The next Saturday, Lovino found himself sitting in the stands of the school's soccer field, surrounded by fellow students he didn't know on all sides. Well, except for one side, the Italian thought as he casted a short glance at Antonio's roommate, Francis, who was seated beside him with his girlfriend. The couple seemed to be engrossed in whatever conversation they were having, but from the few phrases Lovino happened to catch, he decided that he definitely didn't mind being left outside of it. He was also unusually grateful for the chattering crowd around him, as it at least blocked from his hearing most of what had to be the cheesiest conversation he'd ever witnessed.

Joining Francis and his girlfriend had by no means been Lovino's original plan when he'd left his flat twenty minutes or so ago, but by some strange coincidence, he'd ended up running into the Frenchman in the elevator. What kind of luck was that supposed to be, anyway? After that, he'd been forced to listen to the stream of way too personal questions posed to him in an odd mixture of English and French – and accompanied by the occasional suggestive wink – all the way to the stadium, until the Frenchman finally caught sight of his girlfriend and decided that her company was more interesting than Lovino's – which the Italian definitely didn't complain about.

Just like when he'd first met Antonio's roommate earlier that week – which was an experience he really didn't want to go into more detail about – he'd found it very unsettling how little effect his best death glare had on the Frenchman. Only Antonio's presence had somewhat managed to subdue Francis's curiosity, but when he'd presently found himself alone in the Frenchman's company, Lovino had more than once fancied the idea of smacking him across the head. He still wasn't sure whether he was proud of himself for resisting that urge, or whether he actually regretted it, and he couldn't help but to wonder how Antonio managed to put up with sharing a flat with him.

After casting a final more or less discrete frown in the Frenchman's direction, Lovino turned his attention to his surroundings, letting his gaze wander around the stands that circled the soccer field down below, taking in the sheer number of people that were currently gathered there. He had never been to large sports events with his family, and so he had only ever seen such packed stadiums on the TV. Now, however, he was actually witnessing the sight in person, and regardless of the anxiety that large crowds tended to evoke in him, Lovino couldn't help but to feel a little thrilled, as well.

Antonio will be playing on that field, in front of all these people.

Lovino thought back to the week before and the ease with which the Spaniard had asked him to come see his team's first match of the season. He hadn't appeared nervous at all, just excited, being his usual cheerful self. Lovino had of course agreed to come, and even though he had claimed that Antonio just wanted to show off, he was sincerely curious to see him play. The passion with which the Spaniard spoke about soccer was something Lovino felt like he lacked himself: he had never been the type to get easily excited or to feel motivated to work particularly hard for something – he either was relatively good at something or wasn't, as simple as that.

But after getting to know Antonio, the Italian had started to almost envy his passion and the endless amount of energy he seemed to have within him. He wondered how it was even possible for the Spaniard to work so hard with barely any time to rest and still always manage that cheerful smile that made his eyes sparkle so vibrantly, like he hardly felt any fatigue at all. How the Spaniard managed to do it was a complete mystery to Lovino, but the Italian nevertheless found it to be somehow thrilling, somehow inspiring in a way that he couldn't fully explain, even to himself.

As Lovino watched, the players of the opposing team emerged from their locker room as their names were called one by one by a booming voice that echoed from the speakers around the stadium. They were wearing blue uniforms - except for the goalkeeper, who was wearing bright yellow – and with their serious expressions and athletic frames they looked very much like the professional players Lovino had seen on the TV. Only this time the cheering and whistling that erupted in the stands the moment the players arrived on the field wasn't mere background noise, but instead it hit Lovino's ears with its full volume, making him slightly shrink back in his seat.

If Lovino had thought the noise had been loud then, it must've at least doubled when the time for the home team's introductions came. The people around Lovino – who were all students from his university – stood up as they cheered for their team, and Lovino found himself instinctively following their example by getting on his feet as well. His eyes were closely fixed at the field below, where Antonio's teammates were forming a line player by player as the booming voice announced their names. He recognized Alfred and Matthew, both of whom got a particularly loud round of cheering from Lovino's side of the stands, until it was finally Antonio's turn and the cheering reached its loudest point yet.

As the Spaniard faced the stands before him, Lovino got a glimpse of his face from where he stood, only partially aware of the fact that he was clapping his hands together in the same rhythm as the hundreds of people around him. Even though an expression of firm concentration had replaced the usual smile on Antonio's tan face - which the white jersey so well complimented - Lovino could feel that familiar sparkling energy of his reach him even through the mass of people between them, intense enough to send shivers down the Italian's back.

It didn't take even a full two minutes of watching the game for Lovino to tell that Antonio really was good. The Italian wasn't exactly a sports enthusiastic himself, but he wasn't completely clueless about soccer either: he did watch the occasional match every now and then, and he had even played it himself when he'd been younger, if not for very long – it had been Feliciano who'd made him join a team with him, and after his brother had got tired of the regular practices, Lovino had ended up quitting the team as well. However, as he now watched Antonio play, he really didn't have to ask himself why he'd got the loudest round of cheers from the audience.

The Spaniard played attacking midfielder, which Lovino knew to be a very central position in soccer, if not the most important one: The attacking midfielder had both defensive and offensive duties, but what could perhaps be said to be their most important job was organizing the team's attacks and connecting the ball to the other offensive players. That's where Antonio's exceptional skills first became apparent: The extent to which the Spaniard was able to predict his teammates' movements was almost uncanny, and if Lovino hadn't know better, he would've thought they shared some sort of a telepathic connection. However, since he did know better, he was forced to conclude that it was simply the result of their time spent training together, although pure talent certainly had something to do with it as well.

Antonio's teamwork was especially seamless with Alfred, who played the position of the centre forward. It was barely ten minutes into the match when the Spaniard spotted his blond teammate, who had managed to lose his mark for a what seemed like just a fleeting moment. However, that opening was enough for Antonio, who gave him a perfectly aimed centring pass which the American directed into the upper right corner of the goal, missing the goalkeeper's fingertips by a solid foot. Lovino's side of the stands immediately erupted in wild cheers, which the Italian joined in without a bit of hesitation while watching Alfred do his lap of honour as Antonio ran to wrap an arm around his shoulders and ruffle his blond mop of hair before the rest of their teammates shortly joined them in a group hug.

Twenty minutes later, during which the opposing team hadn't managed more than a couple of shots at the goal, none of which were close to actually going in, it was Antonio's turn to score a goal himself. It started off as a completely normal offence for his team: The Spaniard brought the ball over the midfield line and passed it to one of his teammates on the left, who passed along to Alfred. For a moment it looked like the American would actually go for the goal himself, but instead he passed it backwards to Antonio, who had much more space to himself. The Spaniard took on his mark one on one, performing a quick move that allowed him to get shoulder-to-shoulder with him, after which he made a sharp shot for the goal.

The audience, which had seemed to be collectively holding its breath during the last few seconds, came into life once again as the supporters of the home team got on their feet, somehow managing to cheer even louder than the time Alfred had scored a goal. Lovino couldn't help the mood that started to catch on him as he watched Antonio's teammates swarm the Spaniard in a mass of shoulder bumps, hugs and friendly slams on the black so that Lovino barely managed to catch a glimpse of his rich brown locks before he again disappeared under the horde of soccer players that enveloped him.

However, the feeling that swelled in the Italian's chest was more than just the excitement of a regular sports fan, more than the admiration one could feel towards a particularly skilled player: It was an unexpectedly strong sense of pride that came from the knowledge that it was Antonio, his Antonio, who had scored that goal. The sensation was something Lovino had never before experienced, it was something he had never even believed to exist: Instead of feeling inferior to the Spaniard, who had skills Lovino couldn't even dream of having himself, not in soccer or anything else in particular, Lovino only felt pride and happiness, genuine happiness for the success of someone else.

No, not just someone else, but the one I love.

For some reason, Lovino didn't feel nearly as embarrassed as he normally would've felt when the realization hit him. He did feel a hint of the familiar heat in the tips of his ears, but somehow it just wasn't as bad as usual. He didn't even feel the need to frown and shake such embarrassing thoughts off his mind, but instead he almost felt the urge to smile as he continued to keep his eyes on the swarm of soccer players in white jerseys that had started to disperse as each member of the team moved back to his position. The feeling was odd and new, but yet it felt strangely natural and somehow liberating, like it was something Lovino had lost a long time ago and only just found again – or something that had been locked away for years and only now brought back to daylight.

The home team dominated the game through the first half of the match, and the best their opponents could do against Matthew and the rest of the defenders was a handful of somewhat decent shots at the goal, none of which seemed to cause the goalkeeper much trouble. However, they seemed determined to at least keep Antonio's team's lead from growing, and their defenders did their best to stop their attacks as early as possible, paying especially close attention to the movements of both Antonio and Alfred. It almost looked like they would manage to keep the score two to zero before the end of the first half, but then Antonio showed them once more how dangerous of an opponent he really was.

There were only three minutes left of the first half of the match, and the player marked by Antonio had the ball. He was clearly feeling the pressure, glancing quickly to his left, then right, looking for someone he could pass to. Antonio saw his opening and lunged for the ball, quickly stealing it from his distracted opponent and taking off towards the other end of the field, where the opposing team's goal was waiting. Antonio, the brightest star of his team, had the momentum on his side, and everybody knew that if he could score one more goal before half time, the game would be more or less over for his opponents. That got the supporters of the home team once more on their feet, as if they could sense the incoming goal.

However, Antonio never made it to the goal.

The player he'd stolen the ball from started after him in a desperate attempt to fix his mistake, the mistake that was about to cost the game for his team. He reached the Spaniard at the midfield line, going for the ball with his left foot. However, they were both running at a formidable speed, and the opposing team player missed the ball, instead slamming hard into the inner side of Antonio's knee.

Everything seemed to freeze around Lovino as he thought that no, it was not normal for someone's knee to bend like that. A sickening feeling settled in his stomach as he watched the two players tumble heavily onto the ground. He barely heard the sound of the referee's whistle or the angry yells let out by the people around him. He barely saw the yellow card held up in the referee's hand, or the opposing team player who pushed himself off the ground to complain about his sentence. No, Lovino didn't care about any of that. Instead, his eyes were glued on Antonio's back as the Spaniard remained curled on the grass, both hands clutched around his right knee.

The angry yells gradually died down around Lovino, turning into concerned mutters as the people perceived the fact that Antonio still hadn't got up, not even after his opponent had been sentenced a yellow card. Even said opponent, a boy with a lean but athletic build and a dark complexion, finally turned his back to the referee, instead focusing his attention to the Spaniard with a mixture of confusion and apprehension settling on his face.

All that time, Lovino was unable to do anything but stare at Antonio's back, which rose and fell in the rhythm of his unsteady breaths, as his brain struggled to understand what had just happened. The Italian felt like the floor under his feet had vanished, leaving him standing on nothing but thin air as the buzzing sound in his ears got progressively louder, until it drowned out all other noise around him. His mind had turned into a garbled mess, incapable of forming anything but one coherent thought:

Antonio is in pain. Antonio is in pain and all I can do is stand here and watch.

The thought hit Lovino like a punch to the face as it fully sank in to his consciousness, finally breaking the momentary daze that had had him frozen in his tracks. Now that he could properly feel his limbs again, all the Italian wanted to do was rush to Antonio's side. The sudden urge was so strong that before he even fully realized it himself, he had taken a hasty step towards the stairs that would lead him down to the field - only to be held back by a firm hand on his shoulder.

Lovino's muscles tensed under the sudden contact as he turned around, only to find himself face to face with Francis, whose presence he had almost forgotten in his frantic state. The Frenchman's lips were pressed together in a tight line and his brows were creased in a frown that the Italian had never before seen on his face. Lovino instinctively tried to shake his hand off his shoulder, but the Frenchman only tightened his hold, not enough for it to be painful but so that the message came across nevertheless: he was not about to let go.

"Lovino." His voice was quiet but stern, the kind of tone one would use when trying to talk sense to a particularly stubborn child. "We have to wait at least until the half time." Lovino noted the absence of the heavy French accent the blond had spoken with before, but spared it no more than a fleeting thought.

Then the Italian slowly resigned to sit down, which at least rid him of the persistent hand on his shoulder. His attention was once again focused solely on the field, where a medic had made her way to Antonio and started spraying what Lovino assumed to be ice spray on his injured knee. The Spaniard himself had rolled onto his back, where he lay with one forearm covering his face and the other arm resting on the grass beside him, hand clenched into a tight fist. The stands around the field had gone ominously silent, as everyone's eyes were focused on the injured player who was being tended to.

If the people around Lovino were shocked to see the most promising player on the field injured, it was nothing compared to what the Italian was feeling. To Lovino, Antonio was so much more than just a talented soccer player, even more than just a friend or acquaintance. Seeing him lie down on the grass, obviously in a great amount of pain, tore at Lovino's heart as he resisted the urge to just run down to the field, run down to Antonio's side where he should have been, even though he knew there was nothing he could do to actually help him.

However, what horrified Lovino the most was the thought that Antonio hardly seemed like the kind of person to complain about a minor injury, he hardly seemed like the kind of person who would have others worry about him for nothing. Lovino tried to push the thought off his mind, but it kept coming back to torment him no matter how hard he tried: What if the injury was so bad that Antonio wouldn't be able to play anymore? Each time he thought about it, Lovino could feel the lump in his throat grow larger, making him struggle to keep his breathing steady. No, he shouldn't think that far ahead. Injuries were common in sports, weren't they? Even if it took some time to heal, surely it wasn't serious enough to keep him from playing in the future.

But even though Lovino tried to think rationally, tried to convince himself that only a fraction of sports injuries were really as serious as he feared, the thoughts just refused to leave him alone. He couldn't even begin imagine Antonio without his passion for soccer. It was an essential part of him, and essential part of what made him Antonio, what gave his eyes that energetic sparkle and his voice that passionate tone whenever he mentioned the sport. If that part of Antonio died… No, Lovino couldn't even imagine it. He wouldn't imagine it. He didn't need to, because Antonio would be fine, Antonio would most definitely be fine, and it was stupid of Lovino to even begin to think otherwise.

That was what Lovino kept convincing himself when a dark-haired middle-aged man whom Lovino assumed to be one of the team's assistant coaches jogged to Antonio's side carrying a stretcher, while the medic – a tall woman with short-cropped blond hair – still kneeled next to the Spaniard, calmly giving him what Lovino assumed to be words of encouragement. However, Antonio remained completely unresponsive to her words, and even as the two staff members carefully lifted him onto the stretcher, he never once moved the forearm that covered his face nor made any other movement except for the rapid, unsteady rising and falling of his chest.

After what had to be the longest six minutes in Lovino's life, the referee's whistle finally pierced the air again, signalling the end of the first half of the match. The dread that had turned the Italian's insides to ice was replaced by a burning fire as he sprung to his feet and took off to the stairs, this time without being stopped by the Frenchman sitting beside him. He had barely reached the railing separating the stands from the field when he spotted Matthew among the home team players returning to their bench. He didn't even have the time to call his name to catch his attention before the blond's eyes met his, as if he'd been searching for him all along. Something about the look in his eyes made Lovino come to a halt next to the railing regardless of the restless prickling that urged his legs to keep moving.

As Lovino watched with growing urgency, Matthew turned to one of the team's assistant coaches – this time a sturdy middle aged man with a bald spot on the top of his head - and exchanged a few hasty words with him. Lovino couldn't hear what they were saying, but when Matthew turned to face him again and closed the distance between them in a few long strides, his brows were creased in a deep frown that made Lovino's blood freeze with apprehension.

"They took him to the medical school's hospital a few miles from the centre." His tone was a perfect match for the serious frown on his face and the look of deep concern in his bright blue eyes.

Lovino felt his body freeze as grasped the cold metal of the railing in front of him, barely conscious of the movements of his own hands.

Antonio has been taken to the hospital?

But doesn't that mean that… that it really is that serious?

It is that serious after all, isn't it?

Oh no, no, no…

Lovino's knuckles turned white as he grasped the railing in front of him like it was his lifeline. Who knows, maybe his knees would have simply given out if his hands hadn't been securely clutched around the rod of solid metal. And yet the Italian barely felt the coldness of the metal, he barely realized the fact that if he'd now try to move, he would most likely just topple over due to the sudden weakness of his limbs. No, he was too overwhelmed to even fully realize any of those things, including the blond boy who was still eyeing him with concern, concern not only for Antonio but the Italian himself as well.

All he could think of was Antonio. All he could think of was the knowledge that Antonio was hurt and alone and that he had been taken to the hospital. Lovino needed to go there, he needed to see him and make sure he was okay. But what if he wasn't okay? He had been taken to the hospital, after all. No, Lovino couldn't think about that possibility. Antonio had to be okay, and Lovino had to see him.

Lovino finally tore his hands off the railing and turned towards the exit, the only thought in his mind that he had to get to Antonio now. However, it was again a firm hand on his shoulder that made him stop in his tracks after only a couple of hasty steps. The Italian felt every muscle in his body tense under the sudden contact as he turned on his heels to face the owner of the hand that was still grasping his shoulder with calm persistence. However, Francis made no sign he even noticed the furious glare he was being fixed with, but instead he simply spoke in that same, quiet tone he'd used earlier to tell Lovino to wait for the half time:

"Follow me, my girlfriend will drive you to the hospital."

xxx

Antonio stared unblinkingly at the wall opposite to his bed. Like pretty much everything else in the room, it was white – too white, the kind of unnaturally bright shade of spotless white that would've normally made Antonio feel slightly uncomfortable. Even the door leading out of the room and into the corridor was the same shade of white, much like the coat of the doctor who had exited the room barely a few minutes ago. Or hours. Antonio wasn't sure, or then he just really didn't care. Neither did he care about the combination of white surfaces and the smell of antiseptic that made the room feel unnaturally sterile in the way that had always tended to make his skin tingle with discomfort.

No, Antonio didn't really care about any of those things. He didn't really seem to care about anything at all.

However, that had hardly been the case barely a few minutes ago - if he decided to think of them as minutes and not hours. Just a few minutes ago, he had been as far from his current state of dizzying numbness as he could've possible got: He had been in a state of frantic, fear-driven panic that he'd never experienced before, the kind of panic that seems to steal all the air from your lungs, leaving you struggling to breathe, incapable of forming coherent words, let alone sentences. He had felt like the spotlessly white walls around him were about to crash down on him at any moment and bury him in a crushing pile of rubble.

That had been before the doctor, who had sat in the chair next to his bed with his hands clasped together in his lap, had fixed him with that long, contemplating look that had seemed to want to avoid his eyes more than actually meet them. Without averting his eyes regardless of the seemingly growing urge to do so, he had finally spoken the words in a steady, low voice that was hardly loud but nevertheless seemed to pierce through Antonio's consciousness like a thousand deadly bullets.

We will have to wait until after the surgery, when you start a rehab program that gives you the best possible chances of recovery. However, for now - given how serious the meniscal tear is - we cannot say for certain when you will be able to resume your normal practice routine, or if you can return to competitive sports at all.

if you can return to competitive sports at all.

Those words continued to echo in Antonio's mind as he stared blankly at the wall in front of him, only distinctly aware of the sound of footsteps that occasionally passed his door, then faded into momentary silence again.

if you can return to competitive sports at all.

Each time Antonio tried to imagine what his life would be like without soccer, his mind went as blank as the white walls around him. Blankness. Numbing, paralysing blankness that had turned his earlier panic into nothing but a blurry haze, an overwhelming sense of emptiness that replaced the frantic mess of thoughts that had filled his mind just minutes ago. Now his mind seemed capable of forming only a single sensible conclusion that hit his numb consciousness like the crushing weight of a giant building collapsing on top of him and burying him alive.

Without soccer, all there was was emptiness.

For as long as Antonio could remember, his life had always revolved around soccer. Whatever change had taken place in his life, one thing had always remained constant and unaffected, like a solid rock in the middle of a stormy sea: his passion for soccer, the sport that had inspired him, given him a purpose and offered him the chance to follow his dream. And that dream didn't only lie at the end of the path, but it was the path itself, the path of finding his limits and surpassing them, savouring the present while always seeking to move forward.

What would happen to Antonio if that path was suddenly blocked, if moving forward was no longer possible?

He didn't know. And that was what frightened him the most, what made him feel like the sole rock breaking the churning surface of the stormy sea was quickly crumbling, leaving him drowning in the deep, raging waters even in the silence and spotlessness of his current surroundings. Antonio had never been so lost, so utterly lost, in his whole life. It was too much for him, too much for his mind to fully even comprehend. Or maybe it was just his mind's way to protect him, protect him from shattering, irreversibly crumbling to pieces under the situation that surely couldn't be real, surely had to be just a moment of insanity, a nightmare that he could wake up from and find his life to be still intact and not torn apart by the hungry, raving sea that sought only destruction, his destruction.

Antonio didn't know how long he would've remained sitting there, staring at the wall before him without really even seeing it, if not for the sound of multiple footsteps stopping just outside the door to his room. First, he didn't even fully realize that instead of just passing by like the countless footsteps he'd heard before, they had actually stopped. No, he only realized it when he heard the sound of the door handle being pressed down; a sound that managed to break his daze by its unexpectedness, even if just a little.

However, the last remnants of that daze wore off the instant he saw the person stepping through the doorway in the white-coated doctor's trail: Lovino was wearing a pair of jeans and a red t-shirt with his favourite denim jacket covering his arms and shoulders. A few strands of silky auburn hair hung on his face, and that one defiant curl protruded from the side of his head, refusing to lie flat like the rest of its kind. That much about the Italian's appearance had remained unchanged, yet the sight of him made Antonio's breath catch in his throat and a lead weight settle in his stomach.

Lovino's warm olive skin had lost its vivacity, like he'd been depraved of sunlight for months. His posture was oddly tense, his arms hanging on his sides and his fingers bent as if he'd been in the middle of clenching them into fists but frozen half-way through. His lips, which looked unusually chapped as if he'd been chewing on them, were slightly parted, but his jaw was clenched and the tendons in his neck strained. However, what really caught Antonio's attention was his eyes, which were wide in a mixture of shock and horror that Antonio had never before seen in them.

Antonio barely noticed the doctor who silently closed the white door behind him as he left the room, leaving the two boys alone. His eyes were glued only on Lovino, who was still standing in his post before the door like a statue, his wide amber eyes filled not only with shock but also something even more heart-breaking, a look of fear and helplessness and pain. A crushing sense of pain made Antonio finally drop his gaze from the Italian, unable to witness the look of anguish in his eyes. The weight in his stomach grew heavier as he fixed his unseeing gaze at the white blankets that covered his legs.

This is not right. This is not right. It's because of me that Lovino is in pain.

Antonio clenched his fists as he felt the lump in his throat grow painfully large. This was no nightmare, for it no longer held the tiniest bit of that haziness, of that earlier sense of unreality. No, there was no way a nightmare could pierce his heart with that kind of pain, that kind of white-hot, burning pain that seemed to reach every level of his being without the tiniest hint of mercy. No, only reality was capable of that kind of mercilessness, Antonio was sure of it, and the worst part was that there was no waking up from reality. Even as his life was crumbling into sand and trickling between his fingers along with his heart, there was no way for him to wake up.

Antonio wasn't sure when it was that his shoulders started to tremble under the overwhelming emotions that had finally broken through his momentary numbness. He wasn't sure when it happened, but at some point he noticed that his shoulders, along with the rest of his body, were trembling, even as he clenched his fists in a wasted attempt to regain control over himself. He breathed in shaky breaths, letting his chin drop to his chest as he closed his eyes and tried to fight the tears that he knew were about to fall, even though he knew it was a fight he would sooner or later lose.

Did he feel embarrassed for letting Lovino see him like that? For letting Lovino witness his weakness and pitifulness so shamelessly?

No, at that moment, he didn't really care. It was the truth, after all: He was scared. He was utterly scared and lost and hurting, both physically and emotionally, although he hardly cared about the dull throbbing in his injured knee that the pain relievers had failed to completely remove. No, the physical pain was nothing compared to the overwhelming storm of emotions that tried to pull him apart from the inside, the combination of his fear for himself and the pain of seeing Lovino, the one he loved, suffer because of him. He wanted to protect Lovino, he wanted to make him happy like he did to Antonio, and yet it was because of Antonio that he was in pain.

This is so wrong. So, so wrong.

Antonio never saw Lovino move from his spot in front of the door, but he must have eventually done so for at some point the Spaniard felt a hesitant hand land on his shoulder. Even through the tremors that shook his own body, Antonio could feel the trembling of the slim fingers that grasped his shoulder, fumbling on his hospital gown as if to make sure that Antonio really was there. It took him a few seconds, but soon the Italian's grip became firmer, until the trembling of his fingers stopped altogether. Antonio tried to steady his breathing, but there was nothing he could do about the tears that escaped his closed eyes and streamed down his cheeks until they fell on his lap or reached his mouth, their saltiness stinging his lips that he hadn't even noticed were so dry.

The grip on his shoulder grew tighter, and Antonio was distinctly aware of the sound of metal scraping the tile floor, which he later on realized was the sound of a chair being pulled closer to the bed. Then he felt another arm being wrapped around his neck and a head of silky hair pressing against his chin. He felt a gust of warm breath against his chest as the hand finally let go of his shoulder just to firmly grasp the fabric on his back, enveloping him in a desperate embrace that, regardless of its tightness, somehow made it easier for Antonio to breathe. Just enough for him to feel less like was suffocating, even though he still couldn't help the breathless sobs that had begun to escape his lips at some unknown point.

Antonio was still lost, he was still utterly shaken and afraid of the shadow of uncertainty that had suddenly fallen between him and his dream; that much hadn't changed. However, Antonio thought as he slowly wrapped his own arms around the comfortingly familiar shape of Lovino's back, he was no longer alone. He had Lovino, the one whose presence never failed to brighten his day, not even when the sky seemed to fall on top of him, crushing him between the stormy sea and the raging winds. Lovino's presence was like the warm, inviting light of a beacon, a small but persistent light that reached him even through the raging storm, urging him to hang on, to follow that tiny glimmer of hope that was the only thing that could save him from drowning in the deep, black waters below.