"Do we need to pick up Antonio?" Feliciano asked, peering at his brother as he walked hand in hand with Ludwig, heading towards the German's car.

"No," Lovino mumbled, digging his hands into his pockets, "he's not coming."

"Ve~but why?" The younger Italian pressed, concern in his face.

"Because I told him not to," his brother bit back, stiff shoulders indicating the end of the unwanted conversation. The last few hours had dragged by for Lovino, he found himself numbly passing through his responsibilities and ticking them off with no great emotion: sleep, wake, shower, dress,' who cares,' he wondered. What was the point of it all?

"Are you excited for your show?" Feliciano asked, buttoning his coat against a particularly strong wind.

Lovino didn't respond, he wasn't excited, but it seemed ungrateful to say so. He supposed the one positive side to this overwhelming deadness was that it left him bereft off all emotions. So while he wasn't particularly thrilled to be heading towards the four insurmountable walls of his holding cell, where he would be expected to smile, to be courteous and engage in easy communication, he wasn't nervous about it either.

He lowered himself into the back of Ludwig's car, immediately fastening his seat belt and leaning his head against the window, not caring that his freshly pressed shirt was becoming wrinkled. Dark autumn clouds congregated threateningly in the sky and made him think of Antonio, how it seemed to rain so often on their outings. Of course, there were few things that didn't conjure images of the zealous Spaniard: he stirred him into his tea in the morning, tucked him into the folds of his clothes, carved him in the surfaces of his prints. He wondered if Antonio was equally consumed, but he beat the question away, finding it too painful to stomach.

"You'll do great," Feliciano comforted when they neared the doors of the gallery and Lovino's knees threatened to give beneath him.

'I can't do this,' his mind supplied unhelpfully, and it felt truer than the cement beneath his feet. Stepping through that door was supposed to be so monumental, like finally thumbing through the last pages on self-loathing, on treading miserably in the events of his past, and arriving triumphantly on the other side of a new chapter, one that involved bravery and the will to improve himself, to stop holding people and emotions at bay. But there he stood, at the precipice of the change, and he was the same as ever, sick with self-hatred and alone.

"Let's just go," Lovino said finally, shoulders wilting under the weight of his defeat. What was the point of continuing this charade of being a normal art student that works hard and gets excited over exhibitions, that drinks too much and chats with unabashed fervor about his art and his life and his opinions on both? He wasn't that person, he would never be, and he didn't fit here, in this crowd of frivolous, happy people.

"Do you want me to call Toni and tell him to come?" Feliciano asked worriedly, soft hand cupping his brother's elbow in an attempt to comfort.

"No," Lovino replied too quickly with a tone louder than he had intended. "No, it's fine, I'll go," he clarified, steeling himself to enter, the thought of enduring the crowd in the gallery somehow less terrifying than being forced into Antonio's presence.

He inhaled noisily, smiling slightly when Feliciano hooked arms with him, holding him protectively to his side. "You'll do great," he chirped, planting an encouraging kiss to his brother's cheek before smiling lovingly to Ludwig. The German pushed the door open, thrusting the small group into raucous laughter, chatting and bright spotlights and outfits. People stood in tight circles, gesturing wildly, wine grasped protectively in their palms, while others loomed in front of the art, noses precariously close to the reflecting glass surfaces. "See? It's not so bad," Feliciano consoled.

Lovino laughed sarcastically in reply, pulling them towards the bar so he could get alcohol to dull his senses. "C'mon, let's look at the work," the younger Italian insisted once his brother had retrieved his wine. Lovino followed numbly, not really paying attention to anything, just ticking off the minutes in his head, willing the time to pass quickly so he could escape to his dorm and lock himself in its safe silence.

The older boy jumped when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder, "having a good time?" The gruff voice of his professor sounded.

Lovino looked up at the older man, fixing an expression of pleasure on his face. "Y-yeah," he managed lamely, "it's cool."

"Cool, huh?" Sadiq laughed, obnoxious barks blending easily in the overcrowded gallery. "Well, it seems like there's a buzz going on about you."

Lovino nodded unfeelingly before allowing the meaning behind the words to sink into his skull. He glanced up with knitted eyebrows, "what do you mean?" He asked, confusion in his features.

Sadiq smirked and dug an elbow into the Italian's exposed side, laughing when the boy crumpled from the touch. "What do you mean, 'what do I mean?'" He teased, "I mean you're a hit, people like your work Vargas."

Lovino blinked, eyes wide, "wh-what? Really?"

"Yeah really," Sadiq scoffed, chuckling at his student's reaction, "don't sound so shocked, I wouldn't have let you into the program if I didn't think you were any good."

"Yeah," the Italian nodded, licking his dry lips as his body worked to register the shock. "Thanks."

"No problem, Vargas," Sadiq smirked. "Listen, stay put, the gallery owner wants to talk to you, I'll bring him here, okay?"

Lovino opened his mouth to agree before slamming it shut again. "Talk to me about what?"

Sadiq shrugged, "oh, nothing big, just about the possibility of you having a solo show." He winked, waving a hand over his shoulder as he left to retrieve the man.

Lovino stood blinking, feet glued to the floor as he registered this new information. "Lovi, I'm so proud of you," Feliciano squealed, wrapping his arms around his brother's waist, reminding him of his presence. "I always told you you were talented!" It was true, too. Despite what others had said and regardless of his grandfather's or Roderich's opinion, his younger brother had always maintained that Lovino wasn't a failure, that there was something worthwhile in his art. The older boy nodded in recognition, unsure of how to respond to the stimuli engulfing him. "Luddy and I are going to go get some more wine, we'll be right back," Feliciano called into his ear, taking the German in his arms and leading him away before Lovino had a chance to argue.

Soon after his brother's departure, Sadiq came stumbling back, a tall, solemn looking man with ridiculously styled blonde hair looming at his side. "You Lovino?" The man asked expectantly, stretching a hand towards the Italian and assaulting his senses with the overbearing scent of marijuana.

"Uh, yeah," the Italian mumbled, taking the palm in his own and shaking it weakly.

"Your work's doing well, I already sold a piece," the man told him, a look of greedy happiness flashing through his eyes. "What would you think about the possibility of having a solo show, no rush, let's say near the beginning of summer."

"Sure," Lovino agreed before he could reconsider, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he tried to catch up with the events of the evening, "that sounds great."

"Cool," the man nodded, leaning into his heels, "give me a call some time next week and we'll set things up," he replied, pulling a business card out of his pocket and handing it to the younger boy.

"I will," Lovino said, glancing at the card before sliding it into his pocket for safe keeping.

"Great, well, enjoy the show," the blonde smirked, slapping Sadiq on the shoulder and leading him off to flirt with a crowd of nearby girls.

Lovino backed away to the wall and stared at the nearest window, taking in the gathering clouds and his despicable reflection. He should be pleased, the show was going well, better than he would've expected, but he felt nothing. The offerings for future exhibitions, for sales, they were great, but they didn't provide near the satisfaction that he experienced when Antonio told him that the work was good. These people were looking at art, at composition and color and all the technical aspects that made a piece successful, but when the Spaniard peered into the prints he saw Lovino, and that he appreciated what he found was so striking, so completely unfathomable to the self conscious Italian. Before he could register his movements, he was exiting the stifling warmth of the gallery and trudging into the cold autumn air, ignoring the soft raindrops that dotted his clothes as he paced down to the road, examining the street signs for an indication of his whereabouts.

He remembered the drive to the gallery, it had been in the same direction as Antonio's apartment so it couldn't be too far, he figured, and he trusted his highly attuned visual memory to guide him there. Before he could reconsider, he started down the street, fists bared at his sides, heart pounding with each hurried footstep. The rain picked up quickly, scenery flickering around him like aged film, the newly speeding rhythm of dotted moisture against asphalt igniting a fire in the Italian's soles until he was running in a violent trajectory, slinging his body forward, desperate to resolve the distance between himself and Antonio. "Toni," he gasped through dry lips, words flying from his throat like a signal flare. "Toni."

Lovino rounded a corner and caught his toe on a curb, immediately losing his footing and careening to the cement, skinning his hands in an attempt to break his fall. He sat in silence as he fought to slow his panting breaths, staring at his bloodied hands as if mirrors before turning his head to the shrouded sky and laughing at his actions, at the bitter perfection of the moment. There he was, alone on the sidewalk, crimson dripping from his palms, words of longing falling unabashed from his mouth, so haphazardly open, but no one was there to see it.

Finally, he gathered the energy to rise, whisking the salty sweat and rain from his face as he pondered the closest street sign. Blessedly, he recognized the name, knew it to be only a few streets over from Antonio's, so he willed his feet forward, ignoring the pain in his calves and lungs, visions of his destination urging him on. When the corners of the familiar building came into view, Lovino found himself breathing a sigh of relief, happy that it wasn't something he had conjured in a desperate plea for a lifeline to the world. Antonio existed, the Italian's name had passed through his mouth, betraying all the emotions that those carefully arranged sounds elicited. He closed the gap between himself and the apartment quickly, barely recognizing the soft asphalt cracking under his feet as he cut a quick course towards his destination. Time was suspended, separated by the harsh divide of life with Antonio and life without him.

Lovino willed his feet up to the door, his muscles were leaden with emotion, but he found himself wishing the distance had been greater, that he could keep running through the rain forever, willfully drowning in the current of Antonio's complexion. Knuckles met the hard wood, surprising the Italian with the noise, with the purchase his jellied bones were able to make. He leaned back into his heels and threw his head to the gray sky, so vast and cryptic, yet somehow less terrifying than the creeping sense of dread curling into his stomach as he waited for a conclusion he couldn't predict.

When Antonio finally did answer the door, after a minute, an hour, he had know way of knowing, he shuddered under the blooming in his chest, nurtured by the rain and the sunlight burning in the Spaniard's kind eyes. He stared hard at the older boy, demanding his body forward, to explain his presence, but his jaw ached and his legs were paralyzed, his biology temporarily muted by Antonio's presence.

"Lovi?" Antonio asked, eyebrows knit in confusion, or was it concern? "What are you doing here?"

Lovino opened his mouth to reply, but the words weren't there, his brain was frozen, whether from fear, passion, or anger, he didn't know. All he could apprehend was the blood throbbing in his ears and the remarkable way in which all the world's light seemed to congregate in this specific destination to illuminate the soft tresses that enveloped Antonio's face. He licked his inflamed lips and brushed his fingers through sweaty hair, "I-I don't know," he choked out, wincing immediately at the lie.

Antonio only sighed and grabbed the Italian's wrist, gently pulling him into the house and towards the bathroom. "Come on, you're a mess."

"Antonio-" Lovino tried to explain himself again, heavy breath catching in his chest as he watched the boy tread to the sink and start soaking a washcloth. The Spaniard didn't respond, instead he turned from the basin and swiped the cool cloth across the others forehead, gently cleansing his dripping cheeks and nose. Lovino found himself transported to those nights so many weeks ago when he had done the same, submitting himself to cruel isolation in a last ditch effort to be protected from the pain that longing could produce. He realized now how stupid it had been to think he could hide from-from what? He wasn't sure anymore, the fear was there, it was always there, but he doubted if he had ever successfully excavated its source. He had decided long ago that he simply wasn't equipped to handle life in the way that other people seemed able to, but drowned in the Spaniard's mercies he found himself able to let it go, to forget, and then the pain and the fear and the loneliness didn't seem so easily accessible.

"Toni," the Italian snapped, grabbing the older boy by the wrist and pulling the cloth from his grip.

"What did you do to your hands?" Antonio interrupted, attention turned to the abused skin on the heels of his palms.

Lovino peered confused into the others face before snapping his head down, unfurling his fingers, demanding that his body recognize the pain that must exist there. "Are you okay?" the Spaniard prompted, starting to become concerned over the younger boy's behavior.

Lovino wasn't sure if Antonio was referring to his hands or his emotions in general, and so he didn't respond, unsure of his answer. He wasn't good with words, he didn't possess the courage for them, that's why he preferred art and image, with its infinite possibility of reads and interpretations. If Lovino could make the Spaniard a print right now, he would do it, because how could he possibly tell him how much he loved him? How could he convey that meeting him carried with it the realization that life wasn't simply something to be trudged through in numb depression, and that sometimes, in the most secret parts of his mind, he imagined introducing his mother to Antonio: a thought that, far from making him sad, made him so unbelievably hopeful. So much so that he found himself constantly musing over how similar those emotions were: sadness and hopefulness. But if he were to choose the one he'd rather live with, it would be hope, because even if it was painful, it indicated an end that could be good, and it made him feel not so scared of everything. Even the part of him that remained on that blood-stained sidewalk was starting to back away, to allow that that unfathomable event had happened, and Antonio was there to hold the pieces together when his battered mind couldn't, just by being there, just by standing in the doorway and allowing him into his home.

But how could he ever fathom saying those things? How could he carve his mouth around those impossible words? So he settled on the next best thing. "I'm sorry," Lovino muttered, lips curling as moisture blurred his vision, "I'm really fucking sorry."

A trace of a smile pulsed through Antonio's face and then he was cupping the smaller boy's cheek, combing his fingers through his matted hair and nodding, "I know. I know, but thank you for saying it."

"It's just, I kept thinking, 'I'm not ready,' you know?" Lovino explained, fat tears tracing his cheeks, gulping against the messy words bubbling up through unmitigated emotions. "But maybe I'll never ready," he sniffed, palming the moisture from his cheeks, not bothered by the stinging in his hands. "Because I wasn't ready for her to die, but I lived through it, and I wasn't ready to move to Austria and I did that, too." He choked through a sob, shuddering against the knot in his throat, "So I'm not ready to believe that you love me, but you do, for some amazing reason that I can't get my head around, you do. And I'm not fucking close to being ready to believe that, but I'll try, okay? I'll try at least."

"Is that you accepting my offer?" Antonio prompted, eyes soft with compassion.

Lovino ducked his head and laughed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Yes, you bastard," he nodded, smile widening against the stiffness of his tear-stained cheeks. "I want to be your boyfriend," he clarified, nodding, "I really fucking want-"

The words were ceased by the presence of Antonio's burning lips against his own, wanting and grasping and searching for purchase. Lovino furled the others shirt between his white knuckles, pulling him closer, desperate to feel the heat beneath his clothes, the pounding heart beneath his skin. He willed the trembling from his aching fingers, short gasps falling from swollen lips as Antonio pressed kisses to his nose, his eyebrows, his ears, only pausing in his trajectory to nip at his sensitive earlobes.

"Are you sure?" Antonio asked, voice heavy with desire when he felt Lovino fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

Lovino nodded, gulping against the heat in his stomach, palms pulsing with craving, with need. "Yes, yes, yes" he nodded, clinging to the word, intoxicated by the way it sprawled so perfectly across his tongue. He wanted this, he needed this, to feel so close to Antonio, to be enfolded by his presence.

The Spaniard nodded in understanding, brushing Lovino's trembling hands away to unfasten the last few buttons, only waiting to slide the shirt from tanned, supple skin before taking the Italian by the collar, pulling him into the adjoining bedroom and pressing desperate kisses to his mouth. He pulled off the younger boy's shirt, forcing his body to the bed. "Fuck," Lovino groaned through clenched teeth when Antonio's warm palm found his growing bulge, hips bucking under the pressure of his touch when trembling fingers fumbled clumsily with his slacks. "Useless," the Italian seethed, pushing himself up on his elbows and removing the pants himself, sliding them deliriously from his legs and kicking them off his feet. Antonio did the same, groaning with relief when the pressure was removed from his searing groin.

"I love you," Antonio gasped, pulling at the elastic around Lovino's waist and removing the boxers from his slender hips.

"Sh-shut up," the younger boy managed around a groan, toes curling in pleasure when the Spaniard's fingers grasped his swollen cock, warm grip sliding across his length in controlled, measured strokes. "F-fuck," Lovino cried, digging his nails into the silken sheets. "Toni," he managed, a shudder of pleasure coursing through his shoulders, "I won't last."

Antonio nodded numbly and released his grip, stumbling to his nightstand and retrieving a bottle of lube, before yanking his boxers from his hips and palming the gel, cold and wet. Lovino took the moment to prepare himself, wincing against the slight pain but quickly succumbing to pleasure. His joints ached with want, the desire to feel the Spaniard inside him swallowing his silence, overwhelming his tendency towards embarrassment. "Come on," the Italian pleaded, tilting his sweat-soaked hair into the mattress, shuddering against the burning pleasure swelling in his belly.

"You ready?" Antonio asked, voice husky.

Lovino only nodded, moans of rapture pushing through his clenching throat when rough hands squeezed his legs, fingers brushing agonizingly close to his sensitive inner thighs. Unintelligible sounds of pleasure flew unabated from Antonio's lips, he looked so serious, eyebrows knit in desire, eyelids screwed against the fire licking through his body in unending currents. If Lovino had had his wits about him, he might laugh at how stern he appeared, but instead he found himself being drawn forward, slick salty skin meeting skin, racing pulses matching, until Antonio was right there, drawing himself in, making the Italian's head light with perfect, unfathomable pleasure.

This was unlike anything he had ever experienced, he was far from a virgin, but never had he felt this way with someone. The electricity, the affection between them was so undeniable, so maddeningly palpable, that he wanted to stay there forever, silhouette impressed upon the bed, limbs tangled, racing pulse echoing in his ears. And when his revelry reached its mounting precipice, when limbs stiffened and stomach hardened with staggering tension, he melted into his pleasure with Antonio's name on his lips.

The Spaniard pulled away on shaking limbs, releasing his tight grip on the younger boy's hips and falling into the mattress next to him, brushing sweaty hair from his face and peppering soft kisses to his forehead. "I love you, I love you," he panted, never saying it enough.

"Shut up," Lovino insisted, allowing himself to be pulled close, to be warmed by the older boy's broad chest, halfheartedly beating back the overwhelming exhaustion looming expectantly in his slow movements.

"No," Antonio argued, lovingly tracing his nails across the others scalp, reveling in the subtle scent of his flesh, rich and sweet. "Do you want to know the truth, Lovi?" He asked as he caught his breath, as the strumming in his chest abated slightly, allowing coherent thoughts to reenter his head.

"I don't know," Lovino laughed, closing his eyes against the sweat-soaked sheets, dipping his unguarded body into the yielding mattress.

Antonio chuckled and rubbed a thumb against the Italian's eyebrow, willing him to open his eyes, to grant him visions of those illuminated golden irises. "It was always you," he said, voice barely above a whisper, timbre husky with affection, "it was you I wanted, I was using Feliciano as an excuse to get to you."

Lovino snapped his eyes open and stared confused at Antonio, hoisting his torso up on wobbling elbows as he decided if he should be angry, or if he should even believe it. "I-" he started, gulping against the caustic emotions blossoming in his chest. Brotherly instinct demanded he take offense for Feliciano's sake, but the anger wouldn't come. He was selfish, but he didn't care, he just wanted to know that it was true, that somehow the Spaniard had really known as long as he had, that such a true and happy emotion really could exist. "But why?"

Antonio lifted himself next to the Italian and took his chin in his hand, turning his head so he was facing him. "You know why," he said, tracing fingers lovingly across his sloping features. "You feel so intensely," he explained. "And the way you love people," Antonio turned his eyes to the ceiling and slumped into his shoulders, shaking his head in disbelief, "it's incredible."

"That's not true," Lovino tried to argue, disbelieving.

"It is, and it's beautiful," Antonio replied, "and I understand why it would scare you to allow people into your life, because it must be so painful for you."

Lovino felt his cheeks fill with heat, his eyes stinging with tears he couldn't produce. "I love you," he managed, lips tensing against the unbearable emotion, because it was painful, it hurt all the time, but he knew he'd rather deal with it with Antonio at his side, rather than suffering in isolation, pretending he didn't feel the things he did.

"I know, and I'm so grateful for that," Antonio smiled, eyes glistening. He wrapped his arms around the Italian, pulling him close as he whispered soothing nothings into his neck.

"How did the show go?" Antonio asked after a while, body growing heavy with lethargy and bliss.

Lovino pulled his head away and shrugged. "It went well," he said, averting his eyes as his cheeks reddened, "I got offered a solo show."

"What?" Antonio demanded, eyes large and bright. "That's amazing, Lovi!"

"Yeah," the Italian muttered, letting a smile stretch across his face. "Of course, they may not want me back when they realize I left so early."

"Aw, I'm sure they will," the Spaniard argued. "You're too talented to deny."

"Shut up, bastard," Lovino returned, letting his forehead fall on the others shoulder, cheeks sore from grinning. "I should text Feli," the Italian mumbled around a yawn.

"To tell him you finally nailed that sexy Spanish guy?" Antonio teased, poking the boy in the side.

"Hardy har," Lovino replied sarcastically, fighting off another yawn. "I'll do it in the morning," he decided, letting his body fall back into the bed.

"Yeah," Antonio agreed, settling in next to him.

"First thing," the Italian mumbled, curling into the Spaniard, so warm and safe.

"Mm," the older boy mumbled, already falling into a deep sleep.

Lovino's eyelids drooped and he let his mind drift away, lulled to sleep by the consistent, comforting beating of Antonio's heart, so close to his ear. The pain was still there, the fear and anxiety and sadness had crawled into bed with him like they had every other night, but he knew they wouldn't beat him. When he woke in the morning, the weight of a new day looming threateningly before him, Antonio would be there: eyes understanding, smile gentle and inviting, and that thought gave him the strength to stop merely surviving, and instead to try his hand at living.

So he cuddled closer to the sleeping boy beside him and buried a smile into his chest, happy in the knowledge that their life together had only just begun.