7

Take A Siesta, Querido

Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero.

No te dejaré nunca.

Te prometo.

Por eso...por favor...

No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida.


It was Wednesday now. So Toni had to remind himself when he realized that he was dozing, his hand on a cup of tea and his glasses crooked on his nose. It wasn't that he was sleepy; he had already taken his afternoon siesta, and had slept relatively well the night before. But his focus was evading him. Any semblance of concentration was slipping through the cracks of his mind. His writer's block was persisting, to the point that he could hardly write comments on his students' essays. To the point that he missed the feeling of carpal tunnel running through his wrist, and he missed the feeling of hunger because he was so caught up in his writing that he did not eat. He missed the bursts of inspirations that made his eyes light up, made it impossible for him to do anything but write. Yet it seemed that he could do everything but write at that particular moment. And, of course, in this moment of frustration and despair—the type of despair that only a writer who can't write feels—his thoughts flitted to the one thing that seemed to always be hiding in the background.

Lovino Vargas.

Toni had come to the conclusion, after reading more of Romano's practically illegible writing and seeing him in class and hearing his hoarse voice, that there was something else that was attracting him to this student. This went further than a simple attraction to the way that he wrote—further than an attraction to the way that he was a student, and Toni his professor. But, oddly enough, Toni could not pinpoint it. He simply could not determine what it was that he felt about Romano. He was moody and almost always angry and he was very rude and, even though Toni had to admit that he did not know Romano very well outside of their writing sessions and his occasional presence in class, he seemed to bear a particular resentment toward Toni himself. As if the mere look of him made poor Romano angry.

There had to be something behind that anger. Something behind those sometime crystalline green, sometimes dull amber eyes. Something behind the haunting elegies and laments and eulogies that he wrote with such fervor and yet such simplicity. He was not a flowery, overdramatic writer. He was elegant and concise and frustratingly beautiful in his syntax.

Sometimes, Toni looked at him and felt an overpowering desire to protect. An overpowering desire to take Romano into his arms and tell him that, yes, I enjoy your writing very much, please write more for me.

But he wasn't sure what that desire meant.

Toni took off his glasses and rubbed his temples to rid himself of these complicated thoughts. Thinking like this was never good for his head. He needed to relax. Just as he was thinking that, he heard a knock on his door. He had heard that characteristic knock enough times by now to know that it was Romano. He didn't bother telling him to come in because he had realized that Romano tended to do what he wanted regardless of whether he had permission. And, as expected, he opened the door in the midst of the silence and walked inside.

And he looked terrible.

"Ay, Romano, ¿qué es esto?" Toni said, sitting up straighter in his seat.

His back was slouched, his feet hardly lifting from the ground when he walked. The bags under his eyes were dark and heavy, his face gaunt and pale, his eyes completely devoid of shimmer and color. Even as he grasped the strap of his backpack, Toni could see his fingers shaking. Could see every limb of his body trembling. Without an answer, Romano fell down into his usual chair and took out his notebook and thrust it toward Toni.

"Read it," he said. His voice was hoarse and quiet. It reminded Toni of his great-grandfather, notorious for chain-smoking even into his 80s. "Just read the whole damn thing, I don't care." Romano paused, and then brought his mouth to his sleeve and began to cough. He looked as if he had gone weeks and weeks without sleep. As he held out the notebook, Toni saw it shaking.

"Romano..."

"Take it already, Spanish bastard," he spat. Toni was taken aback. Romano had let things slip before, but usually by accident and in a tone of hasty thoughtlessness. This was different. He had said the words with clear, deliberate disdain hanging from his dry tongue and a look of utter contempt on his face. "Take it!"

Not sure what else he could do (he was never one to enforce his power as an authority, especially to someone as lost as Romano), Toni gently took the notebook. As soon as he did, Romano drew back his hand and ran it through his lustless hair.

"Are you okay, hijo? You look—"

"I didn't come here for you to tell me that I look like shit, all right?" he interrupted, his r's rolling like bricks down a mountain from his tongue. He seemed to be speaking with difficulty. He certainly wasn't drunk. Toni knew a drunk when he saw one. But he was troubled. Terribly troubled. "I came here so you could read my notebook, like you always do."

"Pero—"

"I want you to read it!" Romano was practically screaming now, hugging himself and swaying slightly in his chair.

"That's it." Toni closed the notebook, put it on his desk, and stood up. Romano looked up at him with wide, almost frightened eyes.

"What are you—?"

"How many times have I told you to get some sleep? You haven't been listening to me, Romano, lo veo." Toni crossed his arms and gave as stern an expression as he could. He felt a determination, deep inside him, staring at this desperate, exhausted, lost, empty child before him. A child silently crying out for his help.

"And since you haven't been doing it yourself, I will have to enforce it." Toni grabbed Romano by the arm and pulled him up from his seat, and realized that this was the first time he had touched him. His arm was thin and frail and he was afraid for a moment that he might break it in his fingers. Romano was struck speechless, mouth agape.

Toni gestured with a nod toward his windowsill, covered in papers and books.

"Ven. You are going to sleep right here."

"WHAT?!"

"Come. Take a siesta, querido. Even if it's just for a while. You need sleep."

"I don't want to sleep in your office, bastard!"

"I don't care," Toni said. "Ven. Ahora."

Romano's resistance was minimal as Toni dragged him to the windowsill. Still holding his arm with one hand, he used the other to push everything on the bench to the floor, without regard for what it might have been. Romano was trying to say something, his mouth open and stutters erupting from it, but it seemed he couldn't formulate even a single word.

"There. Lie down. I have a blanket, for emergencies like this," Toni ordered.

"Th-this is illegal!"

"Fine, call the police if you want," Toni shrugged with a triumphant smile. Romano blinked, staring at him for a few cringe-worthy moments, and then finally clambered up onto the windowsill. "Take off your shoes."

As Romano slid off his boots, Toni reached into his completely disheveled cupboard and pulled out a blanket. It was large and thick and embroidered by hand from Granada. Without hesitating, he spread it out over Romano's body, and felt a wave of relief when Romano grabbed it and pulled it up to his neck.

"Now, do you want me to open the blinds and let the sun in, or do you prefer darkness for your siestas?"

"Darkness," Romano grumbled, practically inaudible.

"Vale. I am going to sit and read through the notebook as you asked—but you will sleep, sí? I can't stand to look at you like that anymore."

"Whatever," Romano sighed. "Creepy old man."

He turned toward the window, so that his back was to Toni. As reluctant as he had seemed, he looked very in place at the windowsill. Like a traveler falling upon a bed after months of walking through the desert. Toni sat on his bed and looked at him for a few moments. Then he turned back to his desk, where the black notebook lay. About a minute later, when he glanced back at Romano, it was clear that he was asleep, his body rising and falling heavily with his breaths. Toni smiled to himself and then looked away. Back to the notebook.

He decided not to read through all of it, as Romano claimed that he could, because of his belief that Romano was not in his right state of mind. Surely when he was awake and put together he would object to letting Toni read all of it. So he read only the most recent entry. Toni had not given him a specific prompt this time, so Romano had written about a music box. A small music box given to him (or whomever the narrator happened to be in this excerpt) by his mother. It contained a Spanish lullaby that led him to his magical, fantastical dreams every night. Toni read it and wished that he could hear the melody, for he so loved Spanish lullabies.

After about an hour, he looked back at Romano. He had not moved at all in his sleep, still facing the window and hands still clawed around the blanket. He was curled up almost into a ball. Toni couldn't see his face, but he could hear soft murmurs. Romano was talking in his sleep, it seemed.

Romano woke up of his own accord forty-five minutes after that, with drool and markings on the right side of his face. He was terribly angry. But, as Toni had hoped, he was much more lively and had more color in his face and eyes. Toni stayed silent and smiling as Romano put on his shoes, whisked his notebook away, and left the office, saying, "Don't you dare do that again, Spanish bastard! Or I'll really call the police!"

But, Toni had to admit, he was very pleased with himself.


Toni slung his bag over his shoulder, put on his jacket, and popped a lemon drop into his mouth. In any other city, it might have been dangerous to walk alone at night from one's office to one's house—but not here. Toni had walked back at night more times than he could count already, and felt a relative safety within the boundaries of this extensive campus. He walked outside without a thought for it, watching the stars dancing above him. He let his mind wander and listened to the sounds of the night world. Bugs chirping, roaming in their last few weeks of freedom before the cold. Leaves, now fragile and eager to fall, rustling in the light breeze. He loved the feeling of the wind in his unkempt hair. There was almost nobody in sight. The college was unique in that way; the students seemed rather diligent about their studies, and were hardly to be seen outside past midnight.

He decided, even in this intense darkness, to take a path that he had never taken before, inspired again by President Kirkland's words: "Take a break from the writing, and put some time into getting to know the place. That's my advice, anyway." He knew that he still had not seen the campus in its entirety, so he found himself turning down this cobblestone path that he had seen before but never walked. He had a piano melody that he had heard within the past week (he couldn't remember where or when) playing in his head, so he hummed gently to himself. He tried not to step on any leaves. Suddenly, without having realized where he'd been walking—that was the point, after all—he found himself at the bottom of a stairwell twisting upward. It was made of stone and embedded into a large building that he recognized as one of the university's social sciences buildings. The staircase was dark and there was water dripping down onto each stone step, but he walked up without much regard for that.

At a twist in the stairwell, there was a small balcony. He paused before continuing to look out and felt at peace, knowing that he was looking out across the campus, even though it was too dark to truly see it. That was a strange sensation. Thinking something beautiful that he couldn't even see.

Toni kept going up the stairs until he emerged into a large, grassy area with a tree in the center and a cobblestone path tracing its edges. He couldn't believe that a place like this existed, and was so easy to access. He felt as if there should have been a gate or a tree or something to block the stairwell, for this place seemed too magical to be real. He stopped and caught his breath and looked around, letting his eyes become adjusted so that he could properly see it. Though, he noted, he would have to come back during the daylight. But Toni could attest to the fact that he hardly ever remembered these mental notes unless he wrote them down, but he thought that pulling out his notebook might ruin the moment.

Before Toni could take another step, he heard a soft voice murmuring, and froze on the spot. It was too quiet (and perhaps in a different language?) for him to understand what it was saying. It sounded like some sort of conversation, though he was very certain that there was only one voice. He held his breath again and clutched the strap of his bag more tightly. Hushed tones, whispers, oddly urgent musings rose up into the night sky and blocked out the stars in their desperation. Toni's eyes once again scanned the alcove, wondering how he could have missed an entire person.

And then he saw the person who was speaking. On Toni's right, on the very edge of the alcove, was a long ledge. Another balcony, of sorts. It was higher than the first one and much, much wider, spanning the entire length of the alcove. The railing was made of a thick slab of stone, thick enough that the person speaking was walking on top of it. Moving as if he were on a tightrope—one foot, then the other, then the other. Arms outstretched, gaze locked firmly on his feet. His lips moved quickly and desperately as the raspy words escaped them. Every few steps he would seem to lose his balance, but his murmurs would stop, and he would find it again and keep walking and keep mumbling.

It was Lovino Vargas.

Toni's first instinct was to jump forward and scream his name, Romano, come down from there, that's dangerous! but then he worried that it would startle him, so he held back. He was gripping his bag strap so tightly that his palm was beginning to hurt. Romano didn't notice him. He was talking to himself. But...he was talking to someone else. He was having a conversation. Yet his voice was the only one speaking, in more than one language, Toni quickly realized. He switched effortlessly from Italian—spregevole—to Spanish—asqueroso—to Arabic—majnun—to English—stupid. Toni could only make out a few words here and there. He was frightened, worried, in a certain stage of shock seeing Romano like this when just that afternoon he had been taking a siesta in his office. Walking along the ever-daunting ledge of this alcove with his arms out, whispering to himself and not wearing any shoes.

And Toni had absolutely no idea what to do.

But one thing he could not do was look away. Or allow Romano to see him.

After a few moments, when his back was to Toni, Romano stopped. He swayed a little bit, keeping his arms out, before he crouched down and hugged his legs to his chest and buried his face in his knees. Toni thought for a moment that he was crying, because his shoulders were trembling and he could hear gurgles and muffled groans. But, when Romano lifted his head, Toni realized he was laughing. Not loudly. Softly, his chuckles restrained by the chains that seemed to wrap around his wrists, his ankles, his throat. Then Romano stood back up and faced the edge of the stone ledge, stretching his arms out once again. Toni saw him take a step forward, until his toes were hanging off the void. The drop was not truly far...

...But it was far enough.

Toni stepped forward and opened his mouth, ready to call out. His name, his own name, a poem, an insult, anything that would get Romano to step backward for the love of God Dios mío qué haces querido.

Before a single syllable could reach his outstretched tongue, another voice rang out.

"Lovi!"

From the other side of an alcove, beneath a stone entrance, came running a young man. Romano whirled around, bringing his arms back to his side and taking a step back. Toni let out a sigh of relief so heavy that it made him dizzy. The young man moved forward, his feet crushing the grass as he walked, cautiously, toward Romano. He was panting, completely out of breath, and the hoarseness in his voice was of a deep and passionate desperation. A relief.

"Feliciano," Romano said softly.

The young man said something in Italian then. Toni moved back into the shadows, but did not retreat down the stairwell. He fixed his ears, trying to understand this conversation through his broken knowledge of Italian.

Romano responded with a shrug, and turned to face outward again.

"Lovi," the young man repeated. Toni's eyes were starting to adjust. The young man had almost the same exact build as Romano, except he was taller, and their faces looked frighteningly similar. But he couldn't tell much more than that. Then the young man pulled a cell phone from his pocket and held it out. He said something in Italian, and the only thing Toni could make out was: "...your scary message on my phone."

Romano gave a quiet, quick, completely incomprehensible (to Toni) response. It seemed to exasperate the young man. The one he'd called Feliciano. This mysterious brother that Toni had heard so much about.

Feliciano, quiet for a few moments, took another step forward. Then, his voice gentle and soothing, said something else. This time, Toni understood.

"Please come down from there, Lovino."

Romano was still. Feliciano kept moving forward, until he was standing directly behind him. Then he reached out and grasped Romano's idle, hollow hand. He pulled on it, and when Toni saw Romano's entire body shudder, he felt his own body shudder, as well. He felt a hand squeezing at his pulsing heart, squeezing, squeezing hard. He caught the lump in his throat before the tears could form in his wide, awe-struck eyes.

Finally.

Finally, Romano turned and stepped down from the ledge, slowly, like an old man standing up from a chair he'd been sitting in for thirty years. Feliciano grabbed his hand and supported him as he came down, catching him when he stumbled forward. Toni believed for a moment that he could see the strength leaving Romano's bones when his bare feet touched the grass.

Then, without warning, he grasped onto the front of Feliciano's shirts and began to sob like Toni had never heard anybody sob before.

His wails were loud and earth-shattering. The two of them crumpled to the ground, while Romano sobbed into Feliciano's chest and Feliciano wrapped his arms around him. They fell into the grass on their knees and Romano's body trembled with emotions and tears and choking sobs that Toni had only dreamed about hearing from souls that had been tortured for eternities. Locked away, strangled, suffocating. Souls that cried like this when nobody else was looking for fear that they were betraying a strong side of themselves.

"OK cosí," Feliciano murmured. He was stroking Romano's hair and rocking him back and forth and, even in the darkness, Toni could see the tears stinging even Feliciano's cheeks. But they were not the agonized tears that Romano shed. They were delicate, gentle tears. "OK cosí, fratellone."

He kept repeating that phrase, over and over, until Romano began mumbling incoherently. Saying things in any and all languages, his voice drowned out by his weeps and the unstoppable shaking of his body. Then, his voice becoming tired and his body becoming weak, he fell completely into Feliciano's embrace and began to murmur, softly. The same thing. Something Toni could understand.

"Mi dispiace molto. Mi dispiace molto. Mi dispiace molto."

i'm so sorry i'm so sorry i'm so sorry i'm so sorry

Toni, his heart quivering in his chest, silently went back down the stairwell.


sorry i don't know Italian as well as Spanish

Translations:

Qué es esto?=what is this?

Pero=but

Ven=come

ahora=now

Dios mío qué haces=my God, what are you doing

OK cosí (Italian)=it's all right