-Lovino-

Lovino woke up to the worst headache he'd ever had in his life. It felt like his brain was going 'haha, motherfucker~' and trying to beat its way out of his skull with a goddamn sledgehammer. He groaned, and pulled the covers over his head. Fuck. And he really wished the whole 'sun never sets on the Spanish Empire' thing wasn't a thing, because the morning sunlight was pouring in through the window and holyfuckingshitithurtssomuchmakeitstopohmygodIT BURNS-

He burrowed farther into his burrito of self-loathing, cursing himself and his bad decisions, and whatever demon that had wormed its way into his alcohol, because that was the only way that this hangover could possibly be this bad.

Once the pounding subsided a bit, and he realized that he was going to have to go hunt for some damn painkillers because they weren't going to magically appear next to him, he emerged from his cocoon slowly, as if he was a grumpy caterpillar turning into a pissed off, hungover butterfly. Once his head was cleared from the blankets, he noticed two things. One, this wasn't the room he chose. And two, these weren't the clothes he was wearing last night. Hell, judging from the size and quality, they weren't even his.

FUCK.

He sat up fully, clutching his head when it protested. He took in the room. It was enormous, fairly unorganized, and from the décor, it was pretty simple to tell that it was Antonio's. Posters of bullfighters and star fútbol players alike hung on every wall. Shelves were stacked with books on various topics, some piles larger than others, and a TV was displayed across from the king-sized canopy bed (which was hella more comfortable than his damn cot on campus). The desk in one corner had an open laptop on it, and was cluttered with papers. He hoped that none of the documents shuffled into haphazard order were important. There was a section of the wall with ribbons and awards, which came from both futbol and bullfighting as a youth. Photographs of him alongside his perverted friends and a few other people whom he assumed were family were stuck on the walls as well. And next to the doorway, and above the headboard hung the Spanish flag in all its glory. He scrunched his nose in distaste as he noted that the entire room was a personification of Antonio himself: bright, simple, unorganized, and obsessed with the things he loved.

A snore snapped him out of his musings, and he whipped his head towards the opposite side of the room.

How the fuck had he missed that? He must have been more hungover than he thought.

Because there was Antonio himself, fast-asleep, in all his half-naked glory. He was shirtless, clad only in a low-riding pair of black sweatpants, and he wasn't a cute sleeper at all. No, really. He was lying face-down on the loveseat, face smashed against the cushions, and was drooling. But despite that, he couldn't get over the whole half-naked concept. So he did what any reasonable person would do. He yanked the covers up towards his chin, and yelled/screeched.

Neither of them benefited from that decision, because Lovino's head immediately rebelled, and Antonio startled awake so violently that he fell off the sofa. He groaned, and picked himself up off the floor. Met face-to-face with the tanned, muscular torso that he refused to admit how many times he had dreamt of licking, his face burned. Antonio merely yawned and scratched his head. He obviously wasn't a morning person at all.

"Ah, you're awake, Lovi. How's your head?"

"Hurts like a bitch. Why am I here?"

"Well, I had to carry you, and my room was closest."

"You had to carry me?"

"Si~! You passed out about an hour after we got to the club."

He flinched. He was such a damn lightweight. That's what he gets for trying to drink away his damn feelings. They're still here, and now he has a massive headache. Fuck.

"Tell me right now. Did I do anything potentially blackmail worthy?"

Antonio suddenly looked hunted.

"…Depends."

"Depends on what, you fucker?"

"What you consider blackmail worthy, really."

"For fuck's sake, I'm not a member of your perverted-ass group! What a normal person would consider blackmail worthy!"

Antonio sighed.

"To be honest, Lovi, you did a lot that could be considered blackmail worthy, then."

-3rd Person-

Antonio panicked as he hurried to catch Lovino before he fell to the floor. The bottle couldn't be saved, unfortunately (or fortunately, in Antonio's opinion), and it shattered near his feet. It was almost as if the sound had broken through whatever thin tether his temper had been holding itself onto.

So Antonio picked Lovino up and over his shoulder, and others had taken one look at the man with the dark eyes and an air of 'I'm so done, so move or be moved', and cleared a path for him and the unconscious Italian. It had only taken him a minute to find his friends, and he yanked them all alongside him once he saw them. He grabbed Gilbert off the table with one hand, yanked Francis from whatever conquest he was on, and snatched Matthew, who was also unconscious, up under the arm that wasn't holding Lovino.

But Lovino didn't stay down, though.

No, he came to for a minute on the way to the car, and lasted until they were half-way home. Antonio had never been through such a test of self-control in his life. Because Lovino seemed adamant that he was going to get in his pants (literally) whether he liked it or not. And other different circumstances, yes, he would like it, like it very much, but at that moment he was drunk and that meant that he probably didn't know what he was doing.

"You're so hot."

"Thank you."

"Are you S-spanish or somethin'?"

"Yes, I am."

"I heard that you guys are awesome lovers. Can I see for myself?"

"Not right now, sorry."

"Whhyyy? Come on-"

"Lovi, no-"

"Just-"

"No, quit it-"

"Just take your damn pants off-"

"No-"

And that was how he spent the most sexually-frustrating hour and a half of his life. Because never did he think he would be in a car with a hammered Lovi trying to snatch his hands away from his pants zipper while trying to ignore his half-interested vital regions. He had never been more relieved (and yet so disappointed) than when Lovino had passed out again.

-Lovino-

Lovino didn't know what to say. What could he say? Between the drunken serenade to the sexual harassment, his life had just become a clusterfuck. All he wanted was for a hole to just swallow him whole. Maybe fill it with some molten lava, just because. Because really, how the fuck do you apologize for that?

"Sorry for sexually harassing you."

"Sorry that I got so drunk I lost control of myself."

"Sorry for only feeling sorry for not managing to get you naked."

That last thought was what put all the other ones to shame. It was all their fault. If those stupid, traitorous thoughts would just shut the fuck up, than he wouldn't be in this situation right now. He wouldn't be looking at the face of a man who must have thought he was a total whore. The one time he actually manages to get someone to like his sorry ass, and he gets shit-faced and fucks it up. He almost cried, he was so irritated and mortified.

Antonio had been uncharacteristically quiet while he had his internal dilemma. But as soon as he opened his mouth to say Maria knows what, Antonio swooped in, and kissed him. It wasn't a passionate, rip-your-clothes off kiss, but it wasn't chaste, either. Before he could even really get into it, though, Antonio pulled away, and rested his forehead on his. He wiped the tears that had welled up with his thumbs.

"Just so you know, I didn't mind not one bit. It actually took quite a bit of willpower to turn you down. But now that you're awake, and coherent, let me tell you this. I, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, am pursuing you, Lovino Romano Vargas. No more tricks or subtly. I won't rush you, but I just want you to know that I'm here. And I'll always be here, even if you don't return my feelings. Nothing you do or say is going to make me wave that white flag."

He smiled a cheeky grin.

"Besides, you don't even know what an asshole I am when I'm drunk. I'm sure Gil will tell you quite enthusiastically..."