AN: This one's for my little sis (okay, so she's not so little anymore, but she's still younger than me so I still reserve the right to call her that) because Spamano is her OTP :3

Pairing: Spain/South Italy

Prompt: imagine that you've been stood up by your douche of a boyfriend on date night and the waitress keeps asking if you're ready to order but you keep asking for more time hoping that he's just late. people are starting to look at you with those apologetic looks like they know and you start to feel worse and worse about the whole situation but as you decide to just get up and leave, this boy you've never seen sits down explaining loudly "sorry i'm so late, babe, traffic is crazy right now." and he quietly adds, "i'm Michael. just go with it, yeah? whoever didn't bother to show up is a dick." and so you do go with it because he's being sweet and trying to save you (and plus he's the cutest thing you've ever seen) and as you're leaving the restaurant after the best non-planned date ever, he asks you out for real this time.

Words Are (Not Always) Weapons

Antonio was cha-cha-ing down the sidewalk, humming to himself and smiling uncontrollably—Latin Dance rehearsal always left him like that—when something made his dancing pause and his smile falter.

This city street was lined with restaurants, and they all had outdoor seating areas along the sidewalk so diners could enjoy the warm night air of summer and the romantic atmosphere of the dark sky and city lights. The French restaurant he was passing was obviously a couples' restaurant, tables for two lining the walkway, all of them filled except for one.

There was a man sitting there in a black suit and deep red dress shirt, glaring down at the watch on his wrist, dark auburn hair hiding his downcast eyes, but it was easy to see that he was gnawing on his lower lip and that he wasn't fiddling with the watch because it was uncomfortable.

And it was easy to see why, as the waiter—hey, that was Francis! So this was the restaurant he worked at!—glided over and asked, with a bright smile but pitying eyes, "Are you ready to order yet, mon ami? Because if not, there are other couples waiting for a table..."

The man didn't look up. "Just a little more time," he muttered, voice surprisingly deep.

"Of course, mon ami," Francis said, still smiling, but as he glided away he cast a pitying look over his shoulder. Couples at nearby tables had noticed the man's predicament, as well, and were casting him apologetic looks.

It was such a shame for such a cutie to be stood up by his date, and Antonio barely spared a moment to wonder if he was dressed correctly for such a restaurant—black dance pants and shoes paired with a ruffled white tuxedo Latin dance shirt, probably formal enough-looking—before striding over to the man's table and taking the seat across from him.

"Sorry I'm so late, babe, traffic is crazy right now," Antonio said, grinning sheepishly as the surprised man looked up in wide-eyed surprise—and maldito but those confused and angry amber eyes were quite possibly the most gorgeous things that Antonio had ever seen.

It suddenly occurred to Antonio that maybe that man wasn't gay, and, Dios, what if he was homophobic? Except he couldn't be because sitting at the other tables of the restaurant were gay and lesbian couples as well as straight ones, and the man wouldn't have come to eat here if he were homophobic, so it was probably okay. But there was still the problem if the man were straight, and he'd been waiting for a girl and had said to the waiter 'She'll be here," or something like that. But then, the waiter was Francis, and Francis was one of Antonio's best friends and Antonio knew that he'd go with it.

The man across from him opened his mouth, a flash of fury in those amber eyes, before Antonio leaned forward and whispered, "I'm Antonio. Just go with it, okay? Even if you're not gay. Whoever stood you up is a dick. Or a bitch."

Antonio leaned back, smiling, and the man just blinked those amber at him.

Antonio suddenly realized that he didn't even know the man's name.

"Are you ready to order, mes amis?" Francis said from where he'd appeared next to them, pen and pad in hand, blue eyes laughing.

Antonio was about to answer, but the other man beat him to it.

"Yes," the man said, glancing at Antonio before looking back at the waiter, "I think we're ready."

The man ordered, and Antonio, having not had time to look at the menu, said brightly, "I'll have what he's having!"

When Francis had left—not before failing to wink at him, though, because he was Francis, after all—the man who Antonio had just "saved" narrowed his eyes at him.

Antonio smiled encouragingly.

"For the record, I'm not gay," the man said. "I'm bi. And, before you ask—because I know you're going to—my name is Lovino Vargas."

Lovino looked at his watch.

It was a nice watch, expensive. Probably very expensive. His grandfather had gifted it to him, so it was probably I-don't-even-want-to-know-how-expensive-this-was expensive. His grandfather had gifted him I-don't-even-want-to-know-how-expensive-this-was expensive suits, too, but he wasn't wearing any of them. It was a nice suit, sure, but it wasn't Armani or anything, and he'd forgone the tie. All that kind of formal shit gave him a headache.

He was wearing the watch, though. It was analog, with gears visible in the background. Some kind of steampunk look. It was hard to read. Who even read analog clocks, these days?

He glared at the watch. The stupid ridiculously expensive watch that he'd worn for this somewhat formal date with his girlfriend, and she hadn't shown up yet.

It took him a few moments to read the watch, and then to read it again just to double check that he hadn't gotten the hour and minute hands mixed up. Stupid fucking expensive steampunk watch.

She was twenty-five minutes late.

At least the black leather strap of the watch was comfortable, Lovino thought, as he fiddled with it. It didn't have connecting metal bits that caught the fine hairs on his wrist. Not like his only other watch, the stupid cheap one. That's why he'd worn the expensive one, because it was comfortable.

It was damn hard to read, though. After a few moments, Lovino reaffirmed that she was twenty-seven minutes late.

Stupid steampunk analog clocks. As if the hands weren't annoying enough, the gears in the background had to make the watch face even more complicated. The gears weren't just for show, either. They moved with the watch hands. Because apparently one could never have too much going on a watch face.

And it wasn't even complicated in a useful way. The cheap watch was digital, easier to read, showed more information. The hour and minute. The seconds. The date. It had an alarm, too. If the expensive watch had an alarm, Lovino didn't know how to work it.

If he'd known, though, the alarm would be going off by now, because she was thirty minutes late.

Not that he needed an alarm on his watch, because there were alarms going off in his head. There was no way traffic could be that bad. She was always punctual, when she wanted to be. Hell, she was usually early, when she cared about something. It was one of the things he'd always admired about her.

It had taken him so long to gather the courage to ask her on a date. It had taken much prodding from his younger brother.

"Asking girls out is easy!" Feliciano had said, smiling brightly like he always did. "You compliment them and saying something flattering, and then you say, 'I really like you, would do me the honor of going on a date with me?' and then they either say yes or no! And if they say no, you know not to waste time on them anymore, and if they say yes then you get a wonderful date!"

Easy for Feliciano to say. Feliciano got along with everybody. Everybody liked him. He went on lots of dates, and though none of them really stuck, Feliciano didn't seem to mind. He just went out with someone else.

Girls thought he was cute, it seemed. Going out with him was a fun thing to do once in a while, if you wanted a cute, fun date that wouldn't get serious. He would go on dates, but he was never officially dating anybody, and when he went out with one girl one day and another girl the next, it wasn't really cheating, even though there'd been no breakup. There just seemed to be this tacit understanding about Feliciano that he didn't cheat—he wasn't a womanizer or anything—he just really, really liked people. He liked talking with people. He liked making people smile.

"We just go out and relax and have a fun time!" Feliciano said, smiling brightly like he always did. "And sometimes we kiss and stuff afterwards!"

Lovino honestly, for the life of him, was not sure if Feliciano had ever actually had sex with anyone or not. He wouldn't be surprised if he had, but he wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't, so he just decided not to bother thinking about it.

"Asking a girl out is easy!" Feliciano had said, smiling brightly like he always did.

Maybe it was for Feliciano, but Lovino had never been Feliciano. His perfect, little brother.

No, asking someone out was not easy for Lovino. Making friends was not easy for Lovino. Talking with people was not easy for Lovino. Unless he was yelling at them or arguing with them. That, that was easy. That was why he'd become a trial lawyer, in part. He got to yell at people and argue with them. He enjoyed it. He was good at it. He thinks sometimes he was born to do it.

He'd always been a problem child, in school. But if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was how to find loopholes. He could find any loophole, hit the weak spot of any argument, target the weak point of any person.

Maybe that was why most people had always hated him. He'd never been a bully, no, but he wasn't someone people messed with, either. You didn't mess with Lovino Vargas. People learned that the hard way. Words were his weapons, and he wielded them with an unmatched ferocity.

The bullies learned this the hard way in school. His fellow classmates learned this the hard way in college. His roommates kept switching out, until he'd ended up with a German potato-eating bastard who somehow managed to remain unfazed by just about anything. Lovino had found it amusing that Ludwig had appeared to get more frustrated at Feliciano's exaggerated acts of incompetence than at Lovino's belligerence. First time anyone had found Feliciano more annoying than him.

And then he'd met the potato-eating bastard's pugnacious older brother, and realized why Ludwig was so unfazed by his shit. In order to antagonize him, Lovino regularly invited Feliciano over, and then watched and laughed his ass off while Ludwig tried to deal with Feliciano tripping on his untied shoe laces, getting tangled while trying to take his sweater off, splattering the kitchenette with tomato sauce, fainting, or whatever other ridiculous, somewhat grudgingly-admittably adorable things Feliciano did.

Ludwig's older brother had been the first person Lovino had met that could go toe to toe with him. They'd dated for a little while, but then Gilbert had dropped out of college to join a hard metal band, and his and Lovino's paths didn't cross very often anymore.

Especially not now that Lovino was a well-known, successful trial lawyer with his own private practice (he'd never handled teamwork or bosses very well). He was one of the best in the region, and he knew it. He had a reputation of making people cry in the courtroom. He may not win every case, but no lawyer could match him in temperament.

Until she'd come along. Natalia Arlovskaya. Long, ashy blond hair. Piercing blue, almost violet-looking eyes. Sharp features, sharp movements, sharp voice. Her older brother was weird as fuck, but she was amazing.

She and Lovino had clashed in the courtroom like wild tigers, all gnashing claws and teeth. Everyone else who'd been in the courtroom had left looking frazzled, like they'd been caught in a hurricane, but Lovino had felt invigorated. He hadn't even minded that he'd lost. Words were weapons, and it had been a worthy battle.

Natalia was a force to be reckoned with, just like he was, and he'd never felt so alive. It didn't take many more interactions between them for Lovino to start feeling odd around her, his heart beating faster, his breath coming shorter, a thrill going through him every time he even thought about her.

"You're in love," Feliciano told him, smiling brightly like he always did. "This is so great! You need to ask her out!"

It had taken forever for Lovino to gather the courage to do so. He wasn't used to being afraid of anything, really (well, aside from bad cooking, nefarious-looking mustaches, and large dogs). And usually, if he was afraid, he could cover it in sarcasm and aggression.

Not the best way to ask someone out, even he knew. Words had always been weapons, to him, never tools of seduction.

Finally, finally he'd gathered up the courage to ask her, and it had gone surprisingly well, he'd thought. He hadn't babbled, bumbled, or otherwise mangled his wording. He hadn't blushed, fidgeted, or seemed otherwise nervous or timid.

And she'd said yes. Dio, she'd said yes. And they'd made plans.

He'd dressed up. He'd been willing to go to this French restaurant, even though he liked Italian better. He'd been excited, anticipatory. He'd put on this why-the-fuck-did-you-waste-so-much-money-on-such-a-small-and-unnecessary-object watch.

Which now said that she was forty minutes late. Or was it forty-one? Forty-two? It was so fucking hard to tell, with those analog hands on that steampunk gear background.

She probably wasn't coming.

He wondered what she would have looked like in a nice dress.

"Are you ready to order yet, mon ami?" the French douche of a waiter asked, for what must have been the fiftieth goddamn time. "Because if not, there are other couples waiting for a table..."

"Just a little more time," Lovino muttered, not looking up from his oh-god-why-do-I-own-this watch. He should give her at least another five minutes, right? Maybe her older brother—what the fuck was his face—was being weird and possessive again.

"Of course, mon ami," the waiter said, sounding way to suave and goddamn pitying, and he could hear the couples at the other tables around him murmuring about him and how fucking damn sad was that he'd been stood up like this, and—

The sound of a chair scraping, the table vibrating slightly.

"Sorry I'm so late, babe, traffic is crazy right now," a voice—an unfamiliar voice—said, and Lovino looked up to see a man sitting there across from him, smiling. Green eyes, tanned skin, tousled brown hair. Ruffled white dress shirt.

What. The. Fuck.

Leaning forward, the man whispered, "I'm Antonio. Just go with it, okay? Even if you're not gay. Whoever stood you up is a dick. Or a bitch."

Antonio leaned back, smiling, and all Lovino could do was blink at him.

What. Even. Who the hell did this guy think he was and why the fuck was he doing this? Did he think he was helping him out?

"Are you ready to order, mes amies?" the waiter said, appearing once again, and Lovino almost spat at him to fuck the hell off.

"Yes," Lovino said instead, glancing at Antonio before looking back at the waiter, "I think we're ready." Because he was hungry, damn it, and this Antonio bastard was apparently the kind of good-doing person who would pretend to be someone's date so they didn't have to walk alone out of a restaurant without eating trying not to let their face heat up with shame and embarrassment, and if it meant Lovino got to eat and keep his pride intact, well, he was all for it.

And this Antonio was kinda cute, actually—did he purposefully leave the first few buttons of that shirt undone, or was that on accident, because it was looking pretty damn purposeful—so even if he turned out to be annoying, at least he was nice to look at, so this dinner probably couldn't go too horribly.

Oh, and did Lovino mention that he was hungry? He'd barely eaten any lunch, he'd been so excited about this date.

And Lovino had decided what he wanted to order in the first five minutes of looking at the menu (thank you, Feliciano, for being so obsessed with food and teaching him about French dishes amongst many others), and then had had to stop looking at the menu because reading all the food descriptions was making his mouth water.

"I'll have what he's having!" Antonio declared, brightly. Apparently he didn't know much about French cuisine.

Lovino immediately wished he'd ordered escargot. See how the presumptuous bastard liked eating snails.

A voice in his head, that sounded disturbingly like Feliciano, told him he should try to be nice to the man. He'd kind of saved him, after all. Wasn't that nice of him?

Lovino sighed, narrowing his eyes at this Antonio fellow. Who just smiled at him. Why the fuck was he smiling like that?

"For the record, I'm not gay," Lovino told him matter-of-factly, though quietly. "I'm bi. And, before you ask—because I know you're going to—my name is Lovino Vargas."

"Lovino Vargas," Antonio said, as if he were tasting the name on his tongue. His eyes seemed to light up, for some strange, unfathomable reason. "It is a pleasure to meet you! I guess I didn't introduce myself completely, huh? I'm Antonio Fernández Carriedo. I like to dance, sing, play the guitar, and travel a lot."

Lovino raised an eyebrow. "You're musical and into traveling, huh? Do you happen to know Gilbert Beilschmidt, by any chance?" Because that was just the first thing that popped into his head.

He wasn't really expecting a positive answer, but Antonio beamed, nodding emphatically. "Sí, sí! He's one of my best friends! Along with Francis, who's actually our waiter today."

Huh, Lovino thought. It was a small world after all, wasn't it?

Which immediately brought to mind Feliciano singing that stupid fucking 'It's a small world after-fucking-all' song while skipping around and clapping, and Lovino strangled that memory brutally and shoved it back into the box of REALLY FUCKING ANNOYING MEMORIES DO NOT OPEN EXCEPT UNDER CIRCUMSTANCES WHERE YOU WANT TO MAKE YOURSELF HOMICIDALLY ANGRY.

"I met Gilbert at a concert," Antonio said, still smiling. "How did you meet him?" And he actually looked interested, too.

"He was the older brother of my roommate in college," Lovino said.

Antonio's green eyes lit up. "You were Ludwig's roommate in college?! Oh, that's so cool! What a coincidence!"

"Yeah," Lovino said. Coincidence. At least the man hadn't claimed it was something stupid like fate, or anything like that. That their star signs had lined up or shit. Lovino hated people like that, and he enjoyed crushing them and their petty beliefs. "I haven't spoken to him in a while. I know he got into his top choice for medical school. He's probably a doctor by now, huh?"

"Sí, sí!" Antonio said, and holy shit, did the guy ever stop smiling? "He patched up my face after Gilbert broke my nose when we were in the mosh pit at that concert where we met!"

Lovino stared at him. "You mean you became friends with Gilbert because he broke your nose at a concert and then took you to Ludwig to get it fixed up?"

"Sí!" Antonio said, laughing. "I meet the best people in odd situations! Like Francis—I met him because his car had broken down in the middle of the road, and I stopped to help him push it to the side out of the way and lent him my phone so he could call a tow truck since his had run out of batteries. And then, since I was just on my travel bicycle that could fold up into a suitcase, I rode in the tow truck with him to the mechanic to get his car fixed, and then we went out to lunch while he waited." Antonio was grinning like that was the coolest thing ever. "It was fun! I'd never ridden in a tow truck before! And we found this great little family coffee shop that serves the best pumpkin spice lattes I have ever tasted. And it turned out Francis was really cool and we became fast friends!"

Dio, this guy was crazy. But Lovino's stomach was starting to growl fiercely, so there was no way he was going to leave before the food arrived and he'd eaten it.

"And now I've met you pretending to be your date, and you're really cool, too!" Antonio grinned.

"You don't even know anything about me," Lovino pointed out, fighting the very strong urge to roll his eyes. Seriously, how simple-minded was this guy?

"Not yet!" Antonio said cheerfully. "But we've got all this dinner for you to tell me about yourself!" He leaned back in his chair, smiling expectantly.

Lovino sighed. He supposed trying to carry out a civil conversation—without devolving into any arguments—was the least he could do. Especially if he wanted to see if this guy would foot the bill.

"There's not much to tell," he said. "I'm a trial lawyer. I argue cases in court and yell at people a lot."

"You must have gotten along great with Ludwig!" Antonio laughed, seemingly delighted by this.

"We got into surprisingly few yelling matches, given both our tendencies to incite such," Lovino said, and he couldn't keep his lips from quirking slightly. "Mostly I yelled at him, and he didn't deem it worth his energy to yell back at me. He has a very odd set up pet peeves that I didn't seem able to hit." Lovino found himself humming thoughtfully as he thought back to that time. "He probably would have yelled at me if I'd been messy, but I'm pretty clean and organized by nature, and it wasn't worth the effort to be mess just to frustrate him."

Antonio seemed to find this absolutely hilarious, for some odd reason.

Lovino narrowed his eyes at him. "What's so funny?"

"Imagining you and Ludwig as roommates!" Antonio said, grinning at him. "I wish I'd been there to see that!"

"Yeah, well, you can always ask Gilbert about it," Lovino said, and shrugged. "He hung out a lot. Me and him dated for a time."

"You did?" Antonio said, green eyes widening, and then he was laughing again. "Oh, the two of you must have gotten into so much trouble!"

Lovino found his lips quirking again. "We got kicked out of about three-fourths of the restaurants we visited."

Antonio was laughing so loudly that Lovino was surprised they weren't currently being kicked out of this restaurant.

Which reminded him—"Ugh, when's the food going to get here?" he said, barely able to keep the complaining tone from suffusing his voice. He was hungry. Not starving, no, he was a lawyer and too pedantic about wording for that. But still, his stomach was… well, not happy with him at the moment.

He suddenly wished he'd stayed at home and eaten pasta with his little brother. Feliciano was many things, and a good cook was definitely one of them.

"It'll get here," Antonio said, smiling reassuringly. "It's pretty busy here tonight, which is probably why it's taking so long. But I can vouch for sure that the food here is good!"

"Why, have you ever eaten here?" Lovino snorted. He highly doubted it—Antonio's order earlier had suggested otherwise.

"No," Antonio said, affirming Lovino's assumption. "But Francis works here! Therefore it must be good! Francis is a great cook!"

Lovino snorted again, once more fighting to keep from rolling his eyes. "Francis is a waiter here, not a cook."

"Yeah, but Francis has taste," Antonio said, completely serious. "He knows his food, and he wouldn't work here if the food wasn't merveilleux." The French word, obviously picked up from Francis, sounded strange in Antonio's slight Spanish accent.

Lovino wanted to argue, but restrained himself. It wasn't important. Getting through this meal with this amiable stranger was more important than arguing, at the moment.

Words are not always weapons, he reminded himself. They can be used for other things, too.

He wondered, if Natalia had shown up, if they would have argued the entire time, simply for the sake of argument, since they both loved it so much and were so good at it. He wondered if it would have gotten too heated.

"Well, I hope you're right," Lovino said, instead of picking a fight. "Although admittedly, I'm so hungry right now that they could probably serve potatoes and brotwurst and I'd think it was delicious."

Antonio laughed, at that. "Cierto, cierto! Food always tastes better when you're hungry! I once went on a kayaking trip, and we'd been paddling for hours and were starving, and for lunch we had canned tuna on plain bread, and it was the most delicious thing ever. And I was just like, 'This is so good, why don't I eat this all the time?' And then when I had it for lunch on a normal day, I nearly gagged it was so bad." Antonio laughed again. "I had to surreptitiously feed all the tuna I'd bought to my neighbors' cats!"

Lovino found his lips quirking, despite himself. This was the third time during this conversation with the Spaniard. What the hell was wrong with him tonight?

He was saved from having to come up with a reply when the waiter—Francis, Antonio's friend—arrived with their meals, setting the bowls of soup in front of them.

"Your hors d'œuvre, mes amies," Francis said, smiling like a creep. "Bon Appétit!"

And then Lovino was rather preoccupied with blissful, blissful bisque, and he had never tasted French food that was so good. Which of course probably said more about how hungry he was, than the actual quality of the soup itself.

He finished fast, faster than Antonio, and then he just had to wait for the main course to arrive. Hopefully that wouldn't be too long.

Antonio was taking his time eating the bisque, blowing on each spoonful before putting it into his mouth, and taking a moment to savor the flavor each time, his eyes alight.

"This is quite good!" Antonio said, sipping another spoonful.

"Yeah," Lovino agreed, instead of arguing. It would have been easy to argue, but he was trying not to do that tonight. He could argue with Natalia and yell at her once he saw her at work, chew her out for standing him up like this.

"So, what do you do for a living?" Lovino asked, trying to make conversation and distract himself from the rant he was writing in his head to yell at Natalia the next day. He could work on the rant while trying—and likely mostly failing—to fall asleep that night.

Antonio's eyes brightened again, and Lovino wondered at how they appeared to routinely brighten, but never seemed to dull in between. Surely they were not actually getting brighter each time, otherwise they'd be blinding right now.

"A little bit of this, a little bit of that," Antonio said, like that was somehow something to be proud of and excited about, that he didn't have a steady job. "I travel around and perform Latin dance numbers at venues around the country with a dance troupe, sometimes. Sometimes I play gigs with a band; I play guitar and sometimes sing. I give private dance and guitar lessons sometimes, too. My students are so cute!" he beamed, then, eyes twinkling. "Like Lili and Basch! I'm teaching them to play the guitar. Lili is a very eager and quick learner. Her older brother Basch can be surly at times—apparently he didn't want to learn how to play guitar—but I managed to get him interested, and he's quite dedicated once he puts his mind to something."

Dio, Lovino thought, as he stared at Antonio, how can any one man smile so damn much?

Before he could get very far into imagining what would happen to Antonio's smiling face if he got turned into a zombie and his flesh started falling off, Francis arrived with their plat principal.

It took a moment for Lovino to banish the disturbing zombie imagery before he could start eating, but then the baguette and cheese and the meat course with vegetables and pasta commanded his full attention.

Food, food was wonderful. Except when it was cooked by Feliciano's friend's friend Arthur, who Lovino was already planning a case against for the day he committed murder-by-terrible-food. He wasn't sure if he could convince a judge it was first degree murder, but he would definitely be able to convince them at least of second degree murder.

"You look like you're planning a murder, there," Antonio said, still cheerful to a fault, as he tore into a piece of bread.

"No, just a murder trial," Lovino said, which for some reason made Antonio laugh. Dio, did everything make that man laugh?

Well, probably not kicked puppies. Antonio didn't seem like a man who would laugh at abused cute things. Like lost kittens. He'd probably try to save them, and then laugh when they scratched him, and continue to insist they were adorable.

Yeah, that seemed like the kind of man Antonio was. He seemed like the kind of person who would be hard to argue with simply because he refused to get angry.

Lovino wondered what it would take to make Antonio angry.

He was snapped out of that musing though when Antonio asked, "So, what do you want most out of life?"

"What?" Lovino said, blinking at him.

"What do you want most out of life?" Antonio asked, looking genuinely interested as he sipped his mineral water.

Lovino frowned, shrugging. "Don't you think we don't know each other well enough to be discussing such deep questions?"

"Not at all!" Antonio said, grinning. "I think this is the perfect amount of knowing each other for such a question!"

Lovino closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could argue his way out of answering the question. It would be easy to do so.

But instead he just sighed and shrugged again. He just had to say enough to get the Spanish bastard off his back, anyhow. "A stable, lucrative job, which I already have. A watch that's neither crappy and cheap nor ludicrously expensive. A good argument every now and then. You?" He wasn't really interested, but, well. Making conversation, and all that. Making conversation without arguing.

Feliciano will be so proud of me for this, Lovino thought wryly.

Antonio hummed and looked somewhere over Lovino's left shoulder, as if he hadn't already been thinking about his own answer to the question before he'd asked it. "I want someone to love," he said finally, "and something beautiful to say."

It was all Lovino could do not to snort at that. Okay, sure, the first one—most people probably wanted that, or the other variation of wanting to be loved by someone. But the second? Wanting something beautiful to say? What the fuck was that?

"Something beautiful to say," Lovino repeated flatly, raising an eyebrow.

"Sí," Antonio said, smiling, as he poked another bite of his dwindling dinner with his fork and put it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing.

Lovino waited, but apparently Antonio wasn't going to say any more on the subject, and Lovino decided it really didn't matter and he really didn't care, so he wasn't going to press.

Francis, ever with the impeccable timing, came to their table only a few minutes later to ask if they wanted desert.

"Oui," Antonio said, making Francis laugh.

"What do you think," Antonio said, turning to Lovino, "the mousse au chocolat or the crème brûlée?"

"Your French accent is still atrocious, mon ami," Francis informed him, smirking like the douchebag Lovino had deemed him within three seconds of hearing him talk for the first time.

Antonio just shrugged gracefully and smiled. "I try, mi amigo! Which is more than can be said for you. You don't ever try to say anything in Spanish."

"It's because I know I would sound terrible in comparison to you," Francis said, winking.

Lovino wanted to gag, like he used to do as a kid whenever he saw something that disgusted him. But he was an adult now, and a professional with a law degree, so he didn't.

"You can't get better if you don't try!" Antonio protested, still in good humor.

"The crème brûlée," Lovino cut in smoothly. (He'd never really liked chocolate. Feliciano liked to be dramatic and say that there was something terribly, horribly wrong with him because of that, but Lovino had argued him out of that notion each time. It had happened so often he practically had his defense memorized and could probably recite it in his sleep.)

Francis and Antonio looked at him in surprise.

"Your French accent is quite good," Francis told him, looking rather shocked.

It was a good look on the French bastard. Lovino allowed his lips to curl slightly in a smirk.

He pondered whether to take the humble route and point out that he was Italian and Italian had similarities to French, but he decided instead to drawl, "Some of us are just talented, I guess," which made Francis somewhat annoyed and Antonio laughed.

That Spaniard dick seemed to laugh at everything he said.

Lovino knew for certain that he was, in fact, not a funny person. There was no reason for Antonio to laugh at everything—or anything—that he said.

"The crème brûlée it is!" Antonio said, grinning, and well, he got a point for not asking Lovino something stupid, like 'What, you don't like chocolate?' or anything like that.

Francis smiled slightly, nodded, and disappeared, and Antonio reached across the table to pat Lovino on the shoulder, still grinning.

Grinning, grinning, grinning. Seriously, weren't the guy's cheeks aching something fierce by now? And why the hell did he feel the need to pat Lovino on the shoulder, anyway? They weren't actually on a date, there was no reason to be all touchy-feelsy. Lovino shifted away slightly, frowning.

"Hey, Lovino?" Antonio said, still fucking smiling, the bastard.

"Yes?" Lovino said warily, narrowing his eyes at the other man.

"Can I call you Lovi?"

"No," Lovino said immediately.

"But—"

"No," Lovino said sternly. "No buts."

Antonio pouted. Like, actually fucking pouted. Dio, how old was this guy? Lovino should probably ask that and make sure he wasn't on a fake date with someone way younger than him.

"But—"

"No. Buts," Lovino ground out.

"Okay, okay!" Antonio said, holding up his hands placatingly. "I just thought it would be cute!"

Lovino was about to say something that likely would have been scalding, but Francis decided to show up at that moment with their dessert, smiling like a smug asshole.

Lovino had to hand it to the Frenchman—his timing was impeccable. Yet again. Now if he could just work on not looking like such a pervert, then maybe he'd be somewhat tolerable.

"Your dessert, mes amis," he smiled.

"Thanks, Francie!" Antonio grinned, and Lovino wanted to gag again. He'd never, ever understood nicknames. Ever. Unless they were rude ones that involved insults.

Francis gave a little, gag-inducing bow and retreated again, leaving Lovino and Antonio alone with the rich vanilla custard and its topping of hard caramel.

Lovino and Antonio looked at each other over the dessert, and—Lovino's honestly not quite sure what it spurred it on—suddenly they were both reaching for their spoons and diving into the dish, trying to eat as much of it as they could before the other, stealing scoops from each other's spoons and trying to steal the scoops back.

By the time the dessert was gone, Lovino belatedly realized he was laughing.

When was the last time he'd laughed like this?

After an exhilarating argument with Natalia, he remembered. But thinking about her didn't make him feel as bitter as it had earlier. His mood must have improved from his having eaten.

Francis returned with the bill, looking oddly, terribly, terrifyingly smug about something, and Lovino wonder briefly if he'd put something in the custard, but then disregarded that idea because Antonio had eaten the custard too, and Antonio was Francis's friend, so Francis probably wouldn't want to poison him or drug him or anything.

Lovino and Antonio ended up splitting the bill equally.

When he stood up from the table and started to leave, Antonio quickly latched onto his elbow.

Lovino glared and tried to shake him off. "What are you—!"

"We're a couple, remember?" Antonio said, smiling. "We should at least play it up until we're out of sight."

Lovino grumbled, but relented, letting the Spaniard hang on his arm as they walked a ways down the sidewalk.

"Alright," he said, turning to glare at the other man. "You can let go n—"

He was silenced by Antonio's lips on his.

"Wh—wha—?" he stammered, when Antonio pulled back, smiling. Lovino touched his fingers to his lip in disbelief. "Did you—did you just kiss me, you bastard?!"

"It's not a date without a kiss, is it?" Antonio said, still smiling, goddamn him.

Lovino was about to start yelling at him, finally let loose that side of him that had been itching to yell and argue all night, but Antonio spoke before he could, saying brightly, "I really enjoyed that date with you! Would you be willing to go on another with me?"

Lovino's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. "You," he said, staring incredulously. "You want to go on a date with me?"

"We kind of just went on a date," Antonio pointed out, "but it wasn't an official one, since technically I was only pretending to be the date you'd be waiting for. But, since your date never showed up, I'm assuming you're not with them anymore, sí? So how would you like to go out with me on a real date, next time?"

Antonio was smiling beautifully at him.

You don't need to say something beautiful, Lovino thought at him distractedly. You're smile is more than e-fucking-nough.

"Uhm," Lovino said, and internally cursed himself. He never said 'uhm,' not anymore. It had been drilled out of him when he was training to be a trial lawyer. "Yeah, sure."

Why? Why did I just say that? he wondered, watching in a strange sense of detachment as Antonio cheered and quickly pulled out a slip of paper from his pocket and a pen—why the hell did he have those with him and had they been there the whole time?—and scribbled down his phone number and the clichéd phrase, call me! and handed it to him, still beaming like Lovino had the fucking sun shining out of his ass.

And then Antonio pulled him into a hug, squeezing slightly—not to an uncomfortable degree, just enough to feel… reassuring? Welcoming? Enthusiastic? Warm?

Lovino's mind as abuzz as Antonio let go, asked him if he could get home okay, and, assured that he would, left in an excited twirl and what looked like some kind of dance step.

For several moments after Antonio had disappeared from sight, Lovino just stood and stared down at the number scrawled on the piece of paper, and those two words along with it.

Slowly, he smiled.

He'd gotten asked out on a date. By someone who was cute and not entirely unpleasant, no less. Someone he'd managed to not even argue with for over an hour.

Feliciano was going to be so proud of him.

END.