A/N: Hallo! So, I haven't really told this to you guys at the prologue but, thank you so much for reading my fanfic!
But first, lemme take a sel- no, no,no. that's terrible. I must not do that again.
Let me just clarify things up.
So, I'm basing their current location on South Italy because that's where Rome is, and if you've read the chapter prior to this, it was stated there that their Univ. is located there. That University was not made up and I even searched google maps just to find a University just like that. But, because I'm not Italian and a student there, chances of school activities that will be held in this story will be very light and minimum so as to not offend anyone.
I'm not used to writing close-to-real-life fics and I'm pretty sure that I screwed this one up, so I'm sorry about that (again, to those who will be offended).
Happy reading!
Chapter 1; Subtle
The one thing you could distinguish from this University will probably be the probability of something that could happen anytime. An event that could be unexplainable, unpredictable, or just a thing too normal for delight. But if you actually take the time to ponder about what is left beyond the explained, you'll find this a rather common place - varying by the type of your sense of plebeian, that is.
Adjusting herself in the shallow cushions of the café's seat, Lovina Vargas, a senior Fine Arts student; a brunette with a thing for sundresses reaching just above her thighs and pairing it with pants or leggings or something skinny; a woman whose taste in music lies on the likes of Foster the People, an occasional Sigur Ros and other alternatives, cursed and beheaded a friend of hers in the corners of her wonderful mind. Straightening some formed creases on her Playbight, she managed to stay composed for the public to leave her alone and stay in the vicinities of their lives.
Hidden at what it seems like an infinite valley from the ground, Lamenta is a dainty sight. Its popularity never changing from the protégés venturing in and out of the said place, it has a feeling that you can never get rid of once you've experienced it. Coming in through the Oak front door, you will be met by stairs ascending to the main room, the Bistro. Fully air-conditioned, wide and soft, its walls are of wooden planks and the area is lit by a chandelier with a warm yellow luminescence. By the four corners of the room are red lava lamps, dairy white curtains covering glass-pinned windows and a soft, crimson carpet for the whole flooring. By its sides are humungous couches with white for hue, sticking itself neatly upon the walls and protruding a set of five dividers, each accompanied by the same chair. Today is one of the regulars and Lovina can be seen at the far-most corner to the right; their usual place.
Besides elaborate, old-themed lamps and a rather expensive-looking luster, the space is bombarded by pillows, a whole bunch of books and everyday life portraits. Just by the entrance is a wind chime of a moon and sun design, whispering a tiny yet comforting noise as you open the door, delivering a message from the winds themselves. There are scattered books by the third step but not too many to block out the way, just enough to give the opening 'feeling' for the place. By the stairs' sides are wooden walls supporting the Bistro, overflowing by sceptically placed pictures of everyday customers, their wide smiles, unconscious beings and grins making you feel like a secret is being kept from you. But it's not a bad one; in fact, it might be the best that you could ever get in your entire life. And when you finally reach the top, satisfaction is guaranteed to come to you, surging towards your very person, urging you to come further in, be too deep until you accept this place as a part of you.
She turned her head once more for the possibility of Gilbert Beilschmidt rushing in breathless, like he always does. At the center of the room are four round glass tables, each carrying seats that can accommodate a maximum of three people and just across of those is the counter. Filled with a never-ending supply of teas, cups and the like, it's almost as if the whole place was carved out of a vintage scenery with the fact that the café barista came from a different timeline as an exception. As Lovina's eyes wandered around, Martino's caught them like a full blown Frisbee aimed right at him. He was setting out an order for a French frappe (the one with a purring cat on top as its froth) when he noticed her, looking like a damsel in distress with furrowed brows, turning her head for the umpteenth time of the day. He smirked.
"Let me guess, it was supposed to be ten, right?" He walked towards the closest table from his working spot, smiling formally as he handed the beverage to one of his patrons, a man with a loose chequered shirt and pants reading Agatha Christie. Almost everyone who comes here is an acquaintance of his, and now he only has three customers, Lovina included, so he has a bountiful amount of free time. "And the hands of the clock are now both pointing straight up north. That's a new ten o'clock." He proceeded to her table.
"Oh gosh, you're such a nerd." Lovina whined, backing her head on her chair and slumping both of her hands on her lap. "Please, make this end!"
"I can get you another Honey-Lemon tea of you like." He stopped just right across the table, polite enough to follow the rules of the 'waiter-customer' relationship thing he imaginary had on his mind. Either that or he still thinks of Lovina as the most magnificent human being that ever graced his eyesight. "I can easily add that to your lis-"
"Thanks, but I'm broke. He was supposed to treat me."
"Is it Wednesday already?"
"Yup, the dull, neutral and opposite day of the week." As she finally focused her attention to Martino, her eyes droop into a morphing one. She took the time to observe him.
Martino Florencio, a student majoring in Music and has a part time job as a Barista at a (practically) hidden, poetry café in their University. She has known him for three years now; they met at their senior year in high school at a College Preparation Camp on their last summer. They were both in the same assorted house but they never talked to each other because the room had a curtain dividing the girls' side from the boys', and there's the fact that they don't have any reason to. He was wearing black braises back then, making her think that he had a slobbery fetish on tartars because it looked like dirt from afar. Especially when he showed his teeth when he smiled, she almost threw up. But, the misunderstanding was later found out and was cleared pretty neatly and since then, she barely recognizes the lumpy kid she saw at camp.
Granted, his shaggy brunette with a light hue for a hair is still the same but now fits him like a puzzle piece, wavy fringes bouncing off the left side of his forehead. His eyes are of an almond hue, a straight tall nose and wide lips. Occasional freckles and blemishes are also an undying imperfect trait of his. His whole figure's hugged by a white, long-sleeve polo shirt that reaches just down his elbows, black flat front pants and leather shoes. In front of this all is an apron of black hues.
"You're proof that puberty evaded me good." She said.
Wiping off her table as he picked up her plate, he grinned. "Why, thank you, Your Grace."
"I hate you for it."
"Lovina," He stood up straight, "you hate everyone."
"Hmm," She closed her eyes as a tiny chiming of bells was heard in the background, "Fair point."
"And besides, one often raises a hand to praise someone else when in fact; she is the one worthy of it."
"Speak 2014."
"Well, for one, you read books." He looked at her.
"That's not really a unique trait now, is it? You read, too." Lovina said, stuffing her arms in front of her, hugging her limp backpack closer. It is clear that she likes the color of white, what for her pure sundress and bag and all.
"When it's you, it's real. And you don't even realize how beautiful you are when you do it." Martino said, his eyes never wavering from Lovina's.
Her lips slightly aghast and eyes widening slowly (but maintaining her earlier pose), she was about to ask what he meant and why did his eyes look at her with such intent, with such prowess and ingenuity, but alas! Gilbert Beilschmidt is a man with the utmost reputation of having the worst timing of all; his arrival immediately zipped her up as she looked at his dishevelled docking form.
"I sense a lot of sexual frustration around these days." Gilbert was known for having a pale white skin and a wide-set of calloused hands that compliment his broad and muscular form. His orbs are of a rare shade of red that runs deep just like blood. He has fair lips and a strong nose and was wearing a black buttoned-up polo short with gray-ish chequered pockets, a pair of black jeans and a striking white converse. With a shade of snow for hair, he is the walking monotone of the Fine Arts department. "And that was just from outside so, Martin, stop flirting with my Renata and go get me something strong. Preferably coffee and a large platter of chocolate cake, please." The arriving form tapped the barista's shoulder, bringing Martino's gaze at him.
"I haven't paid yet and it's Wednesday." Lovina said, eyeing her best friend.
"Make that two platters of chocolate cake." Gilbert moved the chair across and sat.
"And bring that Honey-Lemon tea, please."
"Alright." Martino smiled as walked back towards his working station.
Gilbert scrunched his shoulders and grinned as he turned his attention to the irate woman in front of him. "I saved you, you know."
"No, you didn't. I waited for two goddamn hours, you bastard!"
"Not that one." Furrowing his brows, the blonde placed his bag on his lap. "From him."
"What about him?" Imitating Gilbert's form, Lovina moved closer and placed her elbows on the table.
"He was making this googly and sappy expression towards you and you were-"
"Idiot."
"-just like, "hey go on, flirt with me and make your hormones explode all over the place because it's so damn obvious that you want me on your bed 'cause you're definitely head over heels for me" and whatnot." The pale one said, making little gestures in the air. "And, let me tell you, that's just fucked up and utterly super un-awesome." He smirked.
Lovina raised a brow. "I think you've just explained how songs go today." She scooted over. "Your point is?"
"He's a year young tha-"
"He repeated a year. He's practically a month older than you by age. Your point is?"
"Oh, so now you're defending him from m-"
"YOUR POINT IS?" If Lovina would count the times she had turned her eyes on people today, she'd run out of fingers by now.
"I'm the only one who's allowed to flirt with you." He smirked, looking intently at her eyes.
"Gil, that's disgusting." She turned. "I thought you're my best friend."
"I was your lover first." He pointed out, smiling broadly.
"Don't go there, albino." She said, turning her gaze at the now approaching Martino, Gilbert snickering at the background. A smile was branded on his face as he came nearer to their table. "I was young, vulnerable, and apparently a puny prey for unfathomable beasts."
"Awesome beasts."
"Ugly beasts."
"Beauty and the Beast."
"You're still a beast."
"Beauty and 'THE AWESOME BEAST'."
"And what did that help?"
Gilbert laid back on his chair and stretched his arms by his sides, taking in a confident stride. "Character. Recognition. Uniqueness. Me-ness."
"One hot, black coffee for the pale one, and a steaming Honey-Lemon Tea for the damsel." Martino's grin fell wider as he gently placed the beverages in front of them, eyeing Lovina specifically. "Your chocolate cake is on the way."
"Make it snappy, Tin-tin." Gilbert chided.
"Thank you." The brunette said, picking up her cup as she watched the waiter march away. "I don't like him romantically, Gil." She sipped.
"Well, that doesn't explain your usual presence in this place."
"I come here for poetry." She said, placing her cup down.
"But you never write one."
"You'd be surprised." Lovina eyed him. "I've got a life outside of you." She remarked.
Gently placing his coffee on his lips, Gilbert smirked. "No, you don't."
Lovina have been ill-fated too much for her own delight ever since the world made sense to her. Being in the same atmosphere as her friend is proof to that. "So," she said, "what gives? I mean, you're usually busy in this time of the year. What's so important that it requires my presence with you?"
Popping his lips as he licks it, Gilbert said, "A gift. A long-forgotten gift from me to you." He pointed and snickered.
"What?"
"It's perfect, and we're even wearing matching clothes," the simpleton said, referring to Lovina's white sundress that reached down to her thighs, black leggings that doesn't really cover the whole of her legs and a pair of red doll shoes. "It's like back when we were dating." He smirked.
"What is it with you and us dating? Are you like, hitting on me again? Fuck, Gil. I'm not interested."
"I got the tickets."
"I'm not into those mistresses and a wife getting a revenge for their supposed, one true lo-"
"It's not for a movie, Renata. And besides, who is?"
The brunette sighed. "So, what is it for?" As she asked this, her eyes trailed from her beverage to those of Gilbert's, digging in deep as he returned with an even stronger one. She waited for him to talk, but got disappointed. "Damn you! What is it for?"
"Am I being seductive?" He asked, smiling.
"No. You're being weird and creepy and being a stupid cliff-hanger that doesn't even make any sense."
"We're going to Venice, Renata." Gilbert butts in.
Her mouth went agape. "I don't get it."
"I got, like, two train tickets for us from here to Venice. I've already reserved a hotel room, with two beds, mind you, and an accommodation for a whole week-"
Furrowing her brows, she interrupted, "What are you saying?"
"Renata, I've saved up enough money. And I bought two VIP tickets for his art gala this coming weekend at Venice. Just like I promised when we were still an item." Gilbert was grinning widely.
It always fascinate him how Lovina does the most peculiar thing he had seen in his life. A resounding sight of recognition was stated loudly on her face as her eyes light up to his proclamation, glittering from all the beauty and gladness one could ever muster in his entire life. The creases on her brows ultimately disappeared.
"Are you serious? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS!?" Yes, she was shouting. But, really now, can this little band of customers deny that they, too, have said too many cussing words in their existence? No. So, any argument is invalid. "GILBERT LAURENZ BEILSCHMIDT, YOU'RE NOT GOING TO SCREW ME UP ON THIS ONE."
"I'm not, wouldn't think of it. And yes, I am serious." He said. "It's about time, anyway." Reaching down to the left pocket of his jeans, he brought out two folded papers with a pale yellow hue and handed it to his still flabbergasted friend. "Here. Proof."
"Oh my fucking…" She reached for it and read, enclosing the two tickets in her hands. ". . . gosh, Gil." As if on instinct, she stood up and went to embrace her paled friend. "Fuck. I don't know what to say." She buried her nose on the nook of his neck, like what she does when he hugs her in certain circumstances. He is her best friend, after all. "Gooosh. . ."
"We can. . . kiss. . .if you. . . wa-"
"No."
"Okay."
This is so incomplete, oh my g- I'm so sorry about that!
I have the worst case of laziness. I started this at the first week of the month and I only finished it today. Hahahahahahahahahaha I'm awesome.
Anyway, so yeah, this is a super boring chapter considering that they only talked and talked and talked and their chocolate cake never came. But I swear, I always start my stories like that and I gradually loosen up to the climax. Gahd that sounded wrong hahahahahahahahahahaha…
FF Dictionary:
Lovina Renata Vargas – Romano's full name for this story
Gilbert Laurenz Beilschmidt – Prussia's full name for this story
Playbight – author's made up branch of a clothing line (specifically for women clothes)
Agatha Christie – a well-known author of murder novels (if you've watched the anime Hyouka, she'd be familiar)
French frappe – I'm not European so the chances of this being real are close to none (the one in the story, that is), but if it is, I'll be glad to know.
Martino Florencio – one of the author's OC. He won't be representing any country so his looks will be up to your imagination (given the different attributes I gave as major factors). Aaand, he better be charming in that pretty little head of yours, guys, because he will be appearing in this story a lot.
NOTE: I realized that I used the color black too many times in this chapter and I honestly don't know the reason. It's just pure coincidence (I think).
Who is this "his" and why does he have a freaking art gala that requires our main characters to travel on an almost 5-hour ride (correct me if I'm wrong because google is not really that reliable) from their sweet home of Rome to the water canals (AGAIN correct if I'm wrong because I'm not from Italy and there's this little voice inside my head that keeps contradicting me) of Venice?
You're a smart bunch, I know you already know who he is. BTW, I found a song called Francis by Cœur de Pirate. It's funny because the guy looks like France and it's in French and I'm enjoying it even though I don't understand a word this wonderful person is singing. Check it out if you don't already know the song. Yeah... just sharing.
Well, that's that. Thank you for reading! Please review! Corrections are always welcome!
-Radical