-Antonio-

He had graciously offered to be tonight's designated driver, to which Gilbert and Francis enthusiastically agreed. He had pretended to be disappointed, but in truth he had ulterior motives. See, him and su amigos were different types of drunk.

Francis was a…lover's drunk. His normally sometimes overly-affectionate friend became a one-hundred on a scale of one-to-ten when it came to seducing people. He made use of all of his facilities on full blast, and he almost always landed a partner (or three, that was an interesting ride home) before the night was over. Gilbert was a go-big-or-go-home drunk. His emotions swung like a pendulum, and they were always extreme. Either he was laughing his ass off, or he was sobbing uncontrollably. Or that one time he had over-estimated his 'awesomeness', and tried to climb the vines on the side of his ex-girlfriend's house and tag her window. He had only made it halfway before the wood had cracked under his weight, and split right down the middle; the whole debacle had only lasted a few seconds and somehow he wound up with a piece of wood straight to the vital regions. Try explaining that to a doctor at three A.M.

Which they had to do.

*Snicker*

But anyway, according to Francis and Gilbert, he was a…confident drunk. Well, Francis had said that. Gilbert had just straight up called him an asshole drunk. And he knew he wasn't the best person when he was intoxicated…

Oh, who was he kidding?

He was a dick.

Get him completely and utterly hammered, and he broke hearts, got into fights, and never turned down dares. It was like he was sixteen all over again; a cocky sonuvabitch who had no boundaries. Thankfully, he had quite a high alcohol tolerance, so he didn't reach that level very often, but when he had, did he do it thoroughly. He had recalled some nights that the morning after, he wanted to punch himself in the face. The last time he had done so, he had been dancing, and he bumped into a girl. The girl had taken it that he was flirting, and (very snottily, in his defense) informed him that she had a boyfriend. He had informed her that 'fake-blonde, fake-boobed, catty bitches' weren't his type anyway. Long story short, the boyfriend came into the picture, taunts were made, punches were thrown, and a rather messy scene involving a broken bottle and a barstool had left him with scraped up knuckles, a bruise on his cheek, a bruised rib, and a promise the next morning to never reach that level of drunk again. So out of fear that he would make an ass out of himself, especially in front of Lovi, the object of his affections whom he was trying to thoroughly win over, no, he would not be drinking.

-Antonio-

The three men were waiting in the main room for the two younger ones to appear. It had been Matthew's turn to be dragged kicking and screaming (figuratively, unlike his Lovi) up the stairs, and they were waiting for them to emerge from Lovino's room. He had chosen the room next to Antonio's (he was more excited about that than he should have been), second closest to the stairs, so they could hear the thumps and bangs from over their heads. The sound of something breaking should have alarmed them, but the following shriek and responding shout of "get your ass back here, Williams!" negated any fear of a threat. About an hour later, the violent noises stopped, and the echo of a door slamming open and slamming shut assaulted their eardrums. The voices grew clearer as they descended the stairs and made their way to the room where they were waiting.

"You, my friend, are one surprisingly wily fucker."

"I didn't even want to go in the first place! And what's with these clothes?"

"I am Italian, and therefore must always be impeccably dressed. It's in my DNA."

"But didn't you bring any hoodies with you? Or sweats?"

"Yes. But one, they are not sweats, they are track pants with a matching jacket, and they are Gucci, thank you very much. And two, you can't go out to a nice restaurant and club in sweats, anyway."

"…You own Gucci sweats?"

"They're not sweats. And yes. Problem?"

"…I feel like I should have one with something in this conversation. I just don't know what."

Lovino snorted.

"Let me know when you figure it out."

They arrived seconds after the end of the conversation, Lovino strutting in confidently, and Matthew shuffling behind him, looking rather uncomfortable. Antonio sat up straight from his position with his arms on his knees, eyes widening without his consent.

Dios Mio.

His Lovi looked…wow.

Now, he hadn't seen Lovino in anything worn or that was oversized, but he hadn't seen him in clothes so…form-fitting either. The tight, dark-wash jeans he wore left nothing to the imagination, hugging every curve and dip that he didn't know he had. The red button-down (which he left the top button undone, and he couldn't lie and say that he wasn't dreaming of licking that collarbone) emphasized his trim waist and stood out against his lightly tanned skin. On top of that was a black vest left un-buttoned. Add a loosely tied black tie, a belt with stripes in the colors of the Italian flag, and clean-as-a-whistle, red and white, expensive looking high-tops (Lovino knew he was going clubbing after all, and wasn't planning on scuffing his nicest shoes), and you had a recipe for a sexy, yet somehow still cute Italian young man.

Matthew was Lovino's polar opposite. His jeans were a shade lighter, but still just as tight as Lovino's. His button down was a light blue and half-tucked, and was left un-buttoned to show off a white, tight V-neck. He was a little taller than Lovino, about a few centimeters or so, so every movement had a chance of revealing the skin of his torso. He didn't have on a tie, but he did have on a white hat that hid most of his unruly curls (somehow his one long hair strand still stuck out, though), and a grey and blue striped belt. On his feet were equally expensive looking black Converse, which were probably really Prada or something like that. The whole outfit looked like Lovi had tried to compromise, but drew a stubborn line in the sand that Matthew still wasn't too comfortable with. He just screamed innocence, despite how he was dressed. He was the cute angel to his Lovi's enticing demon.

Francis just clicked his tongue at the idiotic sights his friends made. Gilbert had a confused, but wide-eyed stare, as if he knew what he wanted, but didn't know why. So he just kept staring. Antonio just looked like how a hungry wolf would look before it ate its prey. He could almost see the drool leaking out of his friend's mouth.

Ah, what amour did to you.

-Lovino-

He had spent a fuck-ton of time getting Matthew and himself ready. Picking out the clothes was easy, even though Matthew's outfit looked so informal it made him cry, but the real issue had been getting Matthew in them. He had stamped his foot, yelling that "damn it all, Williams, this is as dressed down as I am letting you leave this house." That led to him running after the panicking teen, ripping off articles of clothing every time he caught up with him. It was only when he was in his boxers and socks that he realized that no, he was not giving his clothes back, and yes, if he wanted to wear something he could either put on the damn outfit or walk down the corridor half-naked to his own room.

So that was how he found themselves standing in the entryway of the main room, finally ready. He had strolled in like he owned the place, confident in the way that only your best, sexiest outfit could make you feel (no, he did not choose to bring this outfit because of the Spanish bastard. And so what if he did, damn it? Not that he had). It also didn't hurt that the young matador was zoned in on him, looking up and down slowly before meeting his eyes. He couldn't help but flush a little (a lot) when they made eye contact. He looked away, and scowled.

"So, are we fucking leaving or what?"

Antonio blinked, and then shook his head to clear it.

"Que? Oh! Si, si! Let's go, mi amigos, while the night is still young!"