DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW


ACT IV

SCENE III

VENICE

a dilapidated villa.

Enter LOVINO.

Lovino woke abruptly, terrified out of a nightmare by a long, howling shriek. He shot upright in bed, the blankets pooling at his waist, gold-flecked eyes wide and searching. It was after dawn, but the sky outside was stone-grey and raining, the wind blowing into the chimney and echoing inside with a howl. Oh, God, he sighed, recognizing the culprit of the scream. Despite himself, he shivered. The wind had blown the fire out and the bedchamber was cold. In defense, he pulled the blanket up to his naked chest, and, when he came up against no resistance, only then noticed the absence of Antonio (who liked to hog the blankets). "Antonio—?" he called anxiously into the silence, which wasn't silent at all. The old house wheezed and creaked and moaned as it was beaten by wind and rain, the storm casting the room in flickering shadows. Lovino tugged the blanket tight around himself and bravely left the bed, foot landing in a puddle from the leaking roof. He got dressed in clothes that were too large for him—clothes that he would later realize belonged to Antonio—and, heart pounding, left the bedchamber.

"A-Antonio—?" he called again, voice shaking.

The wind echoed eerily in the empty corridor, but no one answered.

He didn't leave me here, Lovino told himself as he wandered down the long, dark passage. He's a lunatic, but he wouldn't have just left me here. He wouldn't have abandoned me here all alone—would he?

An angry, gurgling noise made the boy suddenly jump, until he realized it was the growling of his own empty stomach. He felt faint with hunger. The only thing he had eaten since leaving Padua was slimy, barely cooked tripe on crusty bread. Antonio had called it "a feast!" and refused to dish-out seconds, which—after Lovino had mastered his gag-reflex—the boy had begged for. "No, no, Lovi," Antonio had said, contradicting his earlier statement, "I can't bear the thought of you having to eat anything less than culinary artistry!" And with that, he flung the food out the window. Lovino knew that it was a lie, of course; that the mad Spaniard's true intention was to starve his newlywed spouse, but he didn't understand why. Nor did he understand why Antonio had insisted on Lovino bathing in ice-cold water when they could have easily stoked the fire. Or why he woke Lovino every hour of the night for no apparent reason, which prevented the boy from getting a decent night's sleep. Or why, despite his leering and provocative language, he hadn't actually touched Lovino since their first night together. Antonio pushed him and pulled him and ruffled his hair, but he had never touched Lovino in a way that would suggest any sexual attraction. It made Lovino feel strangely hollow; he, who had always thought himself so beautiful. Though he wouldn't ever admit it, Antonio's lack of enthusiasm for his new virgin spouse was disappointing (especially since the Spaniard, himself, was so mouth-wateringly handsome). It had only been a couple of days, but Lovino had never felt more lost in his whole life.

I want to go home, he thought, then recalled the cruel indifference of his family members and nearly cried.

Enter ANTONIO.

"Chiquito?"

Lovino screeched when a hand landed on his shoulder. In self-defense, he frantically groped for a serviceable weapon and, because there was none, ended up attacking Antonio with his own soft, leather shoe. When he realized it was Antonio, he didn't stop. "You bastard!" he shouted, fear heating into anger as he beat his shoe harmlessly against the Spaniard. "You dirty, rotten, inconsiderate scoundrel!"

"Lovi, what's wrong—"

"I've had enough of this place!" Lovino seethed, interrupting Antonio's protest. "I hate it here! It's cold and wet and dark and it smells weird! Don't just leave me here all alone in this awful place! I'm starving! I'm dizzy from no sleep! I want a real bath and a real hot meal in a real house! I'm sick of you and your stupid games! I want to go home! Take me home, you bastard! Take me home right now!

"I just want to go home..."

Lovino was sobbing before he realized it. His shoe fell to the floor with a soft thud as he grasped handfuls of Antonio's shirt.

"Oh, chiquito, don't cry," said Antonio, looping his arms around the boy.

Lovino felt so weak. His legs were shaking so badly, he was afraid he would collapse. Instead, he relied on the strong, solid body of his husband. He leant into the embrace and pressed his forehead to Antonio's chest, burying his face as he cried angry, exhausted tears. Antonio's touch was gentle, but firm; protective. He whispered soothing words as he held Lovino, resting his chin atop the boy's silky head, but it only made Lovino cry more because he knew that it was false. He knew that Antonio's kindness was false and fleeting, but he couldn't help how safe he felt wrapped in the Spaniard's inviting arms. He felt ashamed of wanting a man who clearly didn't want him in return; a man who abused him and called it love, but he couldn't help it. Antonio was all he had.

I'm pathetic, he thought, depressed. I'm weak and worthless. No one wants me. No one will ever want me. My own family couldn't wait to get rid of me. I'm so, so lonely.

"Lovi," said Antonio soothingly. "It's okay, don't cry, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, chiquito. I'm here."

Lovino whined and hugged the man tighter.

"Lovi—?"

Lovino didn't reply or lift his head as Antonio scooped him into his arms. He kept his face buried against the tear-soaked collar of the Spaniard's shirt, taking comfort in the feel of the man's warm, smooth skin. A summer storm continued to howl outside, but inside—suddenly—the house seemed silent, as if Antonio's mere presence was keeping it at bay. Soon, they re-entered the bedchamber and Lovino felt the mattress sink beneath Antonio's weight as he sat.

"Are you still frightened of this villa, Lovi? I'm so sorry. I only left to collect a letter that arrived from Padua," Antonio said, continuing to talk despite Lovino's silence. As he did, he rubbed his thumb across Lovino's shoulder. It felt good. "Well, it's not so much a letter as it is a wedding invitation," he mused, rambling. "A summons, really. Your brother is getting married to the German next week and we're expected to attend."

"My brother—?" Slowly, Lovino raised his head. His eyes were raw; his brow was furrowed in puzzlement. "Which German?"

"Ludwig Beilschmidt," Antonio reported.

"Oh," he said, failing to muster any excitement. The truth was, he didn't care what—or who—his little brother did. He shrugged indifferently. "Whatever."

"Hey," Antonio said, lifting Lovino's downcast chin with a single finger. "Cheer up, Lovi. It won't be so awful, weddings are fun! Ours was lovely, don't you think?"

Lovino cocked an eyebrow at him, annoyed.

Antonio chuckled. "I've got something for you," he added in a playful, sing-song voice, "something I think you're going to really like."

Lovino stared doubtfully.

Smiling, Antonio shifted the boy's lightweight on his lap, keeping one warm hand planted on his lower-back for balance, and shrugged off the satchel that Lovino only now noticed he had been carrying. One-handed, he fished inside it and produced a perfectly-ripe red tomato, which he presented to his wide-eyed spouse. Lovino's whole mouth watered hungrily and he grabbed for it, but Antonio held it out of reach.

"Ah, ah," he said, grinning impishly.

Lovino glared back, his red eyes making him look younger than his eighteen years.

Antonio cocked his head and waited patiently, his green eyes sparkling.

Finally, Lovino sighed. He hated giving in, but the temptation of the juicy tomato made his stomach twist in hunger. "Please..." he muttered sullenly.

"Please—?"

The Italian's cheeks flushed angrily. "Please," he said through clenched teeth, "my dearest husband, the love of my life."

"Awe!" Antonio crooned happily. "How could I resist such a sweet request from my darling chiquito!" he said loudly, handing the tomato—the whole satchel-full—to Lovino, who crawled off the Spaniard's lap and dug ravenously into it. "I would do anything for you, my love," he added, and kissed Lovino's cheek.

Lovino ignored him and ate, his face as red as the tomatoes.

Exit ANTONIO and LOVINO.


ONE WEEK LATER

Enter ANTONIO and LOVINO.

Lovi, how are you, chiquito?" called Antonio, striding purposefully into the bedchamber.

"I've been better," Lovino replied flatly. He was standing on his toes on the bed, his body stretched as far as it could be stretched as he reached up to the ceiling, trying to cover a gaping hole. The last week's rainstorm, which had persisted for three days, had forced the old, sagging ceiling to finally give up the ghost and collapse, leaving the third-floor bedchamber open to the elements. "Sleeping under the stars is so romantic!" Antonio said when the ceiling and canopy had suddenly caved-in on them, ignoring the plaster dusting his hair. Lovino had punched him.

"Do you want to give me a hand, dearest?" the boy growled now, fighting with a ratty blanket. Before Antonio could answer, he lost his balance and fell backwards onto the mattress, the blanket sailing down on top of him.

"Not really," said Antonio honestly, lifting up a corner of the blanket to peek at his angry spouse. He smiled.

Grudgingly, the Italian took the Spaniard's offered hand and let Antonio pull him into a cross-legged sitting position. "What's in that?" he asked, pointing to a large burlap sack. "You don't have a dead body in there, do you?"

"No, not this time," Antonio teased (Lovino hoped). "I took the liberty of choosing some outfits for us to wear to your brother's wedding."

Lovino perked-up; he liked new clothes. "Oh, really? May I see it... my dearest?" he added, noting Antonio's insistence.

"Of course!" Antonio grabbed the sack and flipped it upside-down with a flourish, dislodging several tattered articles of old clothing.

Lovino's hope deflated. "Uh, dearest?" he emphasized scornfully, plucking a moth-eaten lace shirt. "What in hell is this?"

"Clothes. Do you want to try it on?" Antonio asked, excited.

In reply, Lovino balled-up the shirt and fired it at him. "I know I shouldn't be surprised," he said evenly, "but you don't really expect me to wear these—rags—to my brother's wedding, do you?"

"Because he was so considerate at yours?" Antonio countered.

Lovino opened his mouth, then paused. To avoid the cutting remark, he began rummaging through the pile of clothes on the floor in search of something salvageable. "Oh, this is kind of nice. It's a little outdated, but... vintage," he said, pleased. He held a blood-red shirt with embroidered sleeves to his person to gauge its size and then smiled as he absently swayed back-and-forth in satisfaction. That is, until Antonio ripped it from his hands. "Ah, hey!"

"No, not this. This is awful, you'll look like a harlot. My Lovi isn't a harlot."

"Wait, don't!" Lovino lunged, but he was too slow. Antonio flung the shirt out the window. Lovino growled in frustration, hanging halfway out the window, his arm outstretched. "AH! Why are you so—so—so—impossible?

"Ach!"

He involuntarily squeaked when Antonio's arms coiled snake-like around his middle, the man leaning down so that his front pressed snug to the boy's back. "You're not trying to escape, are you, Lovi?" he purred in Lovino's ear. It was a joke, but his arms tightened around Lovino, as if he really was worried that the boy would jump. Like a cat, he rubbed his cheek against the back of Lovino's head. "Why are you so concerned with how you look, chiquito?" he said in a soft, yet serious tone. "We'll attend your brother's wedding in simple, honest clothing—and probably be the only honest things there. Looks don't matter. The sun shines through the clouds, doesn't it? Just as natural beauty shines through the humblest style of dress. You don't need expensive garments and jewels to make everyone green with envy, Lovi. You, my little spitfire, are the most beautiful person in the whole world just—like—this," he whispered, kissing the boy's jaw, neck, and shoulder with each word.

Lovino's heartbeat skipped.

"I-I-I—" he stuttered, chest tightening.

"Lovi—?" the Spaniard's lips brushed his earlobe.

Swallowing, Lovino turned around and faced Antonio, awkwardly pressing their lower-bodies together. He placed a hand to the Spaniard's chest and pushed. Antonio complied and took half-a-step back, loosening his hold on the boy, but not letting go. His hands rested casually on the subtle curve of his spouse's slender hips.

"What is it, my love?"

"I-I just—I just—Thank-you," Lovino mumbled, accepting the compliment with a bashful, downcast gaze. He felt Antonio's fingers thread through his hair. It felt so good, he wanted to lean into it, but he didn't. At least, not until Antonio gently grasped the back of his head and guided him slowly, yet deliberately into a kiss. For a moment, Lovino froze, surprised. Then his eyes drifted closed and he let himself sink unresistingly into his husband's delicious touch. It was much softer than their first kiss—their wedding kiss—and much longer, playing to no audience but each other. Lovino felt Antonio's full lips move skillfully against his and returned the gesture in kind, laying his hands flat against the man's muscular chest. Eventually, Antonio pulled back first. His lips curled into a tender smile as he looked down at his young, blushing spouse, and said:

"You're welcome."

Exit ANTONIO and LOVINO.