Listen to Your Heart, Starlight, Illuminated.

I've given up trying to track how many chapters this thing will be, because look we're on chapter 11 and THERE'S NO GIL YET.

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Big Brothers Don't Cry

One Overconfident Motherfucker

Naples was a new experience for Lovino, because it took the isolation of his apartment in Rome and changed it. He wasn't isolated anymore: he was just free.

Even in Rome there had always been the possibility of Chiara showing up on his doorstep with food or her keys telling him to get his shit together so they could go out. He'd been called up unexpectedly by Marcello's family several times on Sundays if he was running late for church or if he had time to volunteer somewhere that wasn't the bistro.

In Naples none of that applied. He still called home, but he called less often, and the rest of his time was his.

Completely his.

Wholly and unequivocally his.

And if Naples didn't work out for him then he could always move again: he could go to Milan or Palermo. He could visit Sardinia or work somewhere near Florence.

Because he was given a trial run for a week on the dinner service at his job in downtown Naples, and a month later as a 22nd birthday gift to himself, he earned a permanent spot there working night after night at stations where all the prep-work he'd slaved away at for months before was actually combined and served for hungry patrons.

His hours eased up slightly and his pay increased.

He retired his old knives from Nonna and left them at home for personal cooking, buying a professional-grade set this time that remained sharper longer and stopped wearing away at the tips.

When the spring menu came around Lovino competed with his co-workers and he won the Executive Chef's approval, landing one of his own creations on the restaurant's service list.

And on the day when they knew one of Naples' harshest food critics would be coming in to dine, Lovino got there early and swung by the front of house to speak with the wait staff.

"How do you think tonight's gonna go?" Not officially, he wasn't their boss or anywhere near a position of authority, but Lovino had made a point of at least getting to know the people who worked on the other side of the service wall. The restaurant espoused cohesion and communication between kitchen and dining room, and now that he wasn't slaving away in the wee hours of the morning when there was only a grumpy skeleton crew to speak to, he was comfortable coming up in street clothes to talk to the bartender for a few minutes.

"His review will make or break us for summer, so you guys had better have your shit together." Well thanks, dip-shit. Lovino didn't even know what he looked like!

"Something important happening tonight?" Lovino didn't expect the man sitting at the bar to cut into the conversation, but both he and the server looked over at the hotel guest relaxing with a wide glass of red wine in his hand. Lovino expected the bartender to do his job and handle the small-talk, but the guy was too busy noticing another guest and quickly fetching another drink, leaving Lovino to handle it instead.

"Everybody who works down here is on their toes tonight: some fancy critic is coming in." Speaking of fancy, that was probably the word for the person he was speaking to. A blond with a long face, skin lightly tanned despite the cold weather only starting to ease up outside. He was wearing tinted glasses over his eyes, the kind that designers put out for more money than Lovino could justify on accessories. A white suit jacket and slacks made him stick out almost as much as the pink scarf wrapped over his shoulder.

"It's salmon." Fuck him it was fucking pink. "But while we're on the subject: what do you recommend on the dinner menu? Unless you're part of the cleaning staff, in which case, nevermind..." Oh fuck him.

"A cheese-plate to go with your wine." The joke didn't translate into Italian, but if he'd said it in English Lovino would have thought himself clever.

"How continental."

"Italy is part of the fucking continent, do you need a map?" So he went for being an asshole instead.

"A map to the concierge's desk so I can complain about the rude janitor at the bar?"

"Call me a janitor one more time and I'll wash that mouth out with soap."

"When I'd much rather have a glass of wine and something delicious in front of me." He already had a glass of wine and he'd turned his stool around so he was facing- that rotten shit!

"Fine," Lovino huffed, giving the man what he wanted because he'd obviously lost the exchange. "If you want a fail-safe tonight then order the stuffed manicotti!" The executive chef Santiago had been working on the combination all week waiting for this service, if every plate of it wasn't absolutely perfect tonight, then someone was liable to get fired.

"Is that what you would order?" No. "Then again: what do you recommend?" Oh for fuck's sake, as if the bastard really needed to smile like that as he sipped his wine again- who the hell wore gloves inside anyways?

"Get the burger then, and don't fucking complain!"

"They have a hamburger here?" That actually sounded like a genuine question.

"Yes! It's new and it's what I would get." Even with the modifications they as a team had come up with for the burger, the core recipe was Lovino's. He would have been shooting himself in the foot if he didn't push it when he could. "Garlic aioli and a light avocado butter on a toasted bun, the onions are sautéed in a sweet balsamic vinegar and the burger itself is cooked on the grill we use for the roasted vegetables."

"Avacado butter could hardly be considered light."

"Order it and see for yourself, now if you'll excuse me, princess."

He left the guest with his wine and his hair so light it had to have been bleached, getting into the kitchen ahead of time for his shift and changing into his uniform. When the morning crew began shutting down their stations for the one hour transition period, Lovino was there to scrape and scrub his station back to a pristine shine, taking several trips back to the freezer and checking the ovens and resting trays for the ingredients he'd need for the service tonight. He only really had to check for his station specifically, but went to all the others because he was so early that there was no one to tell him not to.

Then he went back to his own slab of counter space and began prepping the fresh vegetables he'd need: fresh parsley and green onion, chopped oregano and other light greens that couldn't be left sitting out hour after hour waiting for someone to use them. The rest of the staff came in on time and settled into the light rhythm of knife-work and pan-clashing, the kitchen waking back up after its brief late-afternoon nap.

Six to eleven, that was the dinner service.

"I want precision and diligence. I want this service to sing: no mistakes, no errors. If you catch yourself going into the weeds- speak up! Get help! We're a crew and I won't let us sink! This is your summer bonus, people!"

"Yes chef!"

The drum-roll of knives and waiting hiss of butter melting down was just the engine getting started, because when the first ticket from the first table hit the pass from the server's hand, Santiago's loud voice sent them off like a shot:

"Starters! Table four two soup, one salad! Table seven-"

And that was it, five hours with only a few minutes to sit and grab some water, a marathon of shouting orders and handling ingredients. It was the precision of the kind of prep work he'd suffered through combined with the power of watching the ingredients in his pan ignite over the gas or meld into each other in a sizzling skillet.

"Two minutes on the beef!"

"Table six: another shrimp starter!"

"Scallops are ready!"

It was listening and speaking because when Lovino heard the chef on the fish station say something was wrong and a serving of cod needed to go back in the oven, that meant from where he was on dressings the sauce to go with that entre had to go down on low heat so it didn't go cold waiting for the meat to hit the plate. You couldn't serve cold sauce on hot fish, and whipped ingredients would collapse if they were left sitting for ten minutes waiting for the rest of the meal to come together.

In a large kitchen like this one there was no plating done at individual stations. The steak was seared at one station and the salad came together in another, vegetables steamed and boiled and pureed before being delivered quickly and efficiently into the Executive Chef's hands: he plated everything for the customers.

And he tasted everything too, triple-checking what his staff were expected to have already double-checked before bringing it up.

"Here it is, people! The golden ticket!" it was a command to stop and listen for a moment, skillets angled off the heat and knives paused after a quick slice. "He must have brought a friend tonight: one manicotti, one burger- I want perfection!"

"Yes chef!"

That special order didn't blend into the cascade of tickets and plates: it was too important. When it was complete and sent on its way, then the kitchen regained its pace, the rhythm thrown off by the care necessary to produce a flawless plate before going back to the comfortable steam of bangs and sears.

Their boss's right hand man stepped up to the pass, the long counter between dining room and kitchen, when the Executive Chef himself went out to shake hands and schmooze with the critic. Lovino barely noticed the switch off because he was too focused keeping the first round of caramel glaze in his pot from burning for the dessert orders creeping in, but that changed very quickly.

"VARGAS!"

Oh-

-fuck!

"Caramel's burnt- five minutes to-"

"VARGAS!"

"I got it for you- go."

The bastard working the vegetables next to him swooped in with the fresh sugar and cream, Lovino unwilling to leave and go running to his death in the middle of a service. The fact that the cook who'd been there longer than him looked like he'd just seen a ghost didn't make him feel any better.

"Yes chef!" He moved fast on his feet around the edge of the kitchen, avoiding getting in anyone's way as the engine kept roaring and clanging around him. When he got to the door that led from the kitchen out into the calm dining room, he found his boss standing there with something like murder in his dark eyes.

"Uuuh, chef?" All he got was a stare and a finger-crook that made Nonna's rolling pin seem like a joke.

"Follow." Why was he in trouble? What the hell had he done?

His boss didn't tell him what was wrong, didn't say a word as he was led with a forced smile out of the kitchen with his apron still on and face sweating equal parts from the heat he'd just left behind and the nerves nipping at his heels like dogs.

Lovino really wished he could have been surprised when he saw a bleach-blond peacock in a white suit sitting at a table near the centre of the dining room, but truth be told his smile just froze on his face and he hated everything.

He hated everything from the ambient light blocking the daylight from filtering inside, he hated the faux marble he'd just traipsed over to get here. The velvet table clothes and fresh glass of red wine were an insult to him because they were all so fucking pristine and he was about to get thrown out on his ass.

There were two barely-touched meals in front of the stuffed peacock and his long, horse-ish face declared that he was bored, gloved fingers slowly slowly tilting his wine this way and that against the candle light flickering from the middle of the table.

One plate, of course, was the manicotti: the rolls of pasta stuffed with carefully selected ingredients blended and cooked together with frightening intensity, drizzled with a refined sauce and sprinkled with only just enough cheese to improve the texture.

The other was Lovino's shitty excuse of a hamburger, carved down the middle and with a sliver missing instead of a proper bite.

"Signore, this is the young chef I mentioned to you."

"Oh?" How dare he sound so fucking bored when Lovino was standing there eating his words about moving from Naples to Florence. Two jobs in two years was a shitty track record for him to take home. "And here I thought he was a janitor."

Smile, Lovino.

Smile and don't say a fucking word.

"Come now, you were so chatty before. Don't you have a name?" He was going to choke.

"Vargas, sir. Lovino Vargas." He could feel himself being blacklisted from every restaurant in Naples, but he grinned his way through his own name and then watched the critic lift his wine against the light, one eye closed behind his stupid glasses.

"Chef Vargas," don't mock him! "Do you know what the great crime is about serving an American meal in an Italian restaurant?"

"No sir."

"It simply doesn't go with any of the wine…" And with that graceful comment, the critic up-ended the wine in his glass over the pasta dish in front of him, earning a painful hiss from the Executive chef before the criticism followed.

"My dear Santiago, we've had this discussion before: your dishes lack acid. Yes, I see the tomatoes you've carefully strewn about, but lemon and crab is such a classically boring combination that I'm not impressed at all. Yes, yes, I taste the basil, and the quality of your ingredients is exquisite as always, but the execution is dull."

Watching his boss and mentor fall several pegs was terrifying enough, but Lovino actually shifted one foot back in an effort to run away when he saw those shaded eyes land on his dish next.

"And one of you is to blame for what happened here. I was promised onions braised in vinegar but all I taste is olive oil and garlic, which is rude when paired with a curiously light avocado butter that I would be inclined to praise if it were not paired with those same onions and left my entire pallet reeking of garlic."

"Oh my god…"

Lovino didn't mean to say it because he didn't mean to draw attention to himself, but he was actually too scared by what his boss was going to do to him to get away from the realization. He'd described the wrong recipe.

And now the critic was looking at him directly, and before Lovino could get through the moment he heard an accented voice hit him in English with:

"I'll have you know that I've been to America several times before. I frequently fly to Los Angeles and am no stranger to several cities along the east coast. You're an American, I can hear it when you speak, why on earth would you tell me one thing and then serve something else?"

"There was a mistake-"

"I can taste that."

"Will you just let me finish?" Oh, fuck his temper, but his boss's thick face was already white with rage and Lovino could feel the ten tonne weight dangling over his head and getting ready to drop. "The recipe is new here on the menu and it was changed to suit the hotel's tastes. What I described to you earlier was the original version which was work-shopped by the kitchen staff to improve the flavour."

"While completely robbing me of a worthwhile meal." Lovino didn't speak one way or the other on the issue, he didn't know how to make a statement without putting himself in deeper trouble.

"And so you've completely tarnished the reputation of this restaurant." W-What!? Lovino turned around so fast he almost snapped his own neck, instantly pegged with the firm, disgracing stare from the senior chef.

He'd never seen him make a face like that before. Santiago was a heavy man, salt-and-pepper black hair and discoloured blotches on his thick face like scars. He had incredibly dark eyes and a small nose like a button between his cheeks, and Lovino had only ever seen him laughing or smiling before now, or maybe at his worst calling up a bellowing voice to shake the kitchen when he needed his staff's attention.

Now he looked pissed.

"Sir, I-"

"Embarrassing me and this entire service- what do you have to say for yourself?"

"I-I'm sorry!" No! He hadn't done this, it couldn't have all been his fault! "It was a slip of the tongue, I didn't even know who he-"

"Excuses, that's all I'm hearing." No, he wasn't actually going to fire him for this? Onions!? "Go clean up and get out, you're finished here today. We'll discuss this tomorrow." At least he was giving him tomorrow, but that didn't change the fact that-!

"I.. I just…" He just had to nod and excuse himself, because trying to plead his case, he knew, would only land Lovino in an even deeper world of hurt.

He turned around and left the dining room, ears ringing, and he just didn't understand how the day had fallen apart around him. Onions. Onions of all things had been his undoing, and they hadn't even been prepared at his station.

"Vargas?" And oh god, the poor bastard was still covering Lovino's part of the kitchen for him, and he hadn't come back to relieve him of the extra burdens. In fact, he'd hoped to just shoot through the kitchen to the backroom unassaulted: how was he supposed to explain what had just happened? Was it even his job?

"Chef kicked me off service, I'm sorry."

He flinched and then fled down the isolating white corridor behind the kitchen. The apology carried his fuck-up over to everyone else in the kitchen. He had to force himself to just ignore the voices that asked what had happened, or demanded that he get the fuck back there so they could see him and get their answers.

The change-room was cramped and glaring under florescent lamps, only a few moments quiet letting him strip off his cook's coat and apron like they were poisoned. His own shirt was only half-buttoned before he got his jacket on, keys, phone and other valuables ripped from the little locker that demanded his name badge in exchange for the personal effects.

He took the fire exit to escape when he heard Executive Chef Santiago's voice booming in the kitchen again, fleeing into the warm spring light and noise of the Neapolitan downtown. Anything to escape hearing his name shouted again.

Once outside, Lovino could just-

Or maybe he would…

The way the service door rattled shut like dry bones held something very final about it. Lovino couldn't remember if it was one of those one-way locking doors that would only open from the inside, but it didn't matter. What mattered was this feeling.

He'd never had this feeling before. He didn't know what to call it or how to cope. He was just so stunned that nothing was registering for him.

And then suddenly it all did.

He'd just been thrown off his job. His job.

His career.

His whole reason for being here in Naples, for leaving his brothers behind so he could come to Italy.

One part of Lovino's mind jumped to the rescue and berated him for the panic he could feel washing over him. Straighten the fuck up: this was not the end of the world. He hadn't been fired! And even if he was told tomorrow to go fuck off, then that was exactly what Lovino would do! He'd fuck off to another part of Italy, or stay in Naples if he liked it so fucking much, and find another god-damned job in a country that was fucking obsessed with food!

That one angry, spunk part of Lovino's brain had a lot to say that was all going to make him feel better later, but right now there was so much more to deal with and it was all crashing down on him: if he was taken off the dinner service here, or, god forbid, fired from the Empress all together, then that would follow him for the remainder of his time in Italy.

His first real opportunity to work in the heat and the rush, blown over by a garnish he hadn't even prepared. Lovino had slaved away for years cleaning and prepping for the kind of cooking he'd been given three precious months to sink his teeth into, and if he was fired now it would tell his next employer what a fuck up Lovino really was to have around.

A fuck-up with the only thing he still really wanted for himself, the only thing he'd kept letting himself dream of having…

His mind hit the fever-pitch of "I'm still learning", "it's just a hiccup", "this has nothing to do with skills it's just work-place politics!" but it didn't matter. Until he could calm himself down, the damage was done.

Lovino had to escape the sight and stink of the hotel's refuse where it was piled up in the alleyway. Walknig would ease the rotting pain in his lungs and force him to breathe again, and navigating the city streets would save him from the rest of his corrupting thoughts.

At least that was the idea.

He wasn't allowed to think of where he was going or what would happen when he got home, because the only thing he knew right now was that he couldn't handle being isolated when he felt like this. Isolated. Alone.

Not Free in Naples.

Alone in Napes.

'Stop it…' Don't think about it! Don't think about it! Don't even stop to recall any of it- not the distance between here and home, not the time difference between his life and his family, not the costs of going home or the expense of losing his career- stop it!

Barrelling into a random person on the sidewalk was not the plan Lovino's fevered mind had intended. Maybe it was a kind angel pulling strings to give him a distraction.

"Ah, there you are."

But when he recognized first the voice, then the suit, and then the painfully bleached hair of the person he'd just hit, Lovino realized that angel was a grade-A dick.

And that dick's name was Flavio De Rossa.

Flavio is a 2P!Romano design created by Jujunghe on Tumblr! I've thrown my drafts out the window and wanted to write something with him, so here he is!

Leave a comment below? I'll see you again soon with the next update!