A/N: Featuring lines from Before Sunrise (it's super obvious which ones they are). Just for clarity's sake, though, I do not own either that or Hetalia. There!

Also, thank you thank you THANK you for the 100+ reviews guys, you will not believe how much this epically slow-writing girl appreciates them. Seriously. You are all awesome as heck, each and every one, and you're my light at the end of the long tunnel that involves uni, exams and real life drama. (You also got me to finally write an author's note again.) So thank you.

Hugs and kisses and cookies, aaaand don't get mad at me this chapter? :')

(I feel like my writing has been getting worse lately. Or just harder to finish. Or both. Idk)

chapter x – count to ten

"Have you ever heard that as couples get older, they lose the ability to hear each other?"

Lovino let the words sink in and tried to compose himself for the twelfth time that day. It wasn't easy; he knew those were Celine's words, and he also knew that Celine had breathed her last a week ago—coincidentally enough, the moment they'd first started filming.

Now it was Bella opposite him in the train car seat, smiling coyly at him over her coffee cup. Bella sweeping the room with her gaze as though everything in it, including Lovino, belonged to her. Bella kicking him under the table every so often, annoyingly and with a little more vengeance every time Lovino made a mistake. He liked to think that his mistakes, in turn, annoyed her even more.

But if only Jesse hadn't died on them too.

"Really?" said Lovino, remembering at the last minute to make it a question. Bella's smile shrank somewhat—the distaste must have gotten to her at last—and she shifted forward ever so slightly, so that her entire leg now brushed his.

"Supposedly," she went on as though nothing had happened, "men lose their ability to hear higher-pitched sounds. And women eventually lose hearing on the lower end. I guess they sort of nullify each other or something."

Well, that would certainly explain a lot of things between them.

Lovino, forced to glance at her face, regretted it almost immediately. Even here, even now, he could only recall another set of green eyes, almost exactly the same shade, yet so different in the emotions that rested behind them. Those green eyes that, only yesterday night, had met his own with such softness and affection. But of course Lovino, being Lovino, had gone and messed things up.

And now Antonio might never see him the same way again.

"Cut! Cut! Oh my God, cut!"

Alfred leapt out of his chair and rushed over, scattering the bewildered cameramen and women around Lovino and Bella's table. Within seconds their corner of the train car had emptied. Bella also made to leave—out of mock consideration only, Lovino was sure—but Alfred had already arrived and she sat back down right away.

Silently, Lovino braced himself for an angry onslaught.

It never came.

"Lovino," said Alfred, "what's wrong?"

He was gripping the table edge rather tightly, his knuckles turning white, and slowly Lovino looked up at him. Against all odds, Alfred actually appeared concerned.

"Nothing," Lovino heard himself say. "Nothing's wrong."

Alfred's frown only deepened. "You took much longer to get in character today, and when you finally did, you started forgetting all your lines. Now you just look miserable. This isn't like you, Lovino."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I think he's just tired, Director," interrupted Bella, and they both turned to her—one in surprise, the other in resignation. "Aren't we all? Today wasn't my best day either. Couldn't we just pick this up tomorrow?"

She didn't sound one bit like her usual preppy self, and Lovino could tell Alfred had noticed.

"Well," he decided finally, "I suppose I could make an exception. With both of you in this state I don't see how we can continue, anyway. I'll send everybody home right now to catch up on sleep, but I expect you here at six tomorrow morning, refreshed and ready to go. Agreed?"

"Agreed," echoed Bella, somehow appearing tired and dedicated all at once. "Thank you, Director."

"No problem. But remember, only this once, since you both look like you could use the rest. Lovino especially."

Bella nudged Lovino hard with her foot.

"Thank you," said Lovino automatically.

"Don't mention it." Alfred shot him a sympathetic, if baffled smile and let go of the table. "I might not know what's going on, and you definitely don't have to tell me—but if there's anything I can help with, I'd be happy to. Feel better, okay?"

"I will. I'll work harder tomorrow. Thanks, Alfred."

He was out the door and halfway down the train car steps by the time Alfred left to find the others. Only five p.m., and night had already fallen on the quiet, deserted street corner they'd sectioned off for their filming endeavors. He walked along the pavement in silence. How sad that even their train car scene couldn't be on a real train, only a borrowed two-car set; though that would be a lot of money after all, and most of the movie's original budget had gone towards Bella and Lovino. But were they really worth that much?

He'd never know.

The snow had started again, tiny icy crystals settling in his hair and burning pinpricks in his skin, and absently he put on his coat and gloves, ignoring his hat. He gazed up into the darkening clouds and let the cold air batter his face. It sobered him, if nothing else, and he didn't want to move.

He didn't want to go back. He didn't want to return to the betrayed look in Antonio's eyes, didn't want to hear the quiet hurt in the Spaniard's voice, since that would cement the reality Lovino didn't want to face. So he had run. Yet he knew of nowhere else to go but back, nothing else to do but accept.

And he couldn't do it; he couldn't do anything. So what if he was Lovino Vargas?

Vargas was a coward.

He knew it better than anyone else.

"Lovino!"

Of course it would be Bella. He stopped where he was, but didn't turn to meet her. When Bella caught up she grabbed his arm and went around to face him, and for once Lovino was too tired to pull away.

"Lovino," she said again, her voice muted by the force of the wind. Her blonde curls were level with his shoulders, but her eyes met his squarely. Something like concern and understanding flashed within them. "Talk to me, Lovino. What—"

"—is wrong?" he finished for her, then laughed. "Why does everyone always ask me that? Do you really expect an answer, Bella?"

Bella stared at him, her mouth open slightly, and he realized with a little shock that all her haughtiness from before had gone, all her fake airs, as if they had never been there in the first place. Without her standard intense makeover, unnecessary for a character like Celine, she looked like a normal girl again—a normal girl talking to a normal guy, expressing normal concern like a normal friend. Had they ever been friends, even? He couldn't remember.

"Go on home now," he said, not unkindly. "It's late. I don't have a car and you don't want to take a taxi, alone or with me. Get Alfred to drive you home or something."

"I'm not going anywhere until you answer me. As Lovino Vargas. Because right now this isn't him."

Lovino laughed bitterly.

"There's a difference?"

With a cry, Bella seized his shoulders and shook him as hard as she could. He didn't budge. "Get out of your shell, Lovino! Get the hell out!"

"I don't know what you mean by 'shell.'" As soon as she tired, Lovino removed her hands. "You need to get out of yours, Bella. I don't remember you having the right to care about me."

"Because you never gave me that right!"

The same old argument.

"You didn't deserve it."

"It doesn't matter! I cared about you anyway, but you couldn't tell real from fake, and all you did was hurt me!"

She fell silent for a moment, flushed and breathless, and Lovino was unmoved.

"Then that makes two of us, doesn't it? The road only gets worse from here on out, Bella. So you might as well leave while you can—go back to your handsome Belgian fiancé, get married, the whole fucking deal—"

"He never was my fiancé!" shrieked Bella, with sudden fury and desperation. "You don't understand! It wasn't my ring!"

"And it wasn't his, and it wasn't mine, and the whole world's to blame." Lovino took a step back, put his hands up. "The battle's over and done with, Bella, there's no point anymore. What in the world do you want me to do?"

"I want you to care again!" screamed Bella, her voice breaking. "To believe me and protect me, instead of beating me down like everyone else! Why is that so much to ask? Why do I always have to read between the lines, while you just sit there and tell me I'm not good enough?"

"I never did that."

"Yes you did! You're doing it right now, and you don't seem to know I have feelings! You're not the only one tired of pretending, Lovino. I just wanted to be your girlfriend. But I was always just your trophy, wasn't I? Wasn't I?"

"Stop it, Bella!"

"I won't!" She wrenched her arm out of his grasp and drew back. Her voice lowered unwillingly. "You know, Lovino, we were happy once. Just the two of us. It didn't have to end like this at all. Why did you do it, Lovino?"

"There's only so much a person can take," said Lovino, quietly. "And I've already had enough."

Bella grabbed his face and pulled him down, kissing him hard. Her lips were cold against his, but he knew them, recognized their touch; the countless times they'd kissed, all those months ago, came back to him. That movie one when he'd leaned over to peck her cheek during a cute scene, but she'd turned to say something and met his mouth instead. That one in the car after her week-long Belgium trip, when he'd missed her so much he'd made out with her then and there, not even waiting to get home first. And that other one, and that other one, and that other one... She was kissing him like that. She remembered still, and wanted it back. But he could only feel nauseous standing there, frozen and cold in her arms.

"I love you, Lovino."

She'd pulled away just enough to gaze up at him, eyes bright and fragile and hopeful, like the young innocent girl she'd never been and probably never would be, ever. Lovino wasn't blind; he could see it all, he could marvel, he could go back to the way things were, to the dream they had once been—but it had all come too late. It didn't matter anymore.

And so he admitted his own truth, the truth he'd been running from ever since he'd looked it in the eye.

The truth he could no longer escape.

"I love Antonio."

Even as Bella stared him down with heartbreak in her eyes, even as Bella finally turned and walked quietly away, a lone small figure in the snow—even then, even then he felt nothing. It was only after she had vanished some minutes later that the guilt finally rose up in his throat, bitter and angry and wailing, and he sank down to the ground and put his head in his hands.

First, second, third.

Fourth.

One floor after another, one flight after another. His every footstep echoing on the stairs like a reverberating memory he wanted to forget. It didn't matter that he was cold and tired; he had to do this. He needed to. He needed a little more time to find the courageous part of himself.

Still, Lovino soon found himself standing before the door, silent and completely unprepared.

He didn't knock right away, just stayed where he was and listened for a moment. But nothing sounded beyond the door; Antonio could be awake, Antonio could be packing, Antonio could have left without him and Lovino wouldn't know.

In fact, he fully expected it.

So of course he did a double take when the door opened to greet him with Antonio's face. But he had never been more thankful to be wrong.

"Lovino," breathed the Spaniard, and then he, too, had nothing more to say.

They both stood there for a minute, facing each other, each on opposite sides of the door. What appeared to be a trash bag fell from Antonio's hand onto the ground, landing with a loud rustle. There was no other sound. Antonio simply stared at Lovino for what seemed like an age, eyes and mouth adorably wide open.

"Lovino, you're back," he managed finally, as though he couldn't believe his own eyes alone. "I... I was waiting for you."

That same gentle, unaccusing voice. Lovino didn't know why his heart raced when he heard it. Dimly he registered an I'm sorry quickly climbing to the tip of its tongue; but it stopped there, unable to exit, even as he opened his mouth to say it.

"Antonio," he blurted instead, "can we talk? Inside?"

Impossibly, Antonio's eyes grew even rounder.

"Oh—I—yeah. Yeah, of course. I was just, uh, taking out the trash." He hefted the plastic bag in his hand again, and Lovino glanced somberly at it. "I'll be right back, I promise."

He headed down the hall, possibly going for the stairs, and Lovino briefly watched his retreating form before letting out an involuntary sigh. Then he went inside, threw his coat on the rack and sank down tiredly on the couch, his head in his hands.

"Lovino... did something happen while you were filming?"

He glanced up. Antonio's worried, clueless, wonderful face met his eyes, and for a second he wanted nothing more than to cup that face with his hands and kiss it hard. But he didn't. Instead he said, "Please, just sit down."

Antonio did so. Across from him, not beside him; Lovino hadn't thought he would ever have to miss the former. The Spaniard's expression, though slightly nervous, still held some resolution to it, so Lovino barreled on.

"I'm sorry about yesterday night."

All preparedness vanished from Antonio's face, replaced speedily with panic as he remembered. "I—uh—yeah. Well. I—I mean, we can put it behind us, can't we?" He looked about ready to run away. "You're still my employer and I'm still your employee so—"

"Antonio, don't—"

The Spaniard shifted in his seat, and Lovino suddenly found himself staring at two prominent dark marks on Antonio's neck, barely hidden by his collar. His breath caught in his throat.

"Shit, Antonio... did I bite you?"

Antonio went very still, a heavy red flush creeping up his cheeks. It took him a long moment to answer properly. "I—I don't remember. These were just there when I woke up, and—"

"Oh. Oh my God." Lovino ran his hands wildly through his hair. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't really have—not like Natalya— "Dio santo, che cosa diavolo ho fatto? Sono una persona orribile, un bastardo—"

"Lovino!"

Hands gripping his shoulders, forcing him to stop in his tracks. He hadn't realized he'd gotten up and started pacing the room until he was actually doing it. Antonio still held onto him, the bewildered but resolute expression back in his eyes again.

"Lovino, stop," he said, almost pleadingly. "Don't beat yourself up. You weren't the only one drunk last night."

"But I was the one who—"

"No." Antonio's face was red again, but he seemed a lot less confused now. "I... uh, you know, I don't feel any different, physically. So we probably didn't go that far."

Lovino could have passed out with relief then and there. But that still didn't preclude the obvious question.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

The Spaniard paused at that, his eyes softening.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because of what I did. You should be angry. Why aren't you angry?"

Antonio's arms around him. His face pressed against the Spaniard's shoulder, feeling his warmth.

"I don't know why," Antonio said softly, so close to his ear, "but I'm not really angry. I would've been, but... I know it wasn't entirely your fault. So I forgive you. I don't think it's possible not to."

The Italian sucked in air and thanked the heavens above that Antonio couldn't see the burning of his face. It hadn't happened in such a long time. Slowly, hesitantly, he allowed his arms to reach up around Antonio's back, so solid and warm, so strong and secure. Was this how it felt to be in love? This dancing feeling in his chest, this tender pace to his heartbeat, that made him want to press his lips to Antonio's and stay that way forever?

It had been so long. So long. And he wanted this so badly.

But when he gazed up, by some cruel twist of fate, he saw Bella again—Bella screaming at him, Bella quiet and defeated, Bella walking away with unshed tears in her eyes. Such a strong, unapologetic young woman, reduced to this. All because of Lovino.

And Antonio—what of quiet, sweet, loving Antonio?

Before he knew it he had taken a step back, breaking the circle of Antonio's embrace and the moment of possibility all at once. Antonio simply stood there, too far away now, the previous startled blankness returning to his eyes.

"Lovino?" he whispered. And Lovino could no longer look properly at him.

"We... uh, we need to change hotel rooms. I forgot. It's getting late—go pack your stuff and help me after."

Antonio did so, working quietly the whole time. Lovino would have been lying if he claimed the silence didn't hurt any.

"Pronto? Oh, Lovino, it's you! What's wrong with your voice?"

"Nothing," mumbled Lovino, his face half-buried in a feather pillow. It was much softer than the ones from their old hotel, and that was all he wanted to think about. He kept his eyes closed. "What's wrong with you? Your voice sounds way too happy."

"Oh, Lovi. Did you have a bad day at work again?"

"No."

"Come on, tell me what's wrong. I'm always here for you!"

That last part wasn't strictly true. Feliciano hadn't been there when Lovino was living with his father—but then again, his mother and Nonno hadn't been either. Feliciano also hadn't been there when Lovino had made his big debut; Lovino had had to find him and physically bring him over to the U.S., protests notwithstanding. And right now was no exception; Feliciano still couldn't be there with him. In spirit maybe, but it wasn't the same. For all he knew he could have been interrupting Feli's secret quiet time with Ludwig Beilschmidt.

Lovino decided not to mention it and went on.

"Has anyone tried to contact you today?" he said abruptly. Some of the enthusiasm to Feliciano's breathing faded.

"Lovi, you ask that every time! Is that all you called about? I'm disappointed in you."

"Just answer me, Feli. Yes or no?"

Feliciano let out a huff. "No. Are you happy now?"

"Of course not. You should still be getting regular calls and messages and everything. That's normal."

"Well, I'm glad I haven't, since that means I get a little more time to be myself." His brother sounded displeased now—never a good sign. "Why is that such a big deal?"

"Someone could be onto us."

"You worry so much about that, Lovi. Can't you ask how I'm doing for a change?"

"Obviously not, since I'm trying to make sure we're not in danger or anything."

"Okay." Feliciano took a breath. "Lovi, please just tell me. Did something happen or didn't it? I don't want to argue like last time."

"Nothing. Fucking. Happened." Lovino rolled onto his back and glared at the sloping ceiling, willing his thoughts to stay in one place. He couldn't explain his own anger. "So asking normal questions makes me an insensitive prick. Fine. Did you do anything with Ludwig, then?"

A long silence. Finally Feliciano spoke. "Actually, I did! We had a lot of fun. We went on plenty of dates while you were gone, and I only tried to kiss him once at the movies because I didn't want to be too forward. But it was great! I like him even more now, and I think he even likes me back!"

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Of course I am!" Feli laughed, his voice sounding off. "You told me not to live a lie, remember? So I told him who I really was, and he was fine with it! Maybe we'll get married soon! Can you believe it?"

"Feliciano Vargas, you—"

"What? What did I do? Does being happy make me an 'insensitive prick' now?"

Lovino tried his best not to crush the phone into tiny pieces. "Yes it fucking does, Feliciano, if you put your happiness above everyone else's!"

"Wow, Lovi, that actually sounds a lot like you!"

"It does, doesn't it. How about we switch places again, then? I feel like being happy back home. You can come here and bring Ludwig with you. Win-win, right?"

"Oh yes, definitely. Well, I'll start getting ready now. Talk to you later, Lovi!"

A click, and the line went dead.

Lovino stared at his phone, willing himself to calm down, then let loose a loud yell and flung it from him. He fully expected it to crash and shatter against the wall; but five seconds later, long after he'd fallen back onto the bed, he heard nothing. He lifted his head and saw Antonio at the door, holding the phone in his hands.

"Uh, Lovino," said the Spaniard in a small voice. He sounded pained. "Your phone."

Lovino lay down again.

"Throw it away."

"I can't do that, Lovino."

"All right then, just put it down somewhere. Not next to me, or I might break it."

Antonio carefully set the phone down on a nearby table, far enough from Lovino that it wouldn't come to harm. He retreated to the door again. "I'll get you something to drink, Lovino."

"Don't bother."

But Antonio had gone, and for a split second Lovino almost thought he'd bring alcohol. A wild hope; the Spaniard was smarter than that, knowing what had happened recently. Sure enough, when Antonio came back, all he had in his hand was a glass of water.

"Here, Lovino," he said, handing it over and waiting for the Italian to drink. The water was cold, which Lovino hadn't expected, but it had a miraculous calming effect on him all the same.

"Thanks," Lovino muttered unwillingly, avoiding the Spaniard's eyes. "You can go to sleep now."

"I'm not tired," said Antonio quietly. "Do you... want to talk, Lovino?"

Yes, Lovino wanted to say. Yes, of course I do. Why wouldn't I, when you always listen so willingly?

Instead he said, "It's fine. I just want to be alone for a while."

Antonio's eyes darted briefly across Lovino's face, as though searching for something there, but his expression gave no indication of whether he'd found it. "All right, I'll step out for a bit. Is there anything else you need, Lovino?"

"No."

"So... tomorrow morning at four-thirty, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I'll keep that in mind." Antonio went to the door again. "I need to take care of something, but I'll be back in a bit. Goodnight, Lovino."

"Goodnight."

The Spaniard stepped outside and gently closed the door behind him. Lovino listened as his footsteps grew progressively quieter. Then silence. But it wasn't the peaceful kind, and Lovino wasn't tired either.

He sat up and glanced around the solitary room.

Just like before, luck had not been on their side. Of course a suite was somewhat better than the badly heated, dusty old room they had just moved in from; but the downside was rooms like these, with two beds in one and therefore much less privacy. Or more awkwardness, however one chose to look at it. Yet again they hadn't had a choice.

Lovino supposed, at the very least, that no one could track them down for now.

Antonio's bed sat at the far left of the room, still neatly made and untouched, his suitcase closed underneath it. The bedside table was similarly sparse, holding only a weatherbeaten alarm clock, a half-empty water bottle, and the hotel-provided lamp. Upon closer inspection he found a single, flimsy brown picture frame standing behind the lamp, and he reached out to pick it up. The picture was fairly simple.

A background of pastel-blue sky and ankle-length grass. A woman in her late twenties, with stern features and a pale pink dress, holding the shoulders of a small, gentle-looking boy. They both had the same green eyes and smile, and Lovino had no doubt that this was Antonio and his mother. The young Antonio didn't look a day over ten—willowy, scuffed knees, shirt slightly soiled with grass stains. But he still appeared strikingly happy, a stark contrast from his subdued self now.

Lovino regarded them awhile longer, a strange feeling rising in his chest. Antonio had always looked vaguely sad when asked about his family, or his childhood in Spain. And his father wasn't in the picture. Did he have a father at all? But during his job interview Antonio had said he didn't have parents.

Suddenly, Lovino felt like he'd seen something he shouldn't have, and quickly set the picture frame back on the table.

He retreated to his bed, found his wallet and went through the pockets one by one. Two pictures fell out, their edges faded and going brown, and he smoothed them out on the sheets to inspect them.

The first, if he didn't look closely, could have been mistaken for himself. But it was Feli at twenty-five, posing in his artist's apron with colors splashed all over it, standing in front of a highly detailed painting of the Grand Canal. Slivers of cloud and sun and everything. Lovino still remembered the title—Venezia at Sunrise. Feliciano had insisted it was sunrise; but Lovino had argued it looked just as much a sunset, and finally Feliciano concluded it could be seen both ways. That was the first portrait Lovino had ever received of his brother, almost three decades after their separation.

The second was the only photo he had of their entire family. There were his mother and father, shoulder-to-shoulder, each with a baby boy in their arms. Despite the somber grey background they were smiling, large genuinely happy smiles, like nothing could go wrong with all four of them together. Lovino liked to linger upon his mother's face the most; she had the softest gaze, the gentlest smile, the rosiest cheeks and the most beautiful curling hair. Father didn't look as serious as Lovino remembered, but the resemblance was there; proud dark eyes, long sharp nose, high cheekbones. Lovino had them all. Feliciano did too, to an extent, but he also had the same carefree, kind air of their mother. Only him.

Lovino, when he'd first known about Feli, had thought it unfair that his twin received the best of everything. But after meeting Feli for the first time he'd changed his mind. Feli was his only remaining connection to his mother.

Feli was all he had left.

Lovino stared at the pictures one more time, searing them again into his memory, then swept them up and stuffed them back into his wallet. He stood up, went over to the table where Antonio had put down his phone, and picked it up to type out a message.

I'm sorry, Feli.

He waited listlessly awhile, not expecting much of a response. A minute passed, and then his phone buzzed in his hand.

It's okay.

Lovino gazed down at the words, blinking a little. His phone buzzed again.

"Feli?"

"Si, it's me," said his brother quietly. "Are you feeling better now?"

"Not really. I did have a bad day today. I shouldn't have taken it out on you, Feli."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not. I've been doing this a lot, haven't I?"

"Come on, Lovi. You're not the only one who gets mad. I'm just as much to blame." Feliciano let out a sigh. "Anyway, let's forget it. Tell me what went wrong! I'll tell you about my day too and we can find a way out of this together. Remember, Lovi, no matter what happens I've got your back, okay?"

Lovino blinked harder.

"You're a good brother, Feli. No, you're the best."

"You're my only brother," was Feli's simple reply. "Where would I be without you?"

He awoke some time later to the sound of the door opening, and hushed footsteps making their way to the bed on the left. It was Antonio, of course; Lovino watched from the safety of his dark corner as the Spaniard turned on the lamp and went to the closet. He had to avert his eyes then, while Antonio changed out of his day clothes and into pajamas.

When Antonio finished he returned to his bed, reaching underneath for his suitcase. From this he removed a stack of three thin blue notebooks, tied with a rubber band, and took out the topmost one. Then he found a pen, climbed into bed, turned to a page near the end and started scribbling something down.

Lovino couldn't tear his eyes away.

Such concentration, passion, and dedication in Antonio's eyes. Such tenderness in the way he gazed at the paper. As if he stood under a sky full of stars, gently picking out constellations, describing them for the world to see. And the pen moved as if by magic, Antonio's magic, translating his thoughts into tangible ink.

At one point Antonio paused and glanced over to his right, directly at Lovino. Hurriedly the Italian shut his eyes, his heart beating wildly. He was almost sure Antonio could hear it. But the Spaniard didn't make a sound, didn't call out Lovino's name; he just stayed still for a second, before letting out a slow breath, and the scratch of pen on paper resumed.

Lovino opened his eyes again, this time only halfway, and watched Antonio working until he himself grew tired. Even then, even when he closed his eyes and began to fall asleep, he saw the same entrancing image there, dancing through his thoughts and drawing him closer, closer.

And he didn't see the lamp turn off an hour later, or Antonio smiling gently at him in the darkness.