Tell me where's your hiding place...

...

It was Feliciano.

Antonio stared, heart pounding in his ears. There he was, leaning against the bar, an uncharacteristic frown on his face, holding a drink. Right there, in front of him.

"Feliciano," Antonio whispered, hoarse.

The music was too loud. Feliciano hadn't heard him.

"Feliciano," Antonio said loudly, striding over, pushing people out of his way. He grabbed Feliciano's free hand, squeezing it. "Feliciano, where—"

"Dude!" Feliciano yelled, ripping his hand away. "What the fuck?"

Antonio's grin faltered. "Feliciano—"

"Fuck off, I'm not Feliciano." Feliciano glared at him, eyes dark, face flushed. "Yeah, are you deaf? Not him!"

Antonio stumbled away, eyes still glued to Feliciano. Because it was him, it must be. Same face, same exact fucking face.

Antonio stood against the wall, watching Feliciano.

No, it wasn't Feliciano. This Feliciano was muted in his movement, shoulders hunched, glaring into his drink. He swore at anyone who came too close. Kept his elbows close to his side. But God, just as sharply dressed, pressed lines in the jacket sharp as razors.

The nose, Antonio noticed, the same when this Feliciano turned his head, straight as an arrow, like those Romano busts Antonio sometimes saw on T.V.. Thin lips. Same height, same shape, though curved into a less exuberant curve.

No, though.

This Feliciano was thinner. He had a sharper jaw, maybe different eyes, but Antonio couldn't tell in the light.

But God, it could have been his ghost.

Antonio composed himself. He walked back across the dance floor, clearing his throat. Braced himself again for the fire.

"Hey," he greeted.

Feliciano glared. "Did you forget what I just fucking told you?"

Antonio raised both his hands and laughed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Excuse me, the lighting, the music…" Antonio shrugged. "So, you're not Feliciano, who are you?"

Not-Feliciano's eyes flicked up and down over Antonio. Antonio smiled, letting himself be examined. He had worn his good shirt, after all.

"Lovino."

"What?"

Not-Feliciano's mouth furrowed into a deeper frown. "My name is Lovino."

"Lovino," Antonio said, slowly. Not as satisfying at Feliciano. The V and the N blended in to one another, not as defined as Fel-i-ci-a-no. Feliciano's name sounded like hopscotch on the tongue. Lovino sounded… "I'm Antonio."

He held out his hand, and Lovino pulled away from it.

Antonio's eyebrows drew together, and he forced a laughed. "Why are you at a bar if you don't want to flirt?"

"This is my flirting," Not-Feliciano said.

Antonio laughed in earnest this time. "Ah, well, consider me flirted. Can I buy you a drink?"

Lovino was still looking at him strange. "Yeah, I suppose you can."

He ordered something expensive, and Antonio ordered something cheap and strong. Ordered two of something cheap and strong, and Not-Feliciano watched him, which Antonio did not mind in the least.

"So, Lovino," Antonio said, sounding out the word, "what do you do for work?"

Not-Feliciano shrugged. "This and that. I work for my grandfather, who does this and that. We're for-hire by anyone."

"Your grandfather?"

"Yes, my grandfather. My parents didn't want me, if you must know," Lovino muttered, taking another sip.

"Oh, I just meant it was interesting that you work for your grandfather."

"Oh."

"I'm a gardener."

Not-Feliciano looked up. "You garden?"

Antonio nodded, leaning closer. "I do. I have really nice claves, if you want to see. But yeah, I paint houses and do gardens and mow lawns and weed and stuff."

"Do you have any weird gardener stories?"

Antonio perked. That was a question Feliciano would ask, and Antonio threw himself into it, hands moving through the air, inching closer and closer.

"Oh, man, I accidentally bought a stuffed moose once. See, I guess it's illegal to kill them during certain times of the year, but this guy did it and stuffed it himself. Oh, man, the thing's a mess, and he had buried it in his yard."

A smile was crawling across Feliciano's face, and Antonio felt his heart flutter. "You dug it up?"

"I did!" Antonio laughed. "And the guy begged me not to report him, but I didn't know that it was illegal, and I thought the guy was embarrassed about his ugly moose."

That smile, that smile that made Lovino's face light up. It made Antonio want to lean forward and kiss him, hold him, call him—

"And you—what, ended up buying it?" Lovino, Lovino, that's who it was, not Feliciano asked.

Antonio's head felt light, and he reached forward and rested a hand on Lovino's knee. "Can I call you Feliciano?"

Lovino's face fell back into stone. He shoved Antonio's hands away from him, practically snarled at him.

"Fuck you."

…

The fast way home was to the right.

The driver was at an intersection, and he was going to go straight and swing around. But the faster way was to turn right, even though there were more stop lights.

But there were more bars straight ahead. More bars where Antonio could look to his right and observe, look for a familiar gesture. A familiar laugh.

He got home at four in the morning and woke up two hours later to start mowing lawns.

…

Another lookalike.

Antonio watched him, this new Feliciano. This Feliciano curled into a chair, gripping a drink like it was a lifeline. Maybe it was as the rate he was getting through it. The way his head bobbed, hair the same beautiful amber of Feliciano.

Antonio walked through the crowd, stepping on feet. He crouched in front of Feliciano.

Feliciano looked up at him. "Oh, fuck, not you."

"Lovino?"

Feliciano's lip curled. "Surprised you remembered my name."

So was Antonio. "What are you doing here?"

"Free country. I can come out and get shitfaced if I want to. And you? What the fuck are you doing here?" Lovino asked, eyes still flicking over Antonio.

Checking him out, Antonio realized belatedly.

"Well, I was thinking about heading home until I saw you here. I was just thinking how you look like you need another drink."

Lovino snorted. "That's—"

Antonio plucked the glass from Lovino's hands. "Be right back."

Antonio had no money—it was car payment week—and so ordered the cheapest shots, as many as he could, assuring the bartender he would get the tab.

He expected Lovino to be gone, but there he still was, still stiff, stiff, nothing like Feliciano. Lovino looked up at him, face neutral, but he looked at the drink, up at Antonio, quickly, just for a second, taking one of the shots. Downing it.

Lovino winced. "Jesus."

"Only the good stuff on a gardener's salary," Antonio said, sitting down on the table in front of Lovino. He did a shot. "Ah, yeah, that's pretty awful."

Lovino laughed—but it was Feliciano's laugh. Dear God, Feliciano's laugh rang through the music for one, clear second, and then Lovino cleared his throat. Antonio wondered how someone so grumpy could sound so happy, even if only for a second.

Antonio wanted to make him laugh again.

"Why do you come to bars if you sit alone by yourself?" Antonio asked.

Lovino held another shot in his hand, focusing on the clear liquid. "Why does anyone do anything?"

"No, I mean…" Antonio searched for the words, and when he found them, Lovino was looking at him, eyes wide, surprisingly enticing. "I mean, why do you come out if you do not have a good time? If it doesn't make you laugh?"

"Sometimes it makes me laugh."

"You weren't laughing before I came over here."

Lovino swallowed another drink, grimacing. "And why did you come over here?"

"Maybe I wanted to make you laugh!"

Lovino looked at him, eyebrows pulling together, a different kind of frown on his lips. "Why would you want to do that?" he said softly.

Antonio leaned forward and kissed him.

Lovino's breath stank like vodka, and his lips were chapped, but it was sweet, so sweet. Different than Feliciano, somehow, and something about it made Antonio push closer, and he found his hands roaming.

Lovino broke suddenly, standing, grabbing Antonio's hand and leading him through the crowd. He could barely restrain himself until Lovino led them outside, out back, and they were kissing again.

Lovino kissed his neck, went for Antonio's belt buckle—

Antonio groaned.

Lovino shot away.

The air seemed chilly without Lovino, and Antonio blinked. "What? What, why did you stop?"

Lovino was panting, and his eyes seemed glassy in the dark, the only light from some neon somewhere on the street. He had his back against the bricks, glaring at Antonio.

"You called me Feliciano."

Antonio's mind whirled. "No, I didn't."

"Yes, you fucking did!" Lovino yelled. "You just fucking did! Just now! God, God, I knew it, I should have fucking left as soon as I saw you, because you're fucking…"

Lovino's breath was pale green in the neon. Long pauses, deep breaths.

"Fuck you, Antonio."

…

"It's faster to go right."

"Yes, but go straight at this light, please."

Feliciano. Antonio mouthed the word in the dark.

…

It was Lovino.

Antonio froze, dumbstruck at his own luck, because there was Lovino, talking to someone on the phone at the back of this shitty bar, past the restrooms because Antonio had gotten turned around.

"Lovino."

Lovino's whole body flinched. He slammed the phone down and whirled around.

"Lovino—"

"You can call me anything you want."

...

I'm worried I'll forget your face.