8
Are You A Passionate Lover, Signor?
There are two boys riding in the back of a car.
The car is old, a stick shift, but it moves smoothly and reliably along Rome's narrow, cobblestone streets. The two boys feel comfortable and giddy in the backseat of this car, for they do not get into ride in it very often. The younger brother has the window on his side rolled down, using the old-fashioned lever, and is leaning his head out like a small, ecstatic dog. The older brother watches him for a few moments, hearing the unbalanced wind pounding in his ear and finding g that he doesn't mind so much. Then he turns back to the book in his lap and tries to align the beatings of his heart with the tires crashing against the road. The city through which they drive is familiar, but unfamiliar. They have walked the streets so many times, but in their polished suede shoes and gel-slicked hair and tiny, powdered noses, they have been sheltered from the inner labyrinths of the city.
The younger brother is five, and the older brother is six. He is going to turn seven in a few months. Two months and four days, to be exact. His younger brother is already planning a present for him, though he does it in secret. He is worried that he won't be able to organize anything in time.
Nonno sits in the front seat, driving the car with a tranquil expression on his face. He is letting his mouth ramble, telling stories about his days as an adolescent running through these streets—they've changed, he says, and yet they are exactly the same. That's the road I used to hang out with my friends at. We used to pester pretty girls when they walked by. And there's the cinema we watched all our movies at—you should've seen them, piccolo!
Both brothers listen and absorb like sponges everything their Nonno has to say.
They are not sure where they are going, but Nonno was vehement that morning, even with their reluctant father, that they were going somewhere very specific. A special trip for the older brother, but the younger brother was allowed to come. And the younger brother was hardly one to willingly spend a minute apart from his older counterpart.
They drive out onto a country road and the two brothers, lulled by the rhythm of the drive and their Nonno's voice, both fall asleep. When they wake up, Nonno is gently lifting them from their seats. They are in a parking lot of a small, white building. They have no idea where they are or why they are here. But Nonno is still smiling and ruffling their hair and giving them superfluous kisses on their foreheads and their cheeks. He holds their hands and squeezes them and they walk inside.
They are at a clinic. A special one, owned by a doctor whose family is very close to Nonno's. For a few minutes, they sit in a waiting room. The two brothers play eye-spy, though the older can always guess the younger's thoughts within seconds, so it's not much of a game. The older brother feels very nervous, and his younger brother can tell immediately. He reaches over and grabs his brother's hand, and smiles at him. Through his apprehension, the older brother smiles back, his heart appeased.
They are led through the door by a man in a white coat holding a clipboard. Nonno leads the way. The doctor asks the older brother many questions, and checks his entire body. The same way that they do at home once every three months, except this time the younger brother is exempt for some reason. When the older brother is not being tested, he is grasping his younger brother's hand as if for raw survival, and looking to Nonno for reassuring looks.
Finally they are done, and the older brother feels relieved beyond words. He and his younger brother sit in the chairs with their lollipops while the doctor sits in the room with them and begins to speak to Nonno in words a bit too large for them to understand. But, once they are done, Nonno turns to them.
"Do you understand, piccolo?" he asked. The brothers both shook their heads. Nonno reached over and placed them both in his lap and kissed their temples. He explains to them the reason the older brother's muscles move the way that they do—a disorder in his brain. This frightens him immensely, bringing him (and, subsequently, his brother) to tears, until Nonno smoothes his hair and shushes him.
"You will take medicine and it will be fine, I promise. You are no different from your brother, I promise."
So the older brother begins to take medicine for his chorea (Sydenham's, the doctor calls it), though they do not tell their father. It is a secret among the three of them only, and this idea excites the brothers. They have a secret all their own with their beloved Nonno, something they can hold to their chests and treasure.
But even as his muscle spasms begin to die down, the older brother does not feel at peace. Not when he feels the palm of his father on his cheek almost every day now, and hears the words over and over and over and over while his brother practices piano or paints in another room.
...why can't you be more like your brother...?
...what an unsightly boy...!
...if only you had such talent...
...un bambino spregevole...a worthless child...
He wets the bed out of fear almost each night, but this only makes it worse because, for Papá, there is only one punishment suitable for wetting the bed. Some days the older brother cannot get out of bed because of his soreness. Some days he cannot get out of bed because he does not feel that anybody wants him to. But when his brother runs into the room, tears streaming down his face from the loneliness, he of course gets out of bed. For his younger brother. For his Feliciano.
Until, on the week after his seventh birthday, he is sent to Sicily.
Feliciano, though Romano tried to convince him that it was unnecessary, decided to spend the next week sleeping in Romano and Kiku's room. Kiku, with his kind nature and ability to withstand almost any disturbance, did not mind at all. Feliciano wouldn't let Romano rent out a sleeping bag because he claimed that sleeping in the same bed would be easier and much more helpful, though the beds were small. So it happened that, two nights after his breakdown, Romano was curled up in bed, awake, staring at the window with Feliciano's back against his. His knuckles were white from how tightly he was grasping the covers. He closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep—in the same magical way that he had been able to in that Spanish professor's office—but could not do it. Not with so many thoughts running through his head. Not with guilt plunging new and fresh into his heart, not with his eyes filling and refilling with tears. At the very least, Feliciano's breathing calmed him down. Helped him find his center.
He kept his eyes closed and tried to concentrate (as a therapist had once suggested who knows how many years ago) on one thing that made him happy, or even perplexed, to distract him from the negative thoughts. And he found his thoughts wandering to Toni's office. Watching Toni read from his notebook. Feeling Toni's eyes wavering from his words to his face. Toni forcing him to the somehow comfortable windowsill. Falling asleep, really falling asleep, for the first time in years on that windowsill underneath that hand-woven blanket from Granada where, ironically, Romano had spent much of his adolescence.
Why do I keep thinking about him?
Maybe it's something about the way he talks.
He's just a smooth-talker, that's it!
Is that it...?
Romano was very afraid of feeling attached, as a student or otherwise, to Antonio Fernández Carriedo. But the kindness he was being shown, the borderline annoying persistence, the earnest eyes and honest words...was he truly to blame for feeling the inevitable pull toward destruction?
Fuck.
"Lovi," he suddenly heard. Quiet. Feliciano wasn't asleep yet.
"Eh?"
"What are you thinking about?" Feliciano whispered. "I always wonder."
"You mean at this second?"
"Mhmm."
"...I don't know. What are you thinking about?"
"I asked you first."
"I asked you second."
"I'm thinking about Nonno," he said. Romano felt a terrible pressure in his chest and buried his face in his pillow. "Do you think about him a lot?"
"Sure."
"You know, he asked about you a lot after you left," Feli continued. "I don't know if I ever told you that."
"You probably never got the chance to."
"No, you're right," he chuckled dryly. "He used to ask Papá all the time. 'Where is little Lovi? How is my little Lovi doing? Tell little Lovi to come visit!' Even though he knew it wasn't up to you. He was optimistic and asking about you until the end."
Romano smiled shakily at his reflection in the window.
"Yeah? For real?" he heard himself say.
"For real."
"I guess I know where you get it from."
"Get what from?"
"I don't know...you're just a lot like him."
"That's nice to hear. Nonno was a good man."
"Mhmm."
"Do you miss him?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"You're right. Silly of me to ask." Feliciano shifted his position. "Good night, Lovi."
"Good night."
Feliciano woke him up early the next day to help him get ready for class. With his help, Romano managed to go to every class, eat at least something for every meal, and even take his medication. Feliciano would hand them to him with such a sad look in his eyes that Romano would have no choice but to stomach the tablets and risk the loss of inspiration. A few times, though, when he needed to write something to show Toni, he would put a tablet under his tongue and spit it out later when Feliciano wasn't looking so he could properly write. He wanted, for some reason, to maintain this routine he had developed with the professor that saw so much potential within him that he couldn't even see in himself. He wanted to continue writing, giving Toni his writing to critique. They were recently becoming more active—Toni would give suggestions and ideas, hints and advice. And though Romano often brushed it off, hardly able to stomach the sincerity in Toni's voice, he heard every single word with crystalline clarity.
But when he next visited Toni's office, the routine was broken.
"Hola, Romano. How are you today? You look much better," Toni greeted with a sickly-sweet smile. But it was comforting because it was something Romano was used to by now.
"Yeah, thanks, I'm fine."
"Vale. What did you write for me today?"
"Another short story."
"Perfect. I want to talk to you about something," Toni said with a clap of his hands. He looked strangely put together, Romano realized, with his hair neatly combed and his stubble shaved and his cologne overwhelmingly attractive. "This may sound strange, but...I want to talk to you seriously about being published."
"You're still hung up on that?"
"¡Claro! You could make a real name for yourself, querido. And now you have enough for a collection," Toni smiled. He was swiveling slightly in his chair and it was making Romano dizzy. A side-effect of the pills, he told himself. "But I want to talk in a serious setting."
"...A what?"
"I was thinking I could cook you dinner, and we could talk it over at my apartment," Toni smiled. "I am making paella this Friday. You mentioned that you spent some time in España, so you should be accustomed to something like that, no?"
Romano was so taken aback that he could not respond. He was having trouble finding his thoughts among the chaos that had erupted in his mind.
"Ah, if you want to bring a friend—or your brother—or whomever, please feel free. But I have some things I want to show you and I think that is a better setting than my stuffy little office," Toni continued, oblivious to Romano's state of bewilderment. He let silence follow, tapping his pen on the table and reaching up to smooth his eyebrows every few moments. Romano opened his mouth, in an attempt to respond.
"Are you insane?" he suddenly said. Toni blinked.
"Maybe, but why do you ask?"
"You're inviting me to your apartment?"
"Sí...is there a problem?" Then, it seemed to hit him, and he raised his eyebrows. "Ah, oh, but, ah...you don't have to if you would feel uncomfortable! I didn't mean, um, well..."
His voice trailed off as he looked away, his face flushing and his voice flustered. Romano bit his lower lip and sat on his hands, now completely unsure of how to respond.
He's inviting me to his house.
What does that mean?
Well, his intentions don't seem malicious or perverted...
He's so stupid, it's almost funny.
Did he really not realize when he asked?
Fuck, now what do I do?!
"Actually, forget I asked," Toni suddenly said with a nervous chuckle. "I'll just, ah—why don't I bring you some books? And the contacts of a few people I know, that would be helpful, no?"
"Do you make good paella?" Romano interrupted.
"¿Cómo?"
"Are you a good cook?" he repeated, exasperated.
"Well, yes, I would like to think so."
"Fine. What's your address?"
Toni's face lit up, and Romano's heart began to twist and turn on itself, and he knew that he had made a terrible mistake; he had been destined to make it from the moment he had walked into Antonio Fernández Carriedo's writing seminar.
I just cling to anything that shows me any semblance of affection.
It's not even affection. It's just...attention.
I cling to everything and suck the life out of it.
I'll suck the life out of him, too.
But he's inviting it.
What does he think will happen if he keeps giving me that attention?
That's right.
I'll convince myself that he cares, and I'll dive headfirst.
Unfortunately, I'm not very good at holding my breath.
As it turned out, dinner at a professor's house was not that unusual.
"Ah, you're going to his house for dinner? That's nice!" Feliciano gushed. They were sitting at lunch—Romano, Feliciano, Ludwig (who followed Feliciano like a puppy), and Kiku, whom Feliciano and Ludwig had decided to recruit into their strange little friend group.
"Is that common in Europe?" Kiku asked.
"Sure it is! It means you're a really good student. Right, Lovi?"
"I don't fucking know."
"Your professor has taken a liking to you," Ludwig said, in between bites of his inhumanly-sized sandwich. "Consider yourself lucky."
"Tch. I don't believe in luck," Romano spat. He found that it was practically impossible for him to willingly agree to absolutely anything the German blockhead had to say.
"You'll have to tell me how it goes, all right?" Feliciano said. "And you have to make sure to really prepare, okay? You can't just wear whatever and go unshaven and unshowered like you always do."
"Oi, Feli, shut up!"
"No worries, your brother will help you," Feliciano said with a wink.
On Friday, Romano made sure to take every single one of his pills. He didn't eat at all because he knew that if he had even the smallest bit of food, he wouldn't be able to stomach the paella that was to come. But he wanted to have at least a plate of it. He had a strange feeling in his stomach all day; he couldn't remember the last time he had been invited somewhere. Or, more accurately, he couldn't remember the last time he had actually taken anybody up on their invitation because usually that entailed leaving the confines of his room and subjecting himself to the cruelties and boredoms of the world around him. And it meant keeping himself composed, which had recently become one of the more difficult of his daily errands.
Feliciano helped him get ready, trying to tame his hair and letting him borrow cologne, and he even walked him to the apartment. He had also bought a bottle of champagne, telling Romano that it was rude to not bring something to someone's house the first time they invite you.
"Now, make sure you're nice," Feliciano said as they walked the path slightly off campus. "Be polite. He's inviting you to his house to talk to you about something serious."
"Okay, Mother." Romano was starting to feel very nervous. This was a bad idea—he knew for a fact that it was, and yet he kept putting one foot in front of the other. "Are you sure you don't want to come? He told me I could invite you."
"No. I've never even met him!" Feliciano replied. "Don't worry, you'll be fine. I'm a phone call away if you need me, all right?"
"...All right."
Feliciano was gone by the time Romano knocked on the door to Toni's flat. It had a small plaque on it, with "Toni" inscribed, which Romano found odd. After a few moments, the door opened, to reveal the one and only standing behind it. He had a smile, bright and white and crooked, already plastered on his mouth. He wasn't dressed in a very formal way—he had on a nice shirt, jeans, all beneath a white, frilly apron. His hair was just as messy as usual (perhaps messier), and Romano realized instantly how strange it was to see a professor in his home. He had never experienced this before, and it was unnerving. To think of these people as having lives outside of their duties at the university.
"Romano! Welcome, welcome! Come in, please." Toni took a slight step forward, but then caught himself and moved back, opening the door. Romano was grateful for that, because he wasn't sure what his reaction would have been if Toni had tried the traditional Spanish and Italian greeting—the two kisses on either cheek. Romano, having unconsciously assumed a resentful expression and evident pout, walked inside. As Toni closed the door, he handed him the champagne.
"Ah, what's this? You didn't have to!"
"If you don't want it I'll just keep it."
"N-no, that's not what I meant. Muchas gracias, querido. Please, make yourself at home. Dinner is almost ready." Toni gestured to the small living room through the doorway, took the champagne, and disappeared into the kitchen. Romano took off his jacket and fell down upon the couch, drinking in his surroundings.
The flat was small, and it didn't seem like Toni had been living here long. The furniture was red, accented by a beige table and yellow cloths. The walls were almost completely hidden beneath paintings—Goya, Picasso, Frida Kahlo, Diego Rivera—and photographs taken from all over the world, with the bright Spanish flag in the center of it all. They were crooked and didn't seem to be ordered in any particular fashion, which the gave the place a certain charm. There were candles in every corner of the room, and on the table was a stack of papers so high it seemed as if it could scatter at any moment and a bookshelf against the wall that was full to the brim. Next to the bookshelf was a beautiful acoustic guitar. Romano closed his eyes and breathed in, and realized that it smelled exactly like his office. Coffee grinds, black tea, dried ink. Now he could smell aromas of chicken and spices coming from the kitchen. He realized then that there was music playing through the speakers. Relaxing guitar music. Purely instrumental. It reminded Romano of the days he'd spent in Spain, and it made him feel a little bit at peace.
"Dinner's ready!" called Toni.
And there was something in his voice that set Romano on fire and solidified everything that he had been worried about up until that moment.
Like a leech that's been starving, I cling to anything.
Anything and everything that shows me its blood.
Anything that might make the tears subside.
I have a question for you, an important question.
Are you a passionate lover?
¿Eres un amante apasionado, Toni?
Romano stood up and went to the table for dinner.
the chorea thing is ACTUALLY a thing in the comic i swear i didn't just make it up
