A/N: It's been a while since my last chapter, for which I apologize - I have been very busy with midterms and life in general. Finding the energy for writing is difficult, and I'd rather wait and give you guys a good chapter than rush and give you a poor one. I'm also working on another fic as well - it's been taking up my time recently because I'm a little behind. That said, I'm committed to finishing this - it's nowhere near done, and I'm excited to see where it goes from here.
Lovino is not sulking. He is simply conducting a strategic retreat to regroup and form a new plan. So far his plan consists of stiltedly avoiding Antonio during the morning produce pickup and yelping and blushing when their eyes meet. But he will deny sulking to everyone who asks and their mother.
Antonio so far hasn't pushed him to talk, but there is a question written in his eyes when he looks at Lovi through the window, his brow furrowing when he passes the shop. Lovino is not sure how long he can avoid him. He's not sure he can bear to speak to Antonio when the time comes. He's not even sure he can call by name the bitter creature that curls beneath his breastbone, gnawing at his heart.
He sticks to working in his bakery. He rises early and keeps his head down during the day and closes up late. The late nights are almost proving worse - the few customers that come in fail to distract Lovino from those thoughts the blue hours bring, swept in with the stars. The shop looks like that Nighthawks painting Feli showed him once, and only now does he understand what Hopper must have felt, tried to express, an isolation so great he can hear the clinking dishwasher and buzz of electric diner lights through the canvas.
The bitter creature stirs in his breast, and Lovino thinks maybe its name is jealousy, but jealousy is close in nature to desire. When he looks into Antonio's green eyes, it's not hard to believe the creature's name is desire; that is his secret fear.
Lovino makes it about a week before guilt, stuffed into the pit of his stomach, so desperately ignored, bubbles to the top. He's on his break, dunking a biscotti in his café au lait, when he sees Antonio come round the front of the store carrying a fifty pound flour sack. Indecision almost gets the better of him, and Lovino stands uncertainly until the sight of Antonio slipping around the corner jolts him to action.
He tears off his apron, biscotti falling into his mug. Lovino's out the door before the back of Antonio's shirt disappears. He skids around the corner, looking for the Spanish man. Antonio is fumbling with the rear door to his shop, flour sack balanced awkwardly on his hip. Lovino pauses. Antonio drops his key ring. He swears. He begins to set the bag down. Lovino closes his eyes, breathes in and out, and steps forward.
"Let me get that for you."
Antonio startles, rearing back. "Lovi…" He seems uncertain of the boundaries of their relationship, and so says nothing more.
Lovino snatches the keys from the ground and jimmies the lock open. The situation seems ironically similar to when they first met, though he doubts the Spaniard, with his affable charm, got the nervous shakes holding the door for him. "After you."
The other man nods and shoulders his load, tilting past Lovino through the doorway. The flour sack is deposited on the counter with a grunt. Antonio leans back against the countertop and turns towards Lovino. He doesn't say anything, just fixes him with an appraising look, searching for answers. Lovino gets cold feet and scuffs his shoes on the floor, looking around.
Lovino has never been in Antonio's back room, never past the front counters actually, and it shocks him how quickly Antonio has insinuated himself into his life while offering few clues in return. His secrecy sits poorly with the Italian, who feels like an open book around the other man. This resentment also sits poorly, the knowledge that he wants to know everything about Antonio, while not having the slightest right to ask.
"Lovi, what is this about?"
Lovino looks up at Antonio, makes the mistake of meeting his gaze, and drops his eyes back to the floor. In the other man's eyes he sees neither judgement nor reproach, only curiosity; this is somehow worse, Antonio's tolerance an unwitting weapon.
"I thought I ought to offer you … an apology." He doesn't take his eyes off the floor, but he hears Antonio shift his weight against the counter.
"Oh?"
He clears his throat. "For last week. My behavior was childish. It was wrong of me."
"Lovi, look at me." Lovino exhales softly, and directs his gaze to the far wall. He's not sure what will happen if he looks the other man in the eye.
"Lovino, look at me." His full name. The rest of the air leaves Lovino's lungs in a woosh and he locks eyes with Antonio. He abruptly shies away, and then forces himself to maintain eye contact.
"You don't have to apologize to me; I get it. It's ok." This startles Lovino. He's not sure what Antonio thinks he understands. Lovino can almost feel Antonio staring into his soul, seeing that bitter creature and calling it silently by name. He is not sure whether he prefers the other man pick Jealousy or Desire; neither are safe, known places of residence. Either way, the acceptance in Antonio's eyes is too much, and Lovino once more gives his undivided attention to the floor.
"Let's have some coffee." Antonio turns and busies himself with the pour-over he has stashed back here. His back is to Lovino, broad shoulders obscuring his work, but he appears satisfied to conclude their conversation on this note. Lovino is grateful for the segue.
Antonio's approach draws Lovino from his thoughts. The other man comes bearing sturdy ceramic mugs in one hand, long fingers looped dangerously through the handles, and some plates in the other, balanced up along his arm. Divesting himself of his load on the center island, he spins two high-backed chairs over with a clatter, plopping himself long-leggedly into one while waving a hand at Lovino to take the other. Obligingly, Lovino sits.
Antonio settles down comfortably, leaning forward over the back of the chair, arms braced on the top slat, mug looped lazily from two fingers. The coffee seems to have somewhat melted the conversational ice , and Antonio is more than happy to sleepily monopolize the air time.
He pushes a plate across the countertop - it has a slice of dense loaf cake on it, dusted with some white powder. Almond flour?
"Try the pan de higo? I still can't find the Spanish figs that I want, but it's pretty good. Considering Italy's rich history with figs, I was hoping for some feedback."
Lovino breaks off a corner of the slice. The other man watches intensely as he chews. The crumb of the cake is solid and moist. Little seeds, so unique to the fig, to Lovino's childhood of running barefoot in his grandfather's fields with juice down his chin and sap on his arms, scraped legs from carelessly scaling wizened bark, pop under his teeth. The flavor is dark and a little earthy, almost sensual. The powder sticks to his lower lip. He swipes it away with his tongue. Antonio breaks off a piece as well, chewing it slowly, and his eyes are dark while watching Lovino. There is powder on his lips and dio mio what is it with this man?
"Well?"
Lovino takes a moment to clear his throat. "It's … umm … " how eloquent. "It's good. - " ok try again. " - it's a little like something my nonno makes. He has so many fig trees - an orchard, really. And he's a magician in the kitchen. So we ate a lot of interesting things as kids."
Antonio perks up. "A farmer?"
"Yeah, southeast of Rome. Olives and stone fruits, largely. And figs, of course. And his vegetable garden. And wheat - for the longest time, he used a horse drawn plow; he only stopped when he threw his back out, and now the neighboring boys come by with their tractor to help, and be paid in baked goods."
"Well." Antonio looks impressed. "I'm glad it's up to Italian snuff."
"It's good. But I'm getting an interesting flavor… whiskey?"
"Yeah - 90 proof. I soaked the fruit in it - it keeps everything moist. It's not traditional, but I wanted to test it out. Usually we use rum or sherry - this is more like the English equivalent, which is a little blasphemous for a Spaniard, but I like the flavor profile. Historic vendettas are all outweighed by the universality of booze."
Lovino laughed. "I'll drink to that."
A little more of the afternoon slips away as the two chat in the back room, Lovino regretfully excusing himself at the two-hour mark in the conversation. His heart is the lightest it's been in a week and the bitter creature finally sleeps.
September comes to a close, taking with it the honey-warm evenings; now night falls fast and cold. Lovino's cabled sweaters are an omnipresent fixture during the morning produce pickups and when locking up in the evenings.
Antonio expresses a sort of marvelous wonderment over the Italian's jumpers. He invades Lovino's personal space in the mornings, fingering the lumpy cables, hooking fingers in the pockets, looming close and smothering Lovino in the bulky canvas coat he's taken to wearing. He keeps a running tally of the sweaters and their provenance.
"The rust red one?"
"Another gift from my brother. See how the hem bunches unevenly?"
Antonio fingers the hem. "I like it. It's laughing."
Lovino rolls his eyes.
The coarse-worsted earth colored one, with the rolled sleeves, is from the di Morandi family at the edge of town.
"They don't have a lot of money. I let them buy on credit; repayment comes sometimes as euros, sometimes as other things. I don't bother with seeing if their payment covers their line of credit. They do what they can."
The variegated knit-stitch one - the color of the sea off the coast - is the nicest one. It's detailing is so fine, the seams perfectly even, each stitch laid perfectly. It's made of soft merino wool, and when Antonio sees it, he runs his hands over it appreciatively.
"This was made with a lot of love."
"My nonna gave it to me. She made the best sweaters; we always got them growing up."
Antonio tucks his face into the neck at Lovino's left shoulder. Lovino stiffens beneath him. Antonio completely misreads the situation. "When?"
"Two summers ago."
"I'm sorry. She sounds like a wonderful woman."
Lovino is sad but Antonio's face is stubbly where it touches his neck, his breath soft across his collar, and that seems to the Italian like a more likely explanation for his shivering. The Spaniard has always been this tactile, he reminds himself, when his heart does an embarrassing flutter. And he's probably cold. Even under his bulky coat. Yes, that's it.
Antonio is once more a common fixture in the bakery - not as often now, but he can spare time many days. He pops in for anywhere between a half to a full hour during the afternoon siesta, usually before Lovino heads home for his lunch. He brings pastries to share and drapes himself over any convenient surface - or, more, frequently, Lovino himself - while nattering away about this and that.
Antonio also swings by sometimes in the evenings, in the hours before closing time when everyone comes to buy their dinner bread. Despite the time crunch, he always spares time for Lovino's patrons.
Thursdays are Chess Day for the Signori Moretti and Abbadelli, and the Spaniard can be counted upon to good-naturedly play mediator between the two round, jolly, old men.
"What a lovely young man," says Abbadelli as Antonio slips away to speak with Lovino.
"Umph," grunts Moretti, who rarely says much of anything, but remains pleased with Antonio's quiet counsel. He studies the board for a moment and then skips his knight sideways. "Checkmate."
Abbadelli howls and shakes a curmudgeonly fist at Antonio's back, but he's smiling.
Signora Uccello, the former prima ballerina of La Scala, is as old as Lovino's nonno. She comes in to take espresso and the paper like clockwork at 5:30 on weekdays, requesting without fail the music of her youth. Lovino is more than happy to oblige.
It's a Wednesday in early October, and Antonio comes early in the evening - sorry, the only time I think I'll have a break; I'm swamped today - to see her sitting at his usual window seat, tapping her foot to Edith Piaf's Milord. In an instant he stands before her, arm extended to ask her for a dance. She looks at him in surprise over the lip of her newspaper, and then her face lights up, every wrinkle and fold of skin pulling into a dazzling smile.
Signora Uccello rises slowly from her seat and in that instant sheds fifty years of life, the patina of age sloughing off to reveal the twenty-something prima dancing before a teeming crowd. Antonio leads her in a sedate foxtrot, and then a mincing two-step, next a whirling bolero that separates from the music entirely, and finally back into a playful lindy just in time for the next song. The pair swing across the café floor. Antonio's laugh comes breathless and musical. The Signora's eyes are full of diamonds.
He sets her down in her seat when the music ends and gives her a kiss on the cheek. Her silvery hair is coming down, dress in disarray. She musses his hair and sends him packing with a mock swat to the behind. Her laugher - like tiny bells - follows him as he prances outlandishly toward the counter, extending a hand to Lovino.
No Lovino won't be persuaded to dance he is working thank you very much.
Antonio manages to steal a short one anyway.
Signora Uccello watches them closely, shakes her head, and smiles.
On the second Monday of October, there's another package on the bakery porch, wrapped in brown waxed paper and tied with twine. A squish from Lovino and the bundle deflates lumpily. He unwraps it inside, paper and string spread across the window seat bakery table. The thing in the bundle reveals itself to be in fact multiple things. The package's deflatory nature is owed to a jumper, knit from thick mohair the color of honey, of sunshine through brandy, of September. It fuzzes beneath his fingers and promises warmth with a soft smile. More items roll across the tabletop when the jumper is unfolded: a pot of fig jam; a hollow gourd filled with a rattling something-or-other; a river-stone the size of a quail egg, one side broken away by years of rushing water to reveal a gleaming, jagged crystal the color of the sky.
The jam goes on a shelf in the back room, to be taken home when he closes for lunch and placed in his pantry.
He hangs the gourd from one of the wall lamps near the arm chairs.
After a moment's hesitation, Lovino pulls the sweater over his robin's egg button-down. It's just the right kind of loose, and he sinks into it with a sigh.
The stone is set with the other eclectic morning-treasures by the register; it winks at him when he passes.
A/N: Oh Lovino you silly silly boy.
In case anyone doesn't know, the Lindy is a dance similar to the Charleston only faster, and the Bolero is a Spanish dance with Afro-Cuban roots similar to the rumba. Antonio can definitely dance ;)
Stuff picks up quicker here - you guys get to meet some new people next chapter B)
