When did Lovino stop expecting someone to call? He doesn't remember when the sense of another presence in his life eventually faded into memory, the silent phone becoming not a reminder but rather a comfort. This was the new reality for him. Loneliness his new family, to replace the one he left behind.
Which is why the trilling ring of a phone that hasn't been touched for nearly three days pierces through the shroud of silence coating his dark apartment, Lovino finds himself frozen. The only ones who should have his number are his landlord and his boss, neither of whom would be calling so late. Not since he called in for a few days off work.
With the way things with the new gallery were going, he was finding that he actually had a need to paint for something more than himself.
The phone was still ringing, pinching him awake. Something akin to fear ran down his spine, and he quenched it with self loathing. What was there to be afraid of, he scoffed at himself. They couldn't call you if they wanted to.
Lovino is sure to steady his voice when he answers, curt and cutting.
"What." There is breathing on the other end of the line. He hears the sharp intake of breath when he answers, followed by the soft ebb and flow of air through someone's lungs. The beat of silence is more unsettling now, in the dark, than it would be in the daytime. Lovino will never admit he is afraid. Not of the dark, but what lurks in it.
"Hello…is this Lovino Vargas?" The voice is hesitant, but perhaps familiar. Lovino doesn't like that they know his name.
"Yeah, who the fuck is this?" His voice is steady. He is angry, very angry. And not at all afraid.
"Oh, haha. Sorry about that. This is Antonio...Carriedo. We met on the street a few days ago? And in the park before that…"
"...How the fuck did you get this number?"
"The gallery you were in? I asked them for your contact information. Sorry, I hope that wasn't inappropriate of me." It is hard to reconcile the sincerity of his voice with the laughter behind it. Lovino can practically hear the smile dripping from his every syllable, as though he is just too happy to be speaking like this.
It is gnawing at his insides, that happiness, that voice. And a memory of a sad eyed man in a park, bags at his feet like disciples, keeps pushing at the back of his eyelids, reminding him that the story to pour from between those smiling lips is filled with something other than joy. Lovino wonders if that isn't worse.
"They shouldn't be giving my number out to strangers."
"Don't blame them, I said I was interesting in discussing your paintings! I saw the one you have hung up there, it's very nice. I don't know much about art, honestly, but I think you must be really talented." Why didn't it sound like a lie from him?
"Bullshit." Lovino presses a palm to his burning cheek, willing it to cool.
"No really! I couldn't look away, it was...awe inspiring."
"...What do you want?" Another twist in his stomach. Why not just hang up?
"I was wondering if you might like to get lunch sometime?" Such a casual request, it feels out of place. Lights from a passing car drift lazily across the ceiling, an ephemeral sun streaking across an eggshell sky. It seems hours have passed when it finally sets, the drone of the engine dissipating back into darkness.
"Hello?" Lovino has not answered, letting the invitation sit cooling between them. Even opening his mouth, he does not know what to say until the syllables have already tumbled into existence.
"Ok."
"Great!" There is no mistaking the tone of relief, even through the staticked line. "Maybe this weekend? I have to work during the week." The idea of the man working doesn't fit somehow. Another grunted affirmative lets the one sided conversation flow into details and arrangements.
The hazel eyed man has the vague impression of flavors being discussed, prices for plates and places, the atmosphere of a small cafe downtown. He is picky, a discerning palate born of his Italian heritage, but he does not wish to divulge even that much yet.
When the phone flips closed, the snap echoing in the barren room, a date has been chosen and a location set.
The man's fingers are sweaty, and his ear tingles with the lingering sensation of a lilting voice, and a laugh that dances just a little too close to the sun for comfort.
Apologies for the lack of update consistency. Still no plan for this, but for anyone keeping up with it, rest assured it will be continued! Too much fun not to keep writing. Thanks for reading!