on the plane to Rome, he'll allow himself to break down and weep. But he just can't do it in front of Antonio. It'll make the separation worse.

They don't get lost, this time. Lovino almost wishes they do, just so he can have a few more minutes, a few more hours. But Antonio hasn't said one word either, so he's not sure what they'll even talk about.

A loud sigh. Lovino doesn't glance at Antonio, but asks, "What happened?"

"Do we have a song?" Antonio wonders, his tone lazy and drawling.

"What?"

"Do we have a song?" Antonio repeats, but now he sounds firmer as he looks at Lovino.

"That's such clichéd couple nonsense."

"Who cares?"

"Fair enough."

"I think That's Amore should be our song. Because it's lovely, and because you made me play it for you the first time we met."

Lovino doesn't immediately reply, staring blankly ahead at the empty road. Walking up to Antonio had been the best and worst decision ever. That's the whole problem. Some people, when they become a part of your life, they change it. They destroy the old, rusted iron bars inside you. And then they leave you like that. You have to build yourself back up, except this time it's different, this time it's newer, richer, kinder, and suddenly you're a different person, living a different existence. Suddenly, everything you know and hate about yourself has transformed. The reflection in the mirror isn't one you've ever seen before.

"I like that song," Lovino says quietly.

Antonio chuckles. "Sing with me?"

"…I don't have a good voice."

"I like your voice. It's so pleasing. Like a warm drink on a cold night."

"Oh god, cut out the clichés, would you?"

"Sing with me, Lovi. Please."

Lovino sighs. How can he refuse this man when he uses that tone?

Antonio giggles softly as his fingers run down the strings of the guitar. "In Napoli, where love is kiiiing, when boy meets girl, that's what they saaaaaay…" Antonio's voice is soft, like he's humming a lullaby.

"When the moon hits your eye –"

"When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie –"

"That's Amore!"

They are not coordinated. Oh goodness, no. Lovino is singing slower than Antonio is, but this is nice. Both of them stumble over the words, because there are parts Lovino doesn't remember and Antonio gets confused with, neither of them have heard the original version in a while, but once they start, it's hard to stop. Pretty soon, they're singing to every single Dean Martin song Antonio knows how to play on his guitar.

"I think La Vie En Rose should be our song, actually," Antonio says after they finish singing that for the third time.

"Why?"

"Well, it's got a bit of a French feel to it, and we met in Paris. Plus, it's not specifically a song about a love between a man and a woman. It's more…what's the word…"

"Secular."

"Oh, right. Secular."

"Inclusive," Lovino rattles off.

"That too."

"Egalitarian."

"Oh Lovi, shut up."

Lovino laughs. "Hold me close and hold me fast, the magic spell you cast, this is la vie en rose…"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Antonio cries. "Wait, let me play it on the guitar –"

"When you kiss me, heaven sighs –"

"Lovi!"

"And though I close my eyes –"

"Will you –"

"I see la vie en rose…"

Antonio slams his hand down on his thigh, pouts, crosses his arms, and looks away. The whole thing is pretty comical, considering the position he's in. Lying down with the car seat almost flat, guitar on his chest. Lovino can't stop the laughter than escapes him.

"Ha, ha, very funny," Antonio mutters. "It's more fun singing with the guitar."

"It's more fun teasing you," Lovino quips, shaking his head. "You're right, La Vie En Rose should be our song."

Antonio raises an eyebrow and looks at him questioningly.

"I was making a memory," Lovino admits, his face going red. "I mean, if you want to be lame and choose a couple song and all that, might as well pick one that has a special memory, right? That's Amore had a nice memory, but you prefer La Vie En Rose, so I had to make a memory with that one."

"Oh," Antonio says simply.

"Oh," Lovino repeats, still teasing.

"That's…"

"Yes?"

"Adorable."

"Oh, shut up."

By the time they reach Paris, Antonio has slipped into numbness. He needs it. His protective shield. He can't cry in front of Lovino. It would just make things worse. He's not sure he'll ever see this man again. Well, ever see him in person again. He's pretty sure Lovino will be all over the news in no time, some romantic scandal or the other making headlines in the entertainment section.

No, no, no. He can't think like that, he just can't. Lovino loves him. Lovino wouldn't –

But would he? It's not like there's any confusion on the matter. Lovino has made it perfectly clear that when they separate, they separate for good. Despite Antonio's plea to meet in Normandy again the next year. To be worthy of each other.

Gilbert would say Antonio is being dramatic.

Francis would say he's being romantic.

But the truth is, Antonio is being spiritual.

He's not…damaged. He's not. He's just afraid of staying put. Lovino isn't damaged either. Lovino's just afraid of leaving. These aren't serious, life-threatening situations. But they're chokeholds. Cages. What Antonio wants is simple. He wants to be worthy of Lovino. To fix himself. And for Lovino to do the same. For the two of them to be brave enough to be happy with their own lives. It's only then that they have even the slightest chance.

But Lovino doesn't want to try, so that's that.

Neither of them has spoken a word about this after the night Antonio proposed the idea. After that night, they didn't make love quite as often. They didn't really talk like they used to…Antonio's ruined everything.

Paris looms. All around them, the buildings, the streets, the people.

Welcome back, mincemeat.

Antonio closes his eyes and slips deeper into his cocoon. As they reach the airport, it's all Antonio can do to not pool in the rest of his money and buy a ticket right out of there. To Sweden. Or North Korea. Can he even travel there? Do airlines allow it? He just needs to go somewhere he hasn't been. (And he's been to Sweden, too.) How about Antarctica? Oh, Colombia. He hasn't been there, has he? What if he could –

"Are you all right?" Lovino asks gently.

"Of course," Antonio replies, his response too quick. "Why?"

"You're breathing is slightly irregular." Lovino has parked the car, and places one hand on Antonio's. "I want you to calm down."

"I'm calm." Stop. Thinking. Zone. Out. "I'm calm," Antonio says again, and this time he knows he sounds…drugged, or something. He's forcing his brain to shut down, go on autopilot. It numbs the pain, the anxiety.

Lovino studies him. God, those golden eyes. Please, Lovino, don't leave. Don't leave. Don't leave me.

"We should get your suitcases." The sentence is spoken with a hint of spite, which comes as a genuine surprise to Antonio. And to Lovino. He physically recoils, blinking and staring at Antonio in shock and then hurt. Antonio closes his eyes and presses the bridge of his nose. This is not working. "I'm sorry. I don't…I…I'm sorry."

"It's fine." Lovino looks away, staring at his lap. "It's okay. You're right. We should get the suitcases."

So that's just what they do. It's those designer suitcases that all look the same and have the same pattern, Gucci or Armani or whatever, Antonio doesn't even know, he's never cared, can't Lovino see that? Antonio doesn't care about his money or his fame or that nonsense all his other girlfriends and boyfriends stick with him for. Antonio loves him for that free-spirited, sarcastic, wine-hating, prodigal chef that he is. Antonio loves him because Lovino is kind and smart, gentle yet fierce, Lovino is everything Antonio needs, can't he fucking see that?

Don't leave me.

Come back.

As Antonio's taking out the bags, Lovino's found a trolley. They're working silently, as though this is mere routine. As though Lovino's just on one of his work trips, and he'll be back tomorrow night. They're avoiding eye-contact. They're avoiding physically touching each other, too.

People all around them. Mothers with screaming babies, smartly dressed businessmen, families and old people, airport workers, air-hostesses, security personnel. Antonio's eyes wander over to a couple of travellers. He knows his kind. He can sense them out anywhere. Dressed awkwardly, dreadlocks for hair, tattoos, patched-up suitcases, and a sort of coolness. I can handle this, their body language says.

Suddenly, their eyes scan across the place and meet Antonio's. He almost drops one of Lovi's bags.

Where are they going? Where did they come from? What's their story? Antonio is part of that kind. The sort that never stops, never sleeps. Antonio has a lifetime of experiences. He collects them. He's done things people could never dream of doing. Antonio does not shy away from adventure. He doesn't fear pain.

He could go with them…

He's done it before. Befriended and tagged along with complete strangers.

His eyes wander over to Lovino.

Befriended, travelled with, and fallen in love with complete strangers.

Shatter.

There goes his composure. The numbness. There goes his spite. Down falls the tension. Antonio drops the suitcase. The sky is cracking and opening up. The ground is water, Antonio can't stand. The world around him – sound, light, colour – twists and shifts and changes. He's in a movie. This is all an animation. Everything is unsteady and confusing.

Lovino, The North Star, stares into Antonio. The anchor. The map to the way back home.

Antonio wants to throw his arms around Lovino and cry. But he realises he doesn't have to.

Lovino is holding him. Arms around his neck, firm and desperate and hungry for more. Kisses that always seem too short, each touch – skin, skin, skin – burning through clothing, temperatures hot and cold charging through bloodstreams, the taste of him, coffee and cinnamon, something sweeter like honey, the smell of his cologne and sweat and a lingering aroma of wine in his clothes, why is he so perfect?

When they pull away, Lovino's looking at him very seriously. He's so composed. How is he so composed. "This day next year, Normandy. Right?"

And the sensation hits again. Everything spiralling out of control and Lovino's the only thing that makes sense. Actually, Antonio's always felt that. Everything's always zooming in haphazard patterns, time and money and place, nothing ever makes sense because he never lets it, nothing ever lasts because he runs, and then there's Lovino who makes him stop and want to stay rooted, because for the first time ever, he cares about where he is.

"You…" Antonio whispers. He's so giddy with happiness. He can barely breathe.

"Oh my god, is that Lovino Vargas? Hey, you're the guy in the news, right?"

Lovino jumps out of Antonio's arms like he's on fire, and a few people stop and stare at him. The woman who shouted is waving around a newspaper and she's standing only a few feet away from them with her dark sunglasses and her cruelly awed face.

Lovino's gone red again, and he's stammering and all he wants to do is run. Antonio can see it.

So, he steps in.

Perfect Spanish.

"No, I'm sorry, you must be mistaken. This is Romano Carriedo, although I admit there is a bit of a resemblance. Sorry, do you speak Spanish?"

Lovi and the woman are gaping at him, and Antonio nudges Lovino gently, saying, "Romano, we should really be going inside. You'll miss your flight."

The woman then looks at Lovino.

"Uh…si?" he mumbles, and Antonio almost laughs. Lovino doesn't know much Spanish, does he? He's just said the only word he knows. Antonio holds Lovino's hand and drags him off, away from that evil woman and her stupid tabloid, trying to ignore how she's made Lovino look so delicate.

When they're safely away from her and into the airport, Lovino sighs loudly and falls into Antonio's chest, burying his head in his shoulder. "Thank you."

"Hey, come on. Don't mention it."

"I don't know if it worked, but thank you."

"Lo—Romano," Antonio teases gently, and Lovino chuckles. It sounds breathy and exhausted, though, and when he pulls away, Lovino's nose is red and he looks like he's fighting back tears.

"I should change my name to Romano," he mutters.

"Romano Carriedo," Antonio teases.

"That."

"Maybe you can call your restaurant Romano, huh?"

"What?"

"Yeah, whenever you get your restaurant. You should call it Romano. I don't know, I guess I just see it like a symbol of freedom or something…how cheesy is that?"

"It's not a symbol of freedom. It's a lie."

"Then make it the truth."

"Antonio, just…please." Lovino rubs his face tiredly. "Normandy. Next year. As I was saying when that stupid bitch interrupted me."

"You remember the deal?"

"I do. I'll have quit. And you'll have…stayed."

"Yep."

They say nothing for a moment, but it's a pleasant sort of awkward. Finally, Antonio says, "I'll really, really miss you."

"You can always Google me," Lovino teases, and Antonio's glad he's at least smiling.

"Well, there's that."

"I won't get into any more scandals." Lovino is holding Antonio's hands. "Unless that scandal is with you. And judging from the looks we're getting, that's a likely possibility."

Antonio merely glances around for a moment. People are staring, but that's probably because they're rude and they find it different to see two men showing their affections publically. Although it shouldn't be such a big deal. This is, of course, Paris. The city of love.

"They're just jealous," Antonio replies easily.

"Yeah, I bet." Lovino takes his hands back and lowers his eyes. "I should go now."

"I love you."

"I love you too. God, Antonio, I love you too. I know I have the shittiest track record ever, but I do mean what I said."

"I know that." Antonio smiles. He believes it. He was losing faith in himself, in Lovino, in them, but now he's not so insecure. Lovino has quelled his fears, and everything is okay again. Or well, it will be. He's sure of it.

Antonio waves cheerfully as Lovino walks away, and Lovino gives him one of his small smiles as he waves back. Although Lovino's far less spirited about the whole thing, Antonio can see the lightning in his eyes. He knows Lovino's feeling exactly what he is feeling right now.

What the hell is Antonio feeling, anyway?

When he smiles, he feels happy. It's his mask, but it's also a switch.

But now the smile has gone. He walks out of the airport and jumps into Gilbert's car.

He's feeling…

Welcome back, mincemeat.

The buildings are closing in on him.

He feels…

Cornered.

Poor network on a cheap mobile phone.

"Francis, where are you?"

"Toni? It's one in the afternoon on a Saturday. Lunch rush. Where do you think I'd be?"

"I need you."

"Antonio, what's going on? Where are you? Are you all right?"

"I'm under the Eiffel Tower and I need you."

"You – you're in Paris!? I thought you'd be in Normandy. Or Sweden, I don't know."

"I'm in Paris."

"I'll be free in a couple of hours, so then we can –"

"Francis, I need you now."

"Toni, I…"

"Please. Dios, please."

"…"

"Hello?"

"Stay put. I'm on my way."

A payphone.

"Feli?"

"LOVINO. WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?"

"Whoa – are you cussing?!"

"DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES I'VE CALLED YOU? TEXTED YOU? EMAILED YOU?"

"Sorry, sorry. My phone fell down a cliff."

"What?!"

"Yeah, it's a long story."

"And I called the hotel and they told me you'd checked out and I called the hotels at Lyon and Bordeaux and they told me you never made it! I was going to call the police! Grandpa is sick with worry!"

"Look, calm down, let's all just calm down. I'm at the airport. My flight for Rome is in an hour. I'm fine, everything is fine. I was in Normandy."

"What? Why would you go there?"

"I…hitched a ride with a friend I made."

"…A friend."

"Yes."

"Lovi, is this one like your 'friends' who end up in newspapers with you?"

"…No."

"No?"

"No. Anyway, it's a story for another time. I called to say…I…well, I wanted to hear your voice."

"…Is everything okay?"

"No."

"What's wrong, Lovi? Hey, are you crying?"

"No…yes."

"Lovino, what happened?"

"Nothing…I…we'll talk when I get home."

"Lovi, talk to me! What's wrong?"

"Look, I'm on a payphone, there are people waiting for their turn. Just have the car pick me up at Rome."

"But –"

"I love you. See you soon, Feli."

Francis, being Francis, has brought wine. They sit on a bench under the Eiffel Tower and watch swarms of people go by, although Francis insists it isn't all that bad, that this is off-season and it's not actually that crowded. Antonio has buried his head into Francis shoulder and just cries and cries and cries. Francis had initially tried to talk to him, but gave up. Antonio's grateful. He needs this.

He hasn't touched the wine. He doesn't think he can. Wine reminds him too much of Lovi.

It's sunset when Antonio finally becomes quiet, leaning on Francis in a semi-conscious stupor. Crying is exhausting. Antonio knows Francis understands that. Francis has known heartbreak intimately. He never talks about it, but the way Francis approaches the idea of love is so cautious, so tender. It's how a survivor might look at it. It's like with every touch, every word, Francis is really saying, I empathise. I know.

Only when it's dark outside does Antonio finally speak.

"Sorry."

"For what, cher?"

"You know what."

"No, I don't."

"For ruining your day. And stuff."

"And for making my shirt completely wet with tears?"

"Yes…that, too."

"Yes, it's a disaster. How in the world can I salvage a wet shirt? It's the end of the world, I tell you." When Francis's attempt at making Antonio laugh just makes him tear up again, the Frenchman sighs. He pulls Antonio into another hug. He's lost track of how many they've had over the last few hours, but he doesn't mind. Antonio completely curls into him, but he's exhausted and wrung dry, so he doesn't cry all that much. They just sit like that for several minutes.

"It's cold outside, isn't it?" Francis muses. "We'll have a long winter this year…"

"I guess." Antonio pulls away and lets out a shuddering breath.

"Do you want to go get something warm to drink?"

"No…Unless you want to."

"No, no, I'm fine. I have my wine to warm me up." Francis rummages around his bag and pulls out two glasses. Only he can carry stuff like that around without it breaking. His eyes twinkle in the low light of streetlamps as he says, "Come now, Toni, share it with me. It's not a Vargas."

"…How did you know?"

"How did I know what? That you've fallen head-over-heels for that pretty Italian playboy?"

"Yes…"

"Because you wear your heart on your sleeve. We're very similar, the two of us."

"Is that why you're so guarded with Arthur?" Antonio wonders softly. "Because you don't want that to blow up in your face?"

Francis laughs, but it's rather sad. "Let's talk about you, Toni. Tell me what happened. From the start."

So that's what Antonio does.

It takes another hour to recount the whole story, right up to that promise for Normandy again. Francis is shaking his head as he finishes his third glass of wine,

"I should be happy that we're meeting next year. That it'll be all okay after that. I don't know why I'm so sad."

"Because you're scared. That's okay. Everyone's a little scared of love. I'm yet to meet a person who isn't."

"That's a bit weird, isn't it? Everyone…well, most people, want love so badly."

"That's exactly why they're scared of it," Francis replies cryptically.

"Really?"

"Oh goodness, yes. You were in Thailand, I think, when Gilbert decided he wanted to marry Madeline. For weeks, he was so nervous and sad and scared, you'd think he'd just broken up with her."

"Then what happened?"

"Well, then he got a grip and bought a ring. What I mean to say is, if it means something to you, you will be afraid. That's completely normal."

"It's still weird."

"The best kinds of normals are always weird."

"You should write a book with quotes like that."

"Oui, I should, shouldn't I?" Francis teases, his lips curling upwards slightly.

"What should I do now?"

"Well, right now, you should finish that wine in your glass. Then you should come home, have a shower and something to eat, and then sleep early. Tomorrow, you should pool together the last of your money and go back to Spain. Remember, Toni, you promised Lovino."

"You think I'm being stupid?" Antonio asks suddenly, although the question is not aggressive, but genuinely curious. "He lives in tabloids and money. And I'm…well, I live everywhere. It's not the most ideal situation, is it?"

"Who am I to deem what's stupid and what isn't?" says Francis.

"You know everything about love."

"Who ever knows everything about anything, Antonio? Especially about something as complicated and changeable as love?" Francis sighs and his eyes wander away. "I know nothing about love. Only that it hurts." But he looks at Antonio now and offers a smile. "But sometimes, it's worth it."

"If it's worth it, then why are you afraid of loving Arthur?"

Francis's smile tightens. "Finish your wine so we can go home."

Antonio sighs and empties his glass in one long gulp.

On the first day, Lovino says he's tired and he doesn't want to talk about it. On the second day, he checks his email and buys a new cell-phone. On the third day, he's been on a conference call for three hours when Feliciano enters his room with a bottle of wine and two glasses. They don't speak just yet. Lovino's still on the phone for another thirty minutes, a steady headache in his temples, going on and on about sales and produce and marketing and when he finally puts his phone down, Feli pops open the wine and pours it.

"None for me."

Feli almost drops the bottle as he raises his head sharply and gapes at his brother. "What?"

"None for me," Lovino repeats, flopping down on his bed. "I don't want any."

"But…it's one of the extra-nice ones! From Grandpa's personal collection! A very nice Nebbiolo from the 1980s! Anise flavoured!"

"Feli, I said no, okay?"

There's a clink as Feliciano puts the bottle down. "Okay, now I really am worried. What's going on with you? You've been weird since you got back from your vacation, and that's the whole reason Grandpa wanted you to go in the first place. To relax and get a nice break!"

"I've been weird?" Lovino asks, although it's a stupid question because he really has been rather shifty. He's not sure who to be anymore. Should he be the Lovino that Feli and his grandfather have become accustomed to seeing? Or should he be the person he was with Antonio? Because he's trying to be both right now, and the only thing that's produced is a migraine.

"Um, yes?" Feli says, crawling onto the bed with Lovino and crossing his legs under him. "Before Paris, you seemed tired and unhappy. Now, you seem ten times worse." Feliciano paused and then added, "Bartolomeo's been signed on as our brand ambassador. He's coming over to discuss something with Grandpa. He wanted to meet you."

"Really?" Lovino replies, his tone mild. "When is he coming?"

"In an hour."

"Oh. Feli, do these clothes look okay on me?"

"Yes, of course they do!"

"Okay enough to go out in?"

"Yep! Really stylish."

"Great." Lovino pushes himself off bed, grabs the keys to his Alfa Romeo and says, "When Bartolomeo shows up, tell him I'm out and I won't be back until later."

Feliciano just stares. "W-what? I thought you'd want to meet up with him. Go out on a date or something. Did you break up with him, too?" Feli rubs his face. "I can't keep track with you," he mumbles and then laughs.

He can't exactly blame Feli, either. "Don't worry. I'm not going to be dating anybody for a while."

This time, Feli actually does drop his wine glass. It makes an awful purple stain all over Lovino's white bed sheet, but neither of the two reacts. Lovino just stares at the slowly spreading mark languidly, and Feli just stares slack-jawed at his older brother. "You're joking."

"No, I'm not."

"Lovino," Feliciano says, and his voice has lost all its humour. "Something really bad has happened with you, and I want you to tell me. You were crying on the phone with me the other day, and I'm worried about you."

Lovino's not sure how he ought to react. Whatever happened between him and Antonio was not bad. It had been the best thing that had ever happened to Lovino, in fact. Separation, though. It's making him ache all over. Everything reminds him of Antonio, everything. The thought of Alfonsina or Bartolomeo or any of his hundreds of bedfellows make him grimace. It's so disgusting. Antonio's the only one who's made him feel a little…clean.

"I'm okay, really," he says although he's not and he can't put his finger on it. It's not just separation. It's more. It's more serious than that.

"No, no you're not. Talk to me. What's wrong?"

Lovino tosses the keys into the air and catches them. Once, twice, thrice. "I'll tell you later," he says simply before turning and walking out.

Day four comes, and then day five. The word 'later' is becoming rather standard. He utters it every time Grandpa or Feli ask him about the trip, about what's bothering him, or even about why he'd gone to Normandy. He's not sure where to even begin, and he's convinced they're not going to take him seriously.

But dammit, dammit, he's promised Antonio. He needs to do this.

On day six, he opens Google and types 'Antonio Fernandez Carriedo travel blog'. Both of them are so stupid. They spent two weeks fucking and falling in love with each other, and neither had the presence of mind to ask for any kind of contact information. Lovino's pretty sure Antonio wrote his number down on that stupid tissue with Gilbert's address, but Lovino had gone and thrown that away without saving it because he is an idiot and he does stupid things like that.

But Antonio had once vaguely mentioned he had a travel blog, so Lovino now needs to find it. Maybe there's an email address there. Hell, he could even leave a comment. He just really, really needs to speak to Antonio. He needs to feel a little less alone.

After about twenty minutes, he stumbles onto it. It's a Wordpress blog, full of pictures and short posts and quotes, everything about it is so Antonio. It's deep red, and in the 'About' section, Lovino finds himself tearing up.

Hi! I'm Antonio, although my friends call me Toni! I'm from Spain, but I consider myself a Global Citizen :D I love to travel and I've been doing it for years. This is basically where I write/post pictures about my experiences.

Since I'm a budget traveller, I'll be posting lots of tips/advice on how to see the world despite being totally broke (like yours truly, haha!).

I may not be very regular because I'm always on the go, and free wifi isn't always available, but do know that I really appreciate everyone who reads/follows/comments on this blog.

Please respect my copyright over all the pictures and posts.

I hope you enjoy this blog!

Bon voyage!

The stupidest thing is that he's reading this in Antonio's voice, with that Spanish accent and a mischievous laugh punctuating every few sentences.

It gets even worse when he looks at the most recent post. The blog hasn't been updated since late August – before Lovino met him.

Hi, everyone!

Just giving you guys a quick update!

So I'll be leaving Madrid tonight and going to Portugal (Lisbon, sweet Lisbon, how I've missed thee!) and I'll be going on a road trip (here's hoping the car I rented is actually available – stupid clerical mix-up, it's a long story) so that should keep me busy for a most of September and early October. And then I'm going to take a train to Paris around mid-October! I'll be meeting with Francis and Gilbert (oh, you should see the album called 'Easy Living in Paris' from last year! It's full of pictures of cheap and yummy places to eat, and Francis and Gilbert are in the pics, too!).

After Paris, I've planned to go to Tangiers, which might not even happen because 1) I've already been there 2) It's a stupid idea, geographically speaking. I mean, if I wanted to go to Morocco, I should have just started from Spain, so I don't know. Eh, whatever, we'll see :P I hate making too many plans, anyway.

BUT I want to talk about Portugal some more. So I'm doing this cool project. Yes, it's a nation-wide road-trip, and the reason it'll take so long is because I'm exploring the quieter parts of it. I'm going to start at Lisbon and drive through all the towns and villages, stopping at each one for a night or a couple of days at the most. I'm going to try and find out some cool little trivia from each of the places I go to, because hey, the best part of a place is what you don't necessarily see!

I'm calling this The Portugal Project and because it's so big and ambitious, I've made a mini-blog for it. You can check out it out here.

Ah! Anyway, I have to go now because I'm at the airport and they've been calling my name on the mic for ten minutes now :'D Okay, bye.

"Why are you crying? What are you reading?" Feli asks, making Lovino jerk out of his daze and tear his eyes away from the computer screen. Feliciano has run up to him and is peering over his shoulder. "What's this, Lovi?"

"Shut up, go away, this is personal," Lovino says weakly, before pathetically allowing his voice to crack. Feli sighs softly before pulling Lovino close to him. Lovino buries his face in Feli's stomach and silently weeps for several minutes, with Feli running his hands through his hair as he sings Italian songs to him.

That stupid blog and that stupid post and that stupid Antonio. Now he's just desperate for the man. He misses him so much it's crazy. It's not normal.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Feli says finally after Lovino stops and pulls away.

Lovino nods. "But I'll tell you tomorrow. At dinner. With Grandpa."

Feliciano raises an eyebrow. "Promise me?"

"Promise."

Later, when Feli leaves, Lovino washes his face and sits at the computer again. He looks at that post, looks at the comment button. He stares at it for a stupidly long time, trying to figure out what to say and how to say it.

Romano (Guest):

Hey, you. How have you been? I'm pretty sure I have withdrawal symptoms from that Normandy trip.

And then he deletes everything he's written, takes the cursor away from the comment text box and in a mild panic, closes the browser. Then, for good measure, he switches his computer off and then throws himself on the bed, burying his head under the covers.

"Just how lame am I?" he wonders out loud, although it's a little muffled because of all the bedding.

He's been planning this all of last night. The next morning, he goes looking for all the ingredients he needs. This shall be a complicated meal. Lovino's out of practice, but he's got all day to work this out. He can't mess it up, he just can't. It has to go exactly how he planned it in his head.

He starts with a potato chicken salad. The main course should be a manicotti. Lovino's making the finest tiramisu in the country for dessert, and though he doesn't like the drink, he goes to down to their personal wine cellar and spends an inordinate amount of time picking out what, in his opinion, would go perfectly with the meal.

He doesn't touch Grandpa's collection – the man can be so stupidly possessive about that – but Feli owns quite a large number of fancy wines, so there's still plenty to choose from.

He's picked out a new tablecloth and asked one of the maids to help him choose the best plates and cutlery, which she does through her giggling.

And when Feli and Grandpa emerge from their respective studies discussing work, both of them pause in mid-sentence and sniff the air. Grandpa's eyes become wide as he looks at Lovino. "Did you make that? It smells amazing." The food is laid out on the table and plated to perfection. Lovino definitely has outdone himself.

"Thank you," he replies simply, offering a small smile. "Shall we eat?"

Feli looks like he can't believe what the hell is going on. Lovino cooking is not a rare thing. He always does the cooking on weekends. But this seems astonishingly elaborate. There are two salads, five varieties of pasta and pizza, a bread basket, tiramisu and homemade gelato.

Lovino then pours the wine with cool, professional hands before sitting down and raising his own glass – he's drinking the stuff too – and saying, "To new relationships."

"New relationships?" Grandpa asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, you know, Feli and that guy, Ludwig. And we got into a nice partnership with that German wine brand, too. I thought a celebration was in order."

Feli glances at Grandpa. "Right…" his brother says slowly. Lovino's never made such a big deal out of any of Feli's relationships, and he's certainly never wanted to celebrate a new business partnership.

"Try the salad," Lovino says easily, taking a sip from his glass.

"Which one?" Feli asks.

"Both of them. And that sauce there – yeah, that one – should go really well – yes, just mix it in, there you go."

"Okay, Lovino, what is this really about? Did you crash your car or something?" Grandpa asks with a small grin as he takes a forkful of the salad. "Oh god, this is wonderful." He closes his eyes as he swallows, shaking his head in amazement. "I keep forgetting just how good a chef you are."

"Heh, about that…" Lovino begins slowly, taking another sip of wine. He needs to be a little bit tipsy to get through this. "I – I meant to talk to both of you…about something…important."

"Yes?" Grandpa asks as Feli puts his fork down, peering at Lovino with narrowed eyes.

"I," Lovino begins and then pauses.

"Don't you dare," Feli suddenly snaps, sitting up straighter. "You promised you'd tell, so spill!"

Grandpa looks between Lovino and Feli. "Boys, what's going on?"

Lovino lowers his eyes, twists pasta around his fork, and mumbles, "It might ruin your palate. I worked hard on this meal, so…It can wait."

Feli is glaring at him. "We're not even worth a decent excuse," he mutters coldly and in the most un-Feli-like way, making Lovino's shoulders go tense and Grandpa blink in shock.

"Seriously, what the hell is going on?" he asks after a moment, placing Lovino under a piercing stare.

Lovino sighs. "Okay, so I've been pretty…upset since I came back from Paris."

Feli looks up and Grandpa nods. "Yes," the eldest Vargas replies, "Feli and I have noticed."

"Right. Well…a lot has happened over the last couple of weeks. I…I want to start by saying that…I want to quit."

Quit. The word sounds like a whip cracking.

It has much the same reaction, too. Grandpa drops his fork and Feli drops his jaw.

"What do you mean 'quit'?" Grandpa repeats, his voice shaking just a little.

"I mean, quit. I don't want to work for the company any more." Lovino's not sure how he's doing this. His whole body feels cold and vulnerable.

"You don't want to work in the family business," Grandpa says, looking at Lovino like he's murdered someone.

"Well, when you put it that way –"

And then Romulus Vargas pushes his chair back, grabs his glass of wine and walks out of the room.

According to Gilbert – and Gilbert's very good with this financial stuff – Antonio needs to work eight hours a day at a halfway decent job and sell his apartment to be able to pay off everything he owes to people he's borrowed from to travel. And now that Antonio's done that, he's living in a tiny rented flat above a couple of drunks. His neighbour has this bad habit of blasting music at four in the morning.

But he's promised Lovino, so he's just going to shut up and deal with it.

Work.

He's got three jobs. He spends his day working at KFC, his evenings playing music for restaurants, and his weekends teaching people the guitar. Just like the old times. Except now, there's no prospect of When I Save Enough. He usually waits and waits and saves and saves until he's got enough cash to fund another wild adventure, but now it's all about staying rooted.

He's constantly looking through his photographs. Lovino looks so wonderful in every single one of them. He wants to gush to the whole world about his perfect Lovi, but he avoids his blog like the plague. Whatever happened in Normandy was too personal for a stupid blog post. There's that, and then there's the other reason. If he looks through his old pictures, he's going to want to travel again. And he's not about to break his promise.

He's still always waiting for the lame hope that maybe Lovi's found his blog and maybe he'll type a comment. Lovino's not on Facebook, which doesn't surprise him. He's not on Twitter either, even though he's kind of a public figure. But Lovino is all over Google. All he needs to do is type the name and browse through pictures and posts and headlines and comments, but they just make him very sad.

Lovino's scandal with this actress and that businessman and this politician and that wine merchant – it's all the same. He trusts Lovino, but he's so jealous, too. And there's the added fact of having no contact with him. Why didn't they just properly exchange numbers?! Or email addresses!? Or something?

"You can always write him a letter. It's so much more romantic than a text, anyway," Francis tells him after Antonio's complained about this over the phone.

"I don't know where he lives!"

"Hmm, well, you can always find the Vargas HQ. I think it's somewhere in Rome. Send your letter there, addressed to him. It'll find its way into his hands somehow."

"Oh, yeah. I could do that!"

"Toni? Sorry, but maybe you shouldn't be making international calls. Considering the expenses…"

Antonio groans before he cuts the phone.

But he finds out the address of the HQ. Francis is such a genius! Now all Antonio has to do is post a letter.

So he sits down, takes a pen and notebook, and writes,

Dear Lovi,

Before staring blankly at it for half an hour. His alarm clock rings around then, telling him it's time to go to one of those many restaurants to play music.

"This is so stupid!" Antonio cries before ripping the notebook paper and crushing it.

He doesn't try writing the letter again.

Lovino feels light, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he is slightly drunk. Right now, he's online and looking through his bank account, working out his financials and trying to figure out what he needs to do in order to get his own restaurant. Admittedly, most of the money he flaunts is Grandpa's money, and though Lovino's pretty well-off, he's not wealthy. Most of the income he gets from his work is locked into fixed deposits of long tenures.

But he's feeling light because something huge is off his chest and now it's no longer his problem.

There's a knock on the room door. Lovino turns.

Grandpa is there, wine and two glasses as a piece offering, along with two plates of tiramisu that have gone untouched since dinner.

"Hi," he says with a small smile.

"Hi," Lovino says back.

"So…I reacted badly." Grandpa places the tray on the nightstand and sits down on the bed, looking at Lovino seriously. Lovino's on a chair by his desk, regarding his grandfather with a reserved sort of curiosity.

"Yeah, you reacted badly," Lovino says after a moment.

"I'm sorry. I guess I was just shocked. Let's talk about this. Like adults."

"I'm tipsy. Just saying."

"That's fine," Grandpa laughs. "I'm a little buzzed too, but I'm in my senses enough to talk about this."

"Okay. That's good. So am I."

"All right, so tell me from the start. You don't want to work for the company any more?"

"It's nothing personal, you know that. I adore you and Feli. And I'm not asking for a huge severance or anything. It's just…well, you know, when I joined, you and I both agreed this was temporary. Six months, a year, maybe. But it's been three years, Grandpa, and I'm not happy. This kind of work doesn't make me happy."

"You want to be a chef."

"It's what I've always wanted. I don't even like wine."

"How are we related?" Grandpa wonders, but he's smiling.

Lovino flushes. "Well, I can tolerate it, but it's not my favourite drink. I don't have a favourite drink. But that's not the point. The point is, I want to work at a restaurant. Well, I want to own one, but I think it's smarter to first work as a sous-chef or something and get back into the feel of things."

Grandpa picks up the two plates of tiramisu. "Considering the fact that we're both tipsy and you don't like wine, let's have this. I've always loved your tiramisu."

Lovino stares at the offered dessert. "You mean you're okay with this?"

"Well…I won't lie, Lovi. I really like having you work with me. You're smart and efficient. But you're also my grandson, and if you're not happy, then I'm not happy. So yes, I'm okay with it. I don't want you to sit there and resent me and hate your job…It's not a nice thought, is it?"

"I suppose it isn't," Lovino concedes with a small smile, accepting the tiramisu. "Thank you."

"Is there something else you want to tell me?" Grandpa asks, and there's a knowing smile in his eyes.

"What?" Lovino is glaring weakly at him.

"Feli told me there might be…ah, something…personal going on with you."

Lovino turns violently red and looks at the computer. "I…I just…well…I fucking hate how observant he is," Lovino mutters finally, burying his head in his hands.

Grandpa pats the side of the bed next to him, and Lovino, like a crying three-year-old, slides off the chair and curls up next to his grandfather. He doesn't let the man see his face. He really is shedding silent tears.

"Now, tell me what's wrong."

"Separation," Lovino says quietly. "Uncertainty." A pause, and then, "Love."

"Oh dear," Grandpa sighs. "I think you'll have to slow down a bit and give me a moment. Love?"

"I met someone. In Paris." Lovino is playing with his thumbs.

"Oh, really?"

"And don't patronize me, okay? I know I'm a man-slut, but this is different."

Grandpa laughs. "When I was your age, I was just as bad. It runs in the family."

"But you met grandma and everything changed."

"Exactly, so I'm not going to patronize you. Tell me."

"His name…is Antonio. He…" and then Lovino's suddenly rambling on and on about how perfect Antonio is and what a lovely smile he has and how fearless and free-spirited he is and that trip to Normandy and Antonio's travelling and the whole thing about going back to Normandy next year and having changed their ways and everything. Any other time, Lovino would have been mortified, but now he just wants to stop feeling so damn lonely and Grandpa's listening and he just wants to feel protected, like he's a child again.

When he's finally done, the both of them sit in silence for a few minutes.

And then Grandpa says, "Feli, you can stop eavesdropping and come on in."

"Fuck," Lovino mutters quietly. "I knew it was too good to be true when he conveniently vanished after dinner."

"Oh please, he calmed me down enough to go talk to you. He helped me see sense."

Feli walks into the room, an enormous smile on his face. "Antonio sounds really nice." And with that, he sits next to Lovi and pulls him into a hug. "This explains a lot, actually."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm not in a cuddly mood."

"Hey, I'll take the day off on Monday and we can go look for restaurants with openings!" Feli gushes.

"Yes, that's a good idea," Grandpa agrees, nodding as he pats Lovino on the back. "I'm so glad all of this is sorted out. If either of you have something to confess, now's the time, because I'm mentally prepared to handle it."

Lovino chuckles but shakes his head.

Feli pauses. "Well, if you insist…"

"Oh boy," Grandpa says quietly, making Lovino snicker some more.

Feli grins too. "I sort of hate long-distance relationships, but I really think things might work out with Luddy."

"Define 'work out'," Lovino says slowly, looking at his younger brother with protective instincts soaring.

"Weeeelll," Feli says with a giggle and a blush, "We're going to Florence next month. I'll answer your question after that trip."

Grandpa presses the bridge of his nose, much like Antonio is wont to do when he wants to clear his head. "No, it turns out, I'm wrong. I'm not mentally prepared to handle this."

"Maybe you should sleep, old man," Lovino teases.

"Oh goodness, maybe I should," Grandpa mutters, draining his glass of wine before he takes his plate of tiramisu and walks out of the room.

Antonio breaks several times in the next few weeks. Anxiety attacks and desperate cravings for away-ness.

But his bank account is growing, slowly, steadily. And every time he feels like he might just give in, spend all that money and run, he writes Lovino's name on his arm. There are days when his skin is completely covered with Lovi Lovi Lovino Lovino Romano Romano Carriedo Lovino Vargas again and again and again.

One day, Antonio's typing Lovino Vargas into the Google again (as he does at least thrice a week). He comes across a headline that makes him scream into his lumpy, mouldy pillow with absolute euphoria.

Lovino's working under this irritable chef who hates everything and likes taking it out on Lovino. But it's a decent restaurant with a large influx of the tourist trade, and everyone else is quite friendly, all of the united with the common dislike for their boss. So it's okay, really.

It was last month that the papers ran the story.

VARGAS GRANDSON TO QUIT FAMILY BUSINESS
Investors and customers shocked, await more news

There were others, the ones he was used to. The snide articles that constantly berated him.

ANOTHER BREAK-UP FOR LOVINO VARGAS
Millionaire playboy to leave wine industry for fine dining

But who cares? WHO CARES!?

Oh god, oh god, LOVINO IS FREE!

Antonio loves sound. The echoing airport corridors. Muffled announcements. Buzz, chatter, foreign accents. Concerned mothers, hassled fathers, children who think it's a game. Whirr of suitcase wheels against marble flooring. Beeping, clacking, humming. Conveyer belts and travelators. Antonio knows these sounds intimately. He has captured all of them in some corner of his mind, weaving them into the strings of his guitar, breathing into them the hope and freedom that he feels every time he hears them.

It is either late night or early morning, and Antonio knows he's arrived sooner than required. His flight isn't for another three hours. He sits on a gunmetal grey chair, its black cushions not comfortable enough as he tosses and twists in his seat, wringing his hands together and trying to bring his heartbeat down. His excitement has crossed the range of happiness, and is now verging on stress.

A couple of bags and his guitar case. Old, scratched up, travel-worn, thirsty for a home and a little less adventure. Stickers are the only souvenirs. Antonio does not need any more. His apartment has always been tiny and bare, hardly ever slept-in. Six months at jobs he can't stand, the other six travelling the world.

Antonio has spent his whole life running away.

His feet always at the threshold of the departure gate, waiting for the chance to escape.

But tonight, tonight he is going to arrive.

Lovino needs to make this journey alone. So he doesn't let his brother or his grandfather see him off at the airport. He apologises; they understand. Brisk goodbye hugs at the door, a waiting taxi, four bags. Pale hands, red face, amber eyes, tear-stained, trembling fingers, yellow cab, white airport.

Lovino loves colour. He feels in colour. He cannot describe with words, so now, he feels in the shaky pale blue of a melting iceberg. Trolley for the luggage. Tip for the taxi man. Grazie, ciao. Lovino is not a traveller. He never has been. It terrifies him. He does not like the flashes of light, the airplane turbulence, the strange foods, sounds, smells, people. It makes him feel desperately alone.

But then, Lovino's loneliness is something deeper. Company cannot satiate it. He knows nothing of art, but only colour. Antonio's eyes are the purest shade of green he's ever had the fortune to study.

He's early. He knows he is. Luggage at the check-in. Security personnel feeling him up – how awkward, how embarrassing. Just his carry-on bag with his book, his documents, a map of Paris. Starbucks coffee, burnt tongue.

Lovino's excitement has flown off the edge of joy, and has plunged into the black buzzing chaos of panic. Has another coffee. Burns his tongue again. Will Antonio's eyes be the same colour as he remembers?

Red is for tomatoes and a deep blush. Green is for happiness and autumn.

Antonio's shoes are from Scotland. His jacket is Swiss. His belt is from Brazil. His sunglasses were bought in a junkyard sale in California. The small scar on his hand is from being bitten by a German Shepherd in Austria. His t-shirt has an Om symbol, bought from a fun bargain in India. The beaded wallet is Peruvian.

Antonio has seen most of the world, or so he likes to think. He's been to France many times. He's never quite liked it. "All passengers travelling by Air France flight 365 are requested to arrive at Gate Eighteen for departure, thank you." Antonio is wired. Too many coffees. Too little food. Airport food is terrible, anyway. He's tasted all sorts. All of it is the same. Sterile, emotionless, never savoured. Just something hastily thrown into the mouth to keep oneself occupied. That's not how anyone should eat. Lovino understands that.

He's been reading reviews of the restaurant Lovino has been working at. Even though he's not in the spotlight anymore, people still talk about him. Good things. About his fantastic, artistic, gorgeous food. Antonio's not surprised in the slightest.

Fingers clasped around the guitar case. Shaky, unsteady walk. Gate Eighteen. Antonio is going to stop running. At Gate Eighteen, he is going to arrive.

"Sir, would you like something to drink?"

Lovino's head jerks up from where it's been leaning on the glass, and his eyes slide over to the air hostess. She is pretty, he notices. Dark hair tied in a bun, navy blue uniform, food cart, and an expectant expression.

He opens his mouth, stares at the cart for a long moment, and then, slowly, says, "Do you have…um, tomato juice?"

She seems a little startled at the question, because most people don't ask for that in the middle of the night in a stuffy airplane flying thirty-five thousand feet in the air. "Sorry, no. Only orange and apple."

"Just water is fine." His mouth feels dry, anyway. The water is cool, and it sends a shiver right into Lovino's stomach. He feels sick with nerves. He knows he should be happy. No, he is happy. But the water tastes like ultra violet radiation and airplane deadness. The only water Lovino can really remember right now is the Seine and the seas at Normandy.

It's autumn again. Antonio sits in his Economy class seat – it's sandwiched between the window and the aisle, the worst kind of place – trying to fall asleep but failing desperately. They've served drinks on the flight, and Antonio thinks he's had one too many. Or maybe that faraway, light-headed feeling is from exhaustion. He hasn't slept in days. He can't seem to.

He puts his head back against the seat, tilting it upwards slightly and closing his eyes. His mind is in the exosphere, far beyond the thirty thousand something feet of the aircraft. This has never happened before. Antonio's been washed out and exhausted, but this feeling…this kind of white slate blankness…One more experience to add to his vast storehouse of them.

It's not a bad feeling, Antonio notes absently.

Vague, but ice-cold-clear, somehow.

Aircraft rumble. Glasses clinking. Massive yawn of a night sky. Darker-than-midnight blue, starless, cloudless, but heaving and full, warm despite the autumn chill.

No contact for a whole year. Even though they could have spoken, hadn't tried. There's Antonio's blog, completely untouched since the last time Lovino had looked at it. But somehow it felt wrong to break the silence. They had to be able to do this alone.

And they have.

Well, Lovino has.

And he's sure Antonio has as well. Antonio's tough, that way.

The year has changed many, many things, but the same love from two weeks in France has only intensified. That must mean it's real. Hell, it's still the most real thing in Lovino's life. And that's saying something, because these days, Lovino's completely authentic.

"Francis! Gilbert!"

"Toni!" they yell as they hug him. "How are you?"

"Nervous!" he laughs.

"Let's get some food," Gilbert says, and it's the perfect response to any situation.

They stop at a bakery and eat and laugh and talk about the year they've had because it's been very eventful for everybody. Antonio's changed the most. He seems so much more rested. He feels calmer these days, too. Gilbert and Madeline have finally decided on a wedding date, it's in spring and it's in Paris but that doesn't scare Antonio any more. They've had to wait an extra year for some long-winded financial and legal reasons but it's all sorted now, and Gilbert's happy and Francis is somewhat happy – but he's always only somewhat happy, so that's normal for him – and Antonio is excited and nervous and there's a part of him that wonders if Lovi will even show up.

"Of course he will," Francis mutters simply, sipping water. "He's been sticking to his part of the bargain brilliantly. In fact, the little brat has become a competitor."

"But I thought you said he works at an Italian restaurant in Rome. You own a French restaurant in Pairs. How does that make you two competitors?" asks Gilbert.

"Oh, cher," Francis sighs as though Gilbert is a little slow and the answer should be obvious. "Because any decent chef anywhere in the world is competition for me. I'm just really competitive."

"Or insecure," Gilbert mutters.

"You shut your face," Francis snaps and Antonio starts laughing.

Gilbert lends him his car again.

Antonio has never been this happy to see car keys in his life before.

"Don't I remember you?" Jeanne asks with a smile as she looks at Lovino. "Ah, wait, you're Antonio's friend." She says 'friend' so delicately, like she knows more than she's letting on. She probably does. Lovino and Antonio hadn't exactly been quiet during their nights spent here.

Lovino blanches for a second and then blushes. "Yeah…Is he…here?"

Jeanne smiles again, and it's a little bit sneaky. "I'm sorry, no."

He narrows his eyes. "Really?" His heart is pounding so hard it's almost hurting his ribcage (or is he just imagining that?).

"Really. He's not in this hotel," she says so carefully.

Lovino just stares at her. "He's not in this hotel," he repeats.

So Jeanne grins, walks over from the reception desk and pulls back the curtains. It's cold and windy and grey and the sea is sharp, choppy and a little skittish, but Lovino takes a too-quick inhale as he sees a silhouette walking in the sand.

"ANTONIO! ANTONIO! ANTONIO!"

A figure collides with him so heavily that they both crash into the sand face-first. But suddenly Lovino's turned him onto his back and his kissing his face and his neck and his arms and basically every unclothed part of his body, never mind the sand that's getting everywhere and the sea salt and everything and Antonio's kissing back between moans of, "Lovi! Lovi!" and they're hugging and crying and somewhere above them, very much above them, two halves of a broken piece of the sky have reunited with a massive thunderclap and a bolt of lightning.

It's raining and cold, the sea is fierce and unkind.

But it's autumn again. The transition, the fall, the season before the lonely winter, the time of the year when everything seems to happen.

It's autumn again, but it feels like spring.

A/N: That's right, 10k+ words in one sitting. You're welcome. I started at 11.00 AM and it's 6.30 PM now.

THIS IS NOT THE END.

THERE IS AN EPILOGUE COMING UP.

Okay, now as promised, here's the playlist:

Shoulder to Shoulder Around the Fire – Rogue Valley

The Wolves and the Ravens – Rogue Valley

Step Out – José Gonzalez

Stay Alive - José Gonzalez

Don't Let It Pass – Junip

Those, and basically any other song from the movie The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, which you should also watch. Apart from the fact that it is awesome and I love it, that movie sort of inspired the premise of this fic.

Thanks for reading! Please review! :D