(づ￣ ³￣)づ

11

You Are My Muse, Querido

Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero.

No te dejaré nunca.

Te prometo.

Por eso...por favor...

No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida.

For a minute, looking into Romano's teary eyes and hearing the words falling from his mouth and feeling a hungry, lustful desperation to kiss him, Toni actually forgot that he was married. Forgot that he could lose his job. Forgot that he hardly knew Romano except for the fact that his writing could make his heart ache and his head spin—except for the fact that he was struggling with something ravenous and terrible in his heart. Something Toni wasn't sure how he would handle.

But, when Toni remembered all of those things, he realized he didn't care.

He realized, as Romano stood steadfast and forced him to decide what he wanted, that it was Lovino Vargas. It was Lovino Vargas that he wanted. All of him. His tears and his smiles and his scars and his rough edges and the poetry that he wrote with such sincerity and such modesty and with such eager fingers, clutching pens worn from use. His gaunt, tan skin and skinny limbs and lightly freckled cheeks. His green Sicilian eyes (sometimes amber) and his pale Sicilian lips and his dark Sicilian hair. Toni wasn't sure when he had started wanting Lovino Vargas, but it had been long before this moment. The desire had been dormant within him, forced to sleep in the shadows by what most people tend to call common sense, but Toni now considered blindness.

His desire for Romano was all he could see, all he could think, while he kissed him and put Romano's hand to his chest and said to him, My heart is yours.

Romano's arms were wrapped around his neck, pulling him in tightly. Toni pressed his knee up again between Romano's legs and ran his tongue along his lower lip as he gasped, fingers clutching at Toni's shirt. Romano bit his own lower lip, watching Toni's face through half-open eyelids, and his expression was driving Toni mad. He bent down and kissed the tip of Romano's nose, and began sliding his hands beneath Romano's shirt. Then, like a child, Romano began tugging on Toni's shirt, a silent plea. Smiling, Toni kissed his nose again and took his own shirt off. Before he could move again, Romano put his palms against his chest. Toni froze, watching Romano's face. Eyes heavy, brow slightly furrowed, lips trembling.

"...Romano..."

"Shut up. Don't say anything," Romano murmured. He leaned forward and put his lips in the center of Toni's bronze chest, lightly pressed them to his warm flesh. Toni didn't speak, as he'd been asked. But he felt a tenderness, a pain in his chest that was constricting, suffocating, and he wished that he had the capacities to cry (he couldn't remember the last time he had cried). So he did the only thing he could think to do. He put his hands in Romano's hair, brushed the corners of his eyes with his thumbs. Leaned down and gently, softly, in an attempt to physically transmit the intense and overwhelming emotions he was feeling, placed a kiss on Romano's head. Breathed in and smelled his hair. His shampoo smelled nice. Like spices.

Romano looked back up at Toni, his eyes still filled with tears—tears that made the pain inside of Toni only grow more burdensome—and then his hands moved down to Toni's belt. He didn't need to say anything then. Toni, still cradling Romano's face, put his lips to Romano's and pressed his tongue against them. Encouraging him, begging him to open. He did. Toni tasted the inside of his lips, the sweet sensations of his tongue pushing against his. He wanted to go deep, until he lost track of which breath was his and which was Romano's. He felt the vibrations, heard the gentleness, of Romano's muffled groans and gasps against his mouth. It made him kiss harder, more desperately. He was closing his eyes tightly and could see colors flashing in the darkness behind his eyes. The taste of Romano was completely and utterly disorienting. It filled him. In every sense.

Soon Romano had forced Toni's pants off, had wrapped his arms back around his neck and was pulling him close again. Hot and sweating and struggling for breath (but struggling for more), Toni put his hands up against the door and pushed his hips against Romano's. Heard him, felt him, moan.

"Romano," he said. He couldn't keep himself from saying it.

"Ah, bastard..." Romano breathed, leaning his head back and gritting his teeth.

Toni took the cue and put his tongue against his neck. Felt Romano's fingers digging into his flesh. He wasn't entirely sure what Romano wanted—what he needed—but whatever it was, Toni was desperate to give it.

"Bite me," he heard Romano whisper.

"Eh?"

"Bite me. Bite me hard," Romano said again through his clenched teeth. Toni glanced up at him, but his eyes were closed and his face was still tilted toward the ceiling. If that was what Romano wanted, Toni told himself, then he would give it to him. He sank his teeth into Romano's flesh, gently at first. Romano sucked in a breath and tightened his grip, tensed his muscles.

"Harder."

Toni bit him harder. Romano began to cry out, but caught himself—Toni had nearly forgotten that they were still in his office. Surrounded by other offices. Romano bit down again on his lip to keep his voice down. Toni wished they were somewhere else so he could hear it. He didn't bite hard enough to draw blood, but was worried that he might. He still wasn't sure how sensitive Romano's body was. He licked the spot where he had bitten, then slid his tongue down to Romano's shoulder. He bit it there, as well. He could hear the strain in Romano's muffled voice, but his cheeks were flushed and Toni felt his erection. He wasn't sure how much longer he could control himself.

As his teeth dug into Romano's skin, he gently moved one hand down onto his erection. Romano sighed a gravelly sigh and Toni heard a light thump as he banged his head against the door. His fingernails were certainly leaving marks on Toni's skin now. He pushed his hand harder and groaned against Romano's skin. He was hardly able to control himself, hardly able to sense anything but this raw desire.

"Come on—ah—already," Romano breathed. Toni straightened up and looked into Romano's eyes.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," he said impatiently. There was a pout on his bruised lips and he wouldn't look into Toni's eyes. Toni hated that.

"Romano."

"What?!"

Instead of saying anything, Toni brushed the tendrils of matted hair from Romano's forehead and kissed it. Felt Romano's caught breath on his neck, tasted the salt of his sweating skin. Romano's muscles relaxed a bit as he fell back against the door, fingers hovering above the back of Toni's neck. He kept his lips there, wanting Romano to feel the pressure spread from his forehead down to his heart. Beating like a drum, alive and warm.

"I'll do whatever you want," he murmured against his skin. "Lo que quieras...voy a hacerlo. Siempre."

Romano tightened his grip and leaned into Toni's kiss. They stood like that, silently, bathed in each other's warmth and basking in each other's breaths. And then, slowly, Romano took one of Toni's hands and led it to his belt. He didn't have to say anything. Toni let his open lips hover above Romano's as he undid his belt. Pushed his pants down. Slipped his hand into Romano's underwear. Watched his mouth open and his eyelids flicker. Then he lowered his own underwear, lips still grazing Romano's.

"Turn me around," Romano said. Toni did as he asked, stepped back and turning Romano until his cheek and his palms were pressed to the door.

"Ah, wait." Toni paused for a moment, then reached over to his desk. He always kept a bottle of lotion for his hands because he absolutely hated the feeling of dry, cracked skin. While it wasn't ideal, it would work for now. Toni wasn't so lewd that he kept lube in his office. He squeezed some onto his palms and then he put his forehead to the back of Romano's neck and kissed that spot, beautiful and innocent, between his shoulder blades.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

Romano nodded.

With one hand, Toni grabbed one of Romano's legs and lifted it. Then, heart beating and pulse quickening, he went in with his fingers. Covered in the lotion, they slipped in with relative ease. Romano held his breath and was tight, so Toni blew into his ear, whispered his name, to relax him. It worked like a charm.

"Hurry up and do it," Romano breathed after a few moments. "I'm ready. I'm fine. Just do it."

"Do you want me that badly...?" Toni smiled, bit the outline of Romano's ear. "Lo que quieras."

With his hand still holding up Romano's leg, his other hand on Romano's hip, Toni eased himself into him. He clenched his teeth as the sensations exploded in his lower body and made their way to every crevice of his skin. Romano clenched his fists against the door and slowly lowered himself down, down, his whimpers muffled, until Toni was completely in. The sweat poured down his face as he began to move, supporting himself with Romano's body and forcing him harder against the door. His other hand reached around his waist and grabbed his erection as he moved. Romano bit down on his own wrist to muffle the cries he was inevitably emitting.

"Ngh, Romano," Toni whispered against his neck, the pressure beginning to build.

"Toni—bite me," Romano said again, his voice hardly audible. "Pull my hair."

Toni was in too much of a haze to even consider not doing what Romano asked. Even if he were in his right mind...

Lo que quieras.

He reached up to the top of Romano's head, grasped a handful of hair, and pulled it. Forcing Romano's neck to arch backward, mouth agape as he tried to desperately to hold down his screams. Toni bit the vulnerable flesh of his outstretched neck, dug his nails into Romano's leg. Began to move faster and harder and deeper. He had to keep himself from being loud, as well. He couldn't imagine the disaster that would ensue if someone were to hear them. In fact, François was usually in his office at this time.

This time was different than before. When they had moved unaware of themselves, wrapped in a mist that had left their bodies quivering and their voices raspy. They had moved slowly and sensually, and neither of them could remember the details—but they could remember the feel of the other, the voice of the other, the taste of the other. This time...they were still wrapped in mist, their bodies still quivered, their voices were still raspy. But they were deliberate now. They were aware of every detail with excruciating clarity, moved with an unfamiliar urgency. As if they were trying to solidify that this was real, not in their dreams, but real. They would remember every touch, every whisper in every language, every tremor of pleasure.

When it was done, they crumpled to the floor, still entangled in each other, exhausted and trying somehow to catch their breath. Toni, panting, came onto his knees and wrapped his arms around Romano's slender shoulders and held him as tightly as he possibly could. Romano fell limp against him, his head against Toni's shoulder. They leaned back against the door and Romano weakly brought his arms up around Toni's waist. Toni suddenly felt, with that grip against him, as if he were holding a child. Asking without knowing the words for love. He squeezed him harder and put his fingers in Romano's hair, pressing his head down. Kissed his temple.

"Oi, bastard—"

"I'm not letting go yet," Toni whispered. "I want to hold you longer. Por favor."

"...Vale."

Toni felt Romano's eyelashes brush his skin, soft and wet. He felt Romano's tears running down his chest. He kissed his temple again and whispered to him in Spanish. Rocking him back and forth. The more they sat there, and the longer he held him, the tighter Romano's grip became, and the harder it was for Toni to let go.

Just as before, Romano came to Toni's office every day (or almost every day). Sometimes he would bring a sample of writing; sometimes he wouldn't. Toni sacrificed his siesta time, almost all of it, for Romano's sake. He didn't mind not being able to take his afternoon nap because as it turned out, Romano's presence alone—his touch, his scent, his taste—was enough to energize him. Romano would sit in the chair across from him after closing and locking the door. He would avert his gaze and hand over his notebook. Toni would read his work, then reach forward and grab his hand and kiss his knuckles. Suck lightly on his fingertips. Romano's cheeks would become flustered and he would begin to stumble over his words and soon they would find themselves on the floor, on the table, at the windowsill, against the wall. With their confessions they had released their inhibitions and any semblance of self-control they had had before.

But more than Toni loved to touch him, Toni loved to simply look at him. Watch the slightest changes of his expressions. See the way that he always sat on his hands when he was nervous, or the way he bit his lip, or how he looked at the ground with his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. Sometimes, when Toni saw bags under his eyes and gauntness in his cheeks, he would again force Romano to nap on his windowsill. At those moments, he was more beautiful than ever. Spread out against the window, arm above his head, staring at Toni before he inevitably fell asleep. Toni would bring himself to the window and kneel beside it and brush his fingers through Romano's hair. Would say soft Spanish words that helped him fall asleep. You are beautiful, You are wonderful, Lo que quieras.

But, as Toni learned rather quickly, Romano had dramatic mood swings. This is not to say that he hadn't noticed them before—he certainly had. But with this change in their relationship they became much more evident and pronounced. Some days Romano would come into the office tired and gentle, without much energy for anything but the kisses he gave. Other days he would come into the office a raging storm, angry and frustrated and attacking each and every word Toni said. Refusing to be touched, curling into himself and telling Toni to leave him alone. Call him a bastard, a son of a bitch, Sicilian or Italian insults that Toni could not understand. But still sitting in his office. Toni did not get frustrated or upset with Romano; he always found himself drawn back to that night, that image of Romano on the ledge. Staring out over the darkness of the campus and speaking with the darkness in his mind. He was patient and gentle with Romano, made every effort to make him comfortable regardless of his mood. He started keeping cherry tomatoes in his office because he discovered Romano's undying love for tomatoes, not dissimilar to his own. When Romano didn't want to be touched, Toni did not touch him. But he spoke to him in a soft, tender tone—of stories from around the world, the different sights he'd seen and the different people he'd met. It always seemed to calm Romano down. Sometimes during his visits they wouldn't touch at all, but Toni never minded.

He was secretly hoping that one day, Romano might give in and let him call him Lovino.

In the evenings, Toni would have dinner or drinks with Gilbert and François. He did not tell them about his relationship with Romano—he did not tell anybody. He found himself drinking a lot, savoring their company because it helped him relax and destress and not think about anything. They would run around the town, thirty-somethings who were generally drunk and completely unprofessional. Other times they would sit over a cup of tea in a nice English restaurant and talk about intellectual things that professors tend to talk about.

Toni didn't realize the toll that his relationship was taking on him, even from the very beginning. He didn't realize the toll it was taking on Romano, either.

On Friday nights, Toni would cook dinner at his home and Romano would bring Sicilian wine and they would spend the night together, listening to Juanjo Dominguez and reading poetry and rolling around in the sheets. Toni realized that he wanted nothing more than to see Romano's face, feel his body beside him, when he woke up every morning. He would open his eyes and see Romano's face watching him, pull him in closer and entwine their legs and hold him. Buenos días, he would say. Bon jornu, Romano would reply softly. They enjoyed speaking to each other in different languages. Toni found that he soon knew more Sicilian than Italian (as it turned out, the two were fairly different, and Romano spoke Sicilian much more often). Toni revealed to Romano after a few days that he was fluent in Arabic as well, and Romano delighted in it. Toni was much more fluent in the conversational Arabic, so while Romano taught him Sicilian, Toni taught Romano more Arabic.

It was a Thursday afternoon, three weeks after that day in Toni's office. He was at his desk, grading papers, and Romano was spread out at the window. Laying on his side, leaning his head down against his arm. He was silently watching Toni, wearing his ripped jeans and his black t-shirt and his thick gray socks. Toni was trying not to look over at him, in his perhaps unintentionally alluring and sensual pose. He needed to get these papers finished. Romano always distracted him from these things, sometimes on purpose and sometimes on accident. The silence in the room was warm, broken by the tapping of Toni's pen against the desk and Romano's slow breathing.

"Toooooniiiiiiiiiiiii," he cooed, his voice high-pitched.

"Dime, mi tesoro."

"¿Dónde están los tomates? Tengo hambre."

His mouth twisting into a crooked smile, he leaned his arm back over the chair and finally turned to look at Romano. Because he knew that Romano didn't actually care much about the tomatoes—he had just grown impatient with Toni's lack of attention.

"No los tengo. Los comiste."

"Mentiroso," Romano pouted.

When Toni's gaze fell upon him there, he felt the breath stolen from his open lips and his heart stopped in its tracks. He took his glasses off and smiled again. Even through the closed blinds, sunlight was pouring in, bathing Romano's silhouette and accentuating the details of his body, the soft expression of his face, the freckles on his arms and the yellowness of his teeth and the uneven cut of his fingernails and that one strand of hair that he could never get to behave. Romano was squinting from the light, his arm stretched out over his head, his toes wiggling in his socks. He looked serene. Tranquil, natural, as if he were meant to be there. As if Toni were meant to look at him. So unfairly beautiful.

"No te mentiría nunca, Romano, neno," he said quietly. He saw the edges of Romano's lips twitch, just slightly upwards. Saw the red of his cheeks brightened by the golden rays. Romano closed his eyes for a moment, and Toni held his breath.

"Romano, can I ask you a question?"

"Hmm."

"Can I write about you?"

Romano slowly opened his eyes. They were glistening so brightly.

"You want to write about me?"

Toni nodded. He felt the writer's block lifting, felt rejuvenation in his bones. He recalled from a few weeks ago the strange conversation he had had with President Kirkland and the young American boy, Alfred.

"How 'bout a muse? That's what it's called, right? Something that inspires you?"

He reached his hand out, and Romano stared at it for a few moments. Then he reached his hand out and put it in Toni's palm. Toni stroked the back of his hand with his thumb, felt his dry knuckles and the warmth seeping through him from the sun.

"Do what you want. But why do you want to write about me, of all things? There are lots of other, better things to write about," Romano said softly. Eyes on Toni's hand over his. "More exciting and beautiful things. I'm not special."

"No. You are my muse, querido. Mi inspiración."

He brought Romano's hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

And then he saw Romano smile. A genuine smile that he wasn't sure he'd seen before—the type of smile that made his eyes crinkle and his teeth show. He kissed his hand again and squeezed, wishing that Romano would never step out from that sunlit window and never stop smiling just like that.

Translations:

Lo que quieras (Spanish)=whatever you want

voy a hacerlo, siempre=I'll do it for you, always

Buenos días=good morning

Bon jornu (Sicilian)=good morning

dime, mi tesoro (Spanish)=what's up, my treasure (dime literally translates to 'say to me' but is kind of used as 'what's up?' in this context, in response to his name being called)

Dónde están los tomates=where are the tomatoes?

No los tengo, los comiste=I don't have them, you ate them

Mentiroso=liar

No te mentiría nunca=I would never lie to you

neno=a Spanish term of endearment used in Spain that, when said to a lover, translates to something like 'babe'