A/N: A thanks to the Goliath Beetle for writing works that magically inspire me to get off my ass and write. I do apologize for the lateness of this chapter, but you will have to bear with me... the School Year has begun.
The man was once an innocent child, much like his son. He once had the vivid midnight blue of grand dreams and the glistening gold of untold adventures to colour his world. But the man, who at this time was but a boy, was sent away to a place made of the unknown void, crafted from the inky black if broken, moonless nights and splattered in the deep, crimson, flowing blood. The blood of an innocent soul mutilated by the endless torment of those who 'fixed' him.
He grew up, burying his condemned heart beneath the dark umber of hallowed earth, to be consumed for evermore by the weeping abyss of sorrowed souls crying out in tune with the still beating heart that he had cast out. He did what his father had told him, despite the desperate cries from the bowels of the earth, where his heart lay, that echoed the stories of his innocent childhood days. Those sweet tales had since been set ablaze by the eternal flames of red, unjust hatred. He married a woman and had a son who he called 'Antonio'. And now the man, too, was being consumed by the fires that had destroyed the stories.
*
'Hi. We will be gone a month. Don't burn the house down.' Those simple sentences are scrawled on a peice of paper the colour of pureness, but also loneliness. A solitary hue that is familiar and comforting to Antonio. It fills him with a flash of hope, or perhaps joy. 'Today Lovino and I can sit and laugh and talk. Today I can come home with my best friend by my side, today I can spend it with the one I have loved since almost the beginning of the six month time period we have spent together!'
And so, as Antonio had thought, when the day is done he and Lovino do indeed find themselves together, sitting next to each other by the coffee table in the front room. Antonio finds himself staring deeply into Lovino's eyes. The captivating irises are not just the emerald green of rolling hills in the midst of a Midsummer's storm, nor are they but the brown of melting chocolate hidden away in the delicate autumn leaves and warm, roasted chestnuts. They are also honey gold, filled with sparkling hope and wonder, yet they were the redder gold of fiery passion; the embers of an ever burning soul. The beautiful, perfect, gorgeous eyes are inching nearer every moment.
There is a feathery warmth tickling at his lips, like a breathe exhales. Exactly like a breathe exhaled. Then warmth floods his mouth, nor the airy warmth from before, but solid, burning, firm warmth. A little but rough, chapped lips. There are no fireworks in this kiss, just a small little flame in the depths of his once forgotten heart. The feeling of being loved.