-Lovino-

Lovino was speechless for about a minute, his mouth opening and closing while his fried brain tried to force words out of his mouth. Antonio merely chuckled, and declared in a chipper voice that he was going to make breakfast. He finally settled on yelling for the bastard to get out so he could get dressed. Antonio had asked in a very serious tone if he could watch, as recompense for last night. He broke out laughing even harder (what the fuck, why did all of these perverts have weird laughs? Was it a requirement? How could someone's chuckles be so sexy while his cackle was so not?), and ran for the door when he screeched like a fisherman's wife and began throwing the numerous pillows on the bed at him, wishing that A., they were something much, much heavier, and B., he was much, much stronger.

Once he was alone, he let himself flop back down onto the bed. He rolled over a bit, enjoying the size and fluffiness of it, wishing he could have one of these of his own. Bastard probably didn't even appreciate it, anyway; he had slept on a short couch, contorted into a weird position, and yet he had slept like a fucking log. And then, because he was immature, he got up and bounced on it a bit. He snickered like an elementary schooler on a sugar-rush, bouncing without caring. Nonno would never have let them do something like this. So he jumped to his heart's content, at least until his bitch of a hangover decided to remind him of its existence, and he stopped immediately.

-Lovino-

He had wandered into the bathroom on a mission. That asshole had to have kept some Tylenol or something in his medicine cabinet. So he strolled up to the sinks, rifling through them. The left one was empty save for some paper cups and extra toothbrushes. The one on the right was fuller, but not by much. Standard stuff: toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, mouthwash, etcetera, alongside a simple comb, razor, and brush. Wow, the bastard really didn't have to do much in the morning, did he?

That was so fucking unfair.

But he was there for a reason, and he found them on the last shelf. He pulled them down, but because his life was a bitch, all of the things behind it on the overstuffed shelf came toppling down. He grumbled, and bent down to pick them up. The fuck? There had to be like ten orange prescription bottles that had fallen out, and they were all full. Because he was a nosy little shit, he turned them over and inspected the labels. They were all Antonio's and for the same prescription.

Anxiety medication?

What the ever-loving fuck did an over-excitable idiot like Antonio need anxiety medication for? He wasn't trying to be stereotypical, but didn't people with anxiety act all quiet and stressed out and shit? That bastard seemed like the complete opposite of that. And Antonio wasn't even taking them, from the looks of it. He remembered the display that he had witnessed at the arena. That hadn't been what he would have considered normal, Antonio-esque behavior either.

He had to ask about this. He was in lo-like, with the moron, after all.

-Lovino-

"Antonio's not taking his medication?"

Francis' eyebrows scrunched as Lovino hissed the information. They were sitting in the main room, waiting for Antonio to finish breakfast. Gilbert was still passed out in his bed, and Francis assured him that the smell of food usually punched him awake as good as anything. Matthew was hiding under his covers, much like he had, and he had just promised to bring him up a plate and some painkillers as a sort of apology for last night (Francis claimed that for someone so shy, Matthew became rather blunt and kind of rude when intoxicated).

"I don't think so. I mean, there were a bunch of unopened pill bottles for the same damn thing."

Francis sighed.

"He had sworn to us that he was. We should have checked."

"Checked for what, damn it? I know that it's not your place or whatever, but if I'm going to be trying to do…whatever…with the asshole, I need to know!"

"Keep your voice down! Fine. Fine. I'll give you an overview. But you have to go to the source if you have any questions, you understand?"

He ran a hand over his face.

"Antonio's family…they weren't the best people. In fact, they were the worst people. They were like a storm cloud; everywhere they went, they spread disaster, devastation, and destruction. As far as the family tree had been tracked, up until his grandfather took over, the head of the Carriedo family had been a ruthless dictator, ruling over both his family and his soldiers with an iron fist. Antonio and his older brother Fernando were both raised in that toxic environment, and learned about the dark side of life when they were very young.

They were taught that the ruthless were victorious, and that the selfless were a weak speck to be crushed beneath your foot. They were taught to fight, to trample; to lie, cheat, and even kill if the need arose. Fernando thrived in that environment, but Antonio didn't. He grew up just as bad, of course, but he had a lot more trouble just brushing it off like Fernando did. His father beat him regularly, spitting that he was a disgrace to his family and that weakness ran through his veins, tainting him. His grandfather, who Antonio inherited his love of bullfighting from, realized just how bad the situation was, and in the middle of the night, he stole Antonio away, and fled to America.

At least from where Gil and I first met him, he was a total, utter bastard. But as we befriended him, he slowly dropped the persona, and morphed into the lovable idiot we know today. He was just a regular teenager, who lived for futbol, hated math with a passion, stuffed his face, pranked other students, and loved to help his grandfather garden. He lived under a new name, in a new place, and his troubles couldn't reach him anymore. Sure, he still had nightmares from before, and guilt from what he'd done and the crimes he'd committed, but he had moved on to the best of his abilities. It was all well and fine.

But when his grandfather grew old, and was on his deathbed, he told Antonio that he was his successor, not his father, or his older brother. His final wish was that none of the others got their hands on any of his belongings; that they never saw a dime. Too much blood had been spilled over those items; too many lives ended in exchange for money. And his grandfather wanted it to end before he closed his eyes. Antonio had cried, but promised.

It was when his father had stepped up to claim what was his that he found out it wasn't. He'd called Antonio a liar and a traitor, but what was done was done. Even when he took legal steps, the will clearly said that everything, and I mean everything, was togo to Antonio. All the blood money, all the stolen items, all of the fruit of the corrupt actions his family had taken, Antonio wanted none of it. But he wouldn't go against his grandfather's wishes either. So he was cast out of the family, never to be spoken of or to again, under his father's orders.

It broke our poor Toni's heart. Even if they were despicable, they were still his flesh and blood. So for a while, he grappled with crippling anxiety, afraid to touch, hear, or see anything that was a remnant of his old lifestyle. When we three moved in, he began to purge everything from the house. He threw things away, locked things up, and gave things to charities. He promised himself that he would lead a simple life, just as he had done before, and become a bullfighter, just as he had dreamed.

But he still needs to take that medication. It helps with flashbacks and relapses. I'd wondered why he'd been so testy lately."

Lovino blinked. It didn't seem like it could be possible. And then Antonio called out in that carefree tone of voice of his, and he felt like crying again. Not even for himself, but for the small Antonio whose life had been ruined so young. But…he understood him a little better. He knew what to expect. And if Antonio ever felt like crying, well...

He hoped that his shoulder would do.

A/N I'M SO SORRY, BUT THIS PART IS IMPORTANT TO THE PLOT. I almost cried while writing it. Poor Toni T.T