-Lovino-
He groaned, and smacked his head on the table in front of him. He was trying to focus on his proffesore's lecture, but his head kept ringing with stupid thoughts of that green-eyed idiot. If he kept this up, the next two months here were going to be hell.
"Is he alright? Should I confront him?"
"No. It's not my place."
"But I'm concerned…"
"NO! You. Are. Not."
"Stupid Spaniard with his stupidly dreamy green eyes, fucking sultry accent, and damn nice ass-"
It was at that point that Lovino had yelled/screeched out in utter terror, and everyone's eyes shot towards him. He felt his face burn, and he mumbled that he saw a rat in the corner. Immediately, people were standing up, sitting on desks, and a few left the room, despite the teacher's best efforts to calm them down.
He decided to exit stage left at that point.
-Lovino-
He flopped face down onto his bed. He recollected against his will the sheer, utter, blissful fluffiness of Antonio's bed, and his cheeks reddened at the thought of how much better it would be with the Spaniard in it. But all of these thoughts could go straight down to hell, because that's where he would rather be than admit them to the other's face.
It was ridiculous just how irritating one idiot could be without even being present.
His phone buzzed, and Lovino sighed, and looked at the screen. It was another selfie of Antonio, this time with his pet bull and turtles. He had balked at the thought of him keeping a bull as a pet, but Antonio had told him the story. Apparently, during one of his first fights, they had a bull who refused to go out into the arena. He watched in utter terror as they dragged it, unwilling, and shut the gate. Now a normal person would claim that this was an easy fight, and finish it lickity-split. But of course that pure-hearted imbecile had refused to fight something that didn't fight back, and took it in as a pet. One would think that a bull would be all 'ha-ha fucker~' and turn on him, but the damn thing was like his dog, only bigger, and a lot more threatening.
But Antonio had begged for (and then demanded, when Lovino did his whole embarrassed cussing shtick) his number over that Saturday breakfast, and he had mumbled and grumbled, but gave it to him under the condition that he not send him stupid shit. And of course that fucker proceeded to send nothing but stupid shit.
Selfies of himself with his pets, at stores he was visiting, and with his stupid friends. He texted him updates on random shit that'd happened, and asked Lovino if anything interesting had happened to him. He always used a different fucking…pet name… in each of his texts as well.
A basket of ripe tomatoes on his countertop.
'Look, Lovi! I had an awesome harvest this morning, mi querido!'
A picture of him and his 'pets'.
'The turtles and Senor Toro miss you just as much as I do, mi estrella!'
His friends on a crowded street, munching on pastries.
'I love these! They're really sweet, but not as sweet as you mi corazon :D'
'I got a hole in my favorite harvesting pants, Lovi D: I guess it time for new ones, si mi amor?'
He knew it was girly and shit, but the pet names didn't piss him off as much as they should have. He would never admit it to anyone but himself, but he…enjoyed having someone be affectionate towards him, for once. And you might say, 'well, Lovino, if you were nicer then you would have more friends, like Feliciano!', and to that, he'd say 'fuck you'. Because he wasn't nice. He wasn't nice, or sweet, or bubbly, or cheerful, and he didn't want to be. And if people just shrugged and pushed him aside, then whatever.
Didn't mean it didn't sting like a motherfucker, though.
So yes, Antonio was a rare exception to the normal rule, but that didn't mean he was going to do something rash and snuggle up to him or anything.
-Lovino-
He had gotten up to use the restroom in the middle of the night when it had happened.
He was walking back, about to get back into bed, when he noticed the open window. He scrunched his brows. He was sure he'd closed that before he went to bed. As a matter of fact, it was closed when he had gotten up to the bathroom.
What the fuck?
He walked over, eyebrows scrunched and on high alert as he slammed it shut again. Before he could shuffle back towards the bed, still wary, someone grabbed him, and put a cloth over his mouth. He struggled, attempting to head-butt the hell out of his captor, but his attempts proved futile, and he couldn't help but shed a few scared tears as he fell unconscious.
The culprit waited a moment for the Italian's movements to die down, before removing the cloth from his face. He threw him over his shoulder, and searched the room. He found his prize on the bed; the young Italian's cell-phone. He clicked in the passcode, which his…informants…had gotten for him. He 'tch'ed in distaste as he looked over the past messages. Fucker was as stupid as ever.
Typing in a quick message, he dumped the cell on the bed, re-opened the window, and lowered the bait down towards the waiting men below, who tied him, gagged him, and threw him into the back of a discreet, black SUV. He jumped down himself, and climbed into the driver's seat. Chuckling darkly, he drove off into the night, the only trace left being the text message he had sent.
-Antonio-
Antonio had been startled awake by his cell-phone buzzing by his ear. He normally didn't answer it, but the tone he set for his Lovi's number jolted him awake quick as a whip. What could Lovi be texting him for at this hour? It was past midnight.
He flipped open his phone, and his blood ran frigidly cold and yet somehow boiling hot as he read the message that had been sent from Lovi's phone.
'Come to the old warehouse. You know the one. Clock's ticking, gilipollas (asshole, shithead, you get the gist). Get here too slow, and you won't be the only one facing the consequences.'
He jumped out of bed, rushing towards his closet. As he snatched something out of a box in the very back, a familiar feeling he thought he had lost the ability to feel long ago pulsing through his veins.
Cold, dark, burning bloodlust.
He knew that the medicine was keeping it at bay, but he still figured it was locked away sufficiently. Oh, was he wrong. He couldn't help but crack a twisted smile as he shot down the stairs, turning down the darkest corridor past the living room. He had kept everyone in the center, most lit part of the house, but it was down the darkest pathways were all the interesting things were kept. No sun ever reached this section of the house, so the cold, drafty air may as well have been the icy fingers of ghosts as he reached his destination.
Intimidating portraits lined the walls of the corridor he was stalking down, and their eyes seemed to follow the young man who was running past them. They seemed to whisper among themselves, acknowledging that he was one of them.
Opening his clenched fist, it was revealed that what he held was a key. He shoved it in the lock, turned it, and kicked the door open. A layer of dust shot up from the long-neglected room, and he stomped down the stairs, grabbing a flashlight off the table. Clicking it on, he found himself face to face with the pride of the Fernandez-Carriedo legacy.
The armory.
It held the choice weapons of all the past members of the familia. His great-grandfather's sword. His grandmother's knives. His great-uncle's guns. The glass cases held the unspoken records of every violent crime committed for the search of a gold-lined dream; power, wealth, and influence. But he wasn't there to take a trip down the utterly fucked-up memory lane. He stood before his old friend, hand trembling as he reached forward. This had starred in a multitude of his nightmares, and he wasn't ready to relive them.
But his Lovi was in danger.
That seemed to snap him out of it.
Hesitation gone, he wrapped his hand around the wooden handle, letting its memories wash over him. It was just as he'd remembered. Pulling it down, he marveled at the weight, and how light it seemed compared to when he was first learning. Giving the axe an experimental swing, the blade sang as it cut through the air. It was like he wasn't out of practice at all. It was an extension of himself; and his muscles remembered it, as if it's only been a day instead of almost ten years. His twisted smile grew larger, and he rested it on his shoulder while texted his friends. Once he was done, he carried it out to the car, and drove to the place that he'd never forget for as long as he'd live.