II. We are Young
Antonio Fernandez Carriedo wakes up the next morning to weary sunlight and remembers he's the most ungrateful man in existence.
Of course it wasn't like that in his dream - it never is when he gets to choose how his life plays out; it never is in his head. Last night's was an alcohol-drenched delusion with lots of flamenco dancing, a little singing somewhere in the mix, and a face. Not hers, though. Never hers. This was a face like a moon with flashing golden eyes and small reserved mouth and exquisite frown. A fragile and oddly beautiful face.
But above all he recalls those hands in his own. Those small warm hands.
It takes a good minute or two to remember who that was, and why he's here in bed at five-thirty in the morning, instead of passed out at the bar or decapitated in an alley or whatever else befalls stupid drunk men in the dead of night. As soon as Antonio remembers he catapults out of bed, hangover notwithstanding, throws on a new set of clothes and races downtown to the local bar. It's only an accident his briefcase accompanies him. He's nearly forgotten the possible business meeting with the possible business partner at eight a.m., the reason why he's here free and not in Barcelona.
His priorities are a mess, but then again they've always been.
When Antonio arrives at the bar, which he nearly misses on his first brisk walk past, the lights are off and there's no one present save a lanky young man wiping down the countertops and whistling to himself. Antonio barely takes note of how white his hair is, almost absent of color, and runs up and taps him while he's bent over a table.
"Morning," he says, still catching his breath, as crimson eyes stare at him first with surprise and then with recognition. He doesn't pause to consider it. The guy's name tag reads Gilbert. "I'm looking for someone - do you know if - "
"Who?"
"I - " Antonio can't recall the name; it's as slippery in his mind as the memory of the small fragile man who slipped out of his grasp the other night. "I think he's a bartender here - I saw him last night. He helped me get back home."
Gilbert's eyes narrow - or maybe it's simply a trick of the light. He eyes the briefcase flopping by Antonio's side. "The one with the late-night shift? He helped you?"
"Yes. One of them, anyway. I don't remember his name - he's kind of short, has brown hair, frowns - "
"Oh. Okay. I know who you're talking about." A name is not forthcoming. "He's not here yet. You wanted to see him?"
"Yeah. I - I can't stay right now but I'll come back later." Antonio rummages in his briefcase for the pad of paper he knows is in there, and tears out a sheet and dashes off a Thank you; the other things he wants to say can wait till later. He folds the paper up and gives it to Gilbert. "Could you - please tell him this is from me, and that I'll be along soon?" The man nods wordlessly. "Thank you so much."
And after that more racing is in order - almost a block till he spots a cab, and his destination is suddenly not that far off at all. He glances through the contents of his briefcase, flips through all the files on his vineyards (his now, he keeps having to remind himself, not his father's), and struggles not to fall asleep. Being an heir in the wine industry is so very difficult.
Then Antonio thinks again of the beautiful woman back home as he always does when he's abroad - of her sitting by the window, the sunlight catching her golden hair just so, her smile wistful and kind and pining, every fold of her dress precisely placed, every curve of her body perfectly silhouetted and awaiting his return - and an involuntary shudder runs down his spine, followed by a massive wave of guilt.
Why - why does he never see in her the things other people see?
He manages to leave the office two hours later without stumbling, forgetting everything that went on the moment he exits through the door. Just some standard jargon about extending the circle of customers and maximizing profits and limiting liability - so cold, he thinks, all these businessmen plotting their next moves like generals before a war, as if he isn't one of them already.
But that's that. There goes his only excuse for leaving Spain and traveling halfway across the world.
It's not as if Bella needs to know, though. He's never told her about the twenty other times he left his meetings and traversed city streets alone in bouts of wanderlust. They've only been married three years. No reason to give everyone heart attacks over what he's been doing (or not doing) on his business trips.
To his credit, however, Antonio hasn't been seeing anyone outside of their marriage, and there's never been a reason to doubt that. He's just - what's the expression - testing the ropes. Trying to see how far he can stretch with these fetters still on. That's about it.
But right now, far is not far enough. He drops off all his business crap, heads back the way he came and finds the bar, which in broad daylight is only a set of double doors ensconced between two larger restaurant-flat type buildings. That's all there is to it. He's surprised he even found the place on his first night; but maybe he was meant to be there.
Even if it's just to see that undeniably beautiful face from afar, through a crowd of noontime drinkers, which is exactly what he's seeing now as he pushes through the doors and into cool dimness.
The same golden eyes from his dream catch him and hold him in his place, and the small man at the counter freezes in response. A slight red flush creeps up his cheeks and then, without warning, he's darting away.
"Wait!" shouts Antonio and runs after him, dodging teetering old men and teetering young men and almost bumping into a girl in spike heels, and catches up to him at the left-most counter. The short man, whose name he still can't remember, crosses his arms and glares at him. Maybe Antonio's only imagining the wavering of his expression.
"What do you want?" the bartender demands.
"Nothing." Antonio takes a seat and realizes how much his head's hurting him. "I just wanted to thank you for helping me. Yesterday ni - "
"Don't mention it," interrupts the man swiftly. "Would you like a drink?"
"No, not right now, but - "
"Then you're taking up space. I'll have to ask you to leave."
"Wait, wait - okay, just give me a beer, then. And - " The man's already whisking away but Antonio just manages to catch sight of his name tag. Lovino. How did he forget? "Uh - Lovino!"
"What?" snaps Lovino, coming back to set a green bottle in front of him. There are dark circles under his bright eyes. "I don't have much time."
Antonio fishes in his pockets, finds a little money, and sets it on the table. "Here - I think I forgot to pay yesterday."
"No need," says Lovino, after eyeing the bills for a minute. "That was on the house."
"No, take it!"
"No." Lovino pushes the money back across the counter. "Your friend paid for you already."
"What friend? I didn't come with a friend. Come on, just take the money. You can think of it as a tip - for helping me yesterday."
For a long moment Lovino is silent. Then he sweeps the dollars into his pocket, turns on his heel, and starts walking away.
"Wait!"
This time Lovino doesn't turn around. His body is tense as if he's expecting something.
"What?"
"When - when do you get off your shift?"
"Why?"
"I... I'd just like to talk to you. If you have time. Is that okay?"
"… Fine."
"So when - "
"In another hour," says Lovino over his shoulder, and leaves him sitting there, under a naked fluorescent bulb, in a crowd of disreputable men.
"You're back!"
Lovino doesn't look happy to be seeing him again, but he follows Antonio out and they lean against what little brick wall the bar has. It's no less noisy here than back inside, but without the badly chosen music and drunken shouts and other unidentified background sounds, the building's exterior is definitely the better place to be, for talking at least.
Watching the sky and waiting, Antonio takes a measured swig of beer. Lovino, meanwhile, gazes down at the cement and rummages in his pockets to reveal a lighter and a box of cigarettes. Opening the box, he tips it toward Antonio.
"You smoke?" the Spaniard asks, genuinely surprised.
"Who doesn't?" Lovino snorts, as if this shouldn't be news and Antonio's from another planet. "I don't aim to kill myself doing it, if that's what you're asking. I'm not a chain-smoker."
Antonio politely declines the offer and watches as Lovino lights his cigarette, puffing smoke into the already choked air. There's something fascinating in the way his delicate fingers maneuver the paper cylinder, right here, just so, tucking it in the left corner of his mouth and then drawing it out again. Tendrils of smoke breeze out through his lips and surround his face in a warm grey halo, accentuating the fine shape of his pale jaw.
"Are you going to look at me the whole time, or do you actually have something to say?" Lovino demands to the house across the street, finishing and crushing the cigarette under his shoe, and Antonio straightens up right away, averting his eyes.
"Well..." he says, looking anywhere except at Lovino. "I hope I didn't hold you up last night, when I was drunk. I get pretty stupid when I'm drunk. I was yesterday, wasn't I?"
Lovino's eyes flash at him and then, a second later, he's studying the ground again. "You don't remember a thing, do you?"
Maybe he missed something, then; Antonio frowns and tries his hardest to dredge up the night before, but he can't. Lovino's face keeps reappearing in his memory and that's all there is to it. He just really hopes nothing happened, like -
"Did I - " he asks, but Lovino cuts him off, with a hardness in his eyes Antonio never noticed before.
"You made a fool of yourself. That's all. It's probably best I don't remind you."
"Oh."
Antonio feels oddly lost for words; he downs some more beer. Just one step closer to whatever madness he was the night before. But the noontime sky seems so near, so warm; and the warmth of the man beside him adds to the security.
"It's been fifteen minutes," says Lovino to no one in particular. "I need to go back in half an hour."
Sometime during their non-conversation, they've drifted from their original spot and wandered further down the street, passing a bus stop and finally stopping at a bench in the middle of nowhere. Lovino sits down first and Antonio follows suit, marveling at the exquisite empty feeling of being alone yet surrounded by tons of people. "So do you usually take 45-minute breaks?" he asks.
"Yeah." Lovino's glance toward him is suspicious. "Why?"
"I pass by here most of the time, so... I might just drop by every once in a while." His bottle is empty now, which should prove his point. "Who knows, things happen," he goes on, enjoying the slow mushy laziness of his brain. Thinking is unnecessary.
Lovino lets out a disbelieving chuckle.
"You'd do all that for me, huh?" His voice sounds more forced than otherwise. Antonio sneaks a peek at his face and finds no amusement in it. The brightness of Lovino's eyes notwithstanding, there's a certain bleakness to them that tugs at his feelings, a certain echo of the inner recesses of his own heart.
"Sure," he says for lack of a better answer, and then, because it's been burning in the back of his mind for so long, "How old are you?"
He doesn't mean to offend, of course, but when one is perfectly inebriated and at the mercy of someone with such small hands and delicate face and shining sharp eyes, how can one keep silent?
"You asked me before." Lovino is quiet. "I'm twenty. Twenty-one in March."
"Oh." The age of youth, of freedom, of wild abandon. But Lovino is none of that, and Antonio thinks he knows why. "That's young," he says anyway.
At that Lovino's eyes flash, the sharpness of stars on a summer night, and Antonio doesn't know this only a repeat of a previous conversation. "If that bothers you," he retorts, "I can mix you something that will knock you out in seconds. Want to try me?"
Antonio stares at him, and then he laughs. Lovino stares back. Then for some reason he laughs too, a loud raucous completely fabricated sound, and Antonio reaches out and slaps his back and they're merry for a short while, in the standard manner of strangers.
There's something even in the way he hurts that makes him feel he's not alone -
Guilt inflames him that night as he lies down on his too-small bed, his mind newly lucid at last. The stars are his eyes and the moon is his light. All thoughts of home and Spain pushed to the background with this new illumination. And yet. And yet.
What was he thinking, to get so close like that? What was he even hoping?
There's no such thing as hope in love. There's no such thing as love, period.
He must have been imagining.
He must have been delusional.
Still, promises are promises; he passes by the next day and Lovino isn't as flighty as he was the first time. Antonio buys another beer and sits at the same spot at the same counter, leaning back like he has all the time in the world (which he maybe just maybe does), watching Lovino dash in and out of the shadows like something not altogether human, shining bottles and gleaming glasses clinking in his hands. There's a certain magic in the way he can stir up such potent potions at a single word: Nikolaschka for this one, Sazerac for another, and everything in between for the man who doesn't value his life at all.
It's easy not to value your life, Antonio thinks, in a place like this. With people like this.
Except, maybe, with -
"Are you sure?" shouts Lovino from afar. "That one's a killer!"
He doesn't know why it's so easy to forget - forget about everything that existed before these moments, like a faded old tapestry he can just set aside in the attic of his mind. Maybe it's because he's never really known how different colors can be outside of his closed world, how vibrant and varied.
And it only took one young man to show him.
He's on an unnamed bus, hurtling toward infinity, on the verge of leaving everything behind, and somehow he doesn't feel a single shred of regret.
"Where would you like to go?" he asks, half to Lovino and half to himself. Lovino tugs absently at the strap of his backpack and even that simple gesture holds an innocent majesty.
"Central Park. We can take the bus or something. I don't have school the rest of the day." His dark hair catching the sunlight just so, in such warm contrast, the firm set of his mouth magnificent as a statue's. It's an expression Antonio's been trying and failing to accomplish for years now. "Mondays are shit," Lovino adds as an afterthought.
His suggestion is followed and they spend ten minutes rumbling across imperious asphalt and placid stone. Lovino sits beside the window, his backpack in his lap, looking out through the glass at mundane wilderness as if through new lenses. At one point he shifts in his seat. His fingers brush Antonio's lightly. An electric moment.
He suddenly, very suddenly wants to hold Lovino's hand.
But that's when the bus stops.
"Hurry up," says Lovino.
They get out and Antonio is at once lost in the different shades of emerald around him. The fields seem to ripple like the waves of some great green ocean, shining in the fading light of the afternoon sun. It almost hurts his eyes. He's never seen anything like it, or maybe he's just never stopped to see; but even the vineyards back home can't compare.
Somewhere beside him Lovino is laughing, the most beautiful sound in the world.
"You've never been here before?"
"No," says Antonio when he can find words. "I - I come from Spain." He feels like the first arrival to the New World.
"Spain, huh. Why did you come here?"
"Business," Antonio answers automatically, following him through the wonderful grass. "Just wine."
"Oh." Perhaps Lovino views him in a new light now; when he speaks again his voice has lost some of its youthful insolence. "Business going well?"
"Yeah."
"No wonder why you like drinking," Lovino mutters, and Antonio can't help a chuckle. "I bet if you cut yourself accidentally you'd bleed alcohol."
"I haven't checked. Maybe I do after all."
Lovino laughs again then - really laughs. The whole world seems to stand still for a second, until he says: "You want to go up there?"
"Where?" Antonio looks to where he's pointing; a rugged stone castle rises out of a faraway pond, like a mythical fortress of old, silhouetted against the sun. "What's that?"
"Belvedere Castle. Belvedere as in bel vedere - beautiful view, basically."
"You speak Italian?"
"I am Italian," Lovino corrects. Then, as if that's enough secrets for one day, he starts jogging away, towards the castle. "Hurry up, it's getting dark. I want to at least see something before the sun goes down."
So Antonio follows. He's been doing a lot of following these few days.
They're at the top now, finally, and they can see - really see. The entire park and most of the city stretches below them, most of it already lighted in anticipation of a gloomy night. It dazzles Antonio's eyes.
He thinks, if the stars come out too I might just go blind.
They don't come out yet. For now he'll be content with the stars of the city and the stars that are Lovino's eyes. The small Italian is sitting beside him, so near Antonio could reach out and put his arm around him; but he doesn't do it because it's too soon, too much for his heart to handle.
"Looks nice, doesn't it?" Lovino says aloud.
"It does. I've never seen anything like it."
"Then you haven't been seeing much."
"In my profession," says Antonio, "you never really have time to stop and notice things."
"That's a lie. You stop whenever you want. And you see whatever you choose to. I could be a lawyer in a few years and it wouldn't change a thing."
Antonio thinks this over. There's truth in that statement. "Is that what you're studying? Law?"
"Yeah." Lovino prods his backpack with his shoe. "The law makes the man. And for those it doesn't make, it breaks."
A little silence goes by. Antonio spends it discreetly observing how Lovino's cheek is silhouetted against the setting sun. Then the Italian himself breaks the quiet.
"Would you like to hear a story?"
"A story?" repeats Antonio.
"Just a story. You don't get to ask what it is. Yes or no?"
"Yes. Sure."
"Well, it starts like this." Lovino draws up his knees and rests his arms on them, still staring out at the blizzard of lights. "Once upon a time there were two little boys, brothers. Only two years apart. Their father was a jerk and left the family when they were infants, gambled his way to hell, and their mother passed away when the oldest was five. So their grandfather raised them. Sure he was old, but he was the most fiery old man you ever saw, especially after his daughter died. No disagreeing with him, or you got kicked out of the house. You can just imagine what happened to the oldest boy when he dared contradict his Nonno."
Antonio has an inkling of what this is about. "He got kicked out, didn't he?"
"You bet." Is it just him hearing things or does Lovino's voice sound bitter? "They lived in - oh, in Europe back then. But the grandfather took them to America every once in a while, for vacations and such. Said he wanted them to get an education there someday. Even if he didn't approve of the oldest. There was a decade-long dispute between the two that led to a split in the family.
"Basically the oldest boy hated the ridiculous constraints of living with his grandfather. First of all there was favoritism - his Nonno claimed he took after his bastard father in thought as well as appearance, while the youngest was gentle and kind like their mother. Then there was religion. The oldest boy didn't even care for religion! Especially all that stuff condemning gay people to hell. Holy shit indeed."
"Why are you telling me all this?" Antonio asks. Lovino doesn't seem to hear him.
"Anyway, they came to America one last time. That was their last vacation there. Grandfather told Oldest Boy to wait for him at the bus stop while he took Younger Boy to the restroom. He never came back. So the brothers were separated, and they never saw each other again. End of story."
Antonio stares at him; Lovino still appears as placid as ever, save the slight tremble of his fingers, which could just as easily be due to the cold. So Antonio offers his jacket. Lovino shrugs it off.
"Did you like the story?"
"Was that you?"
"Does it even matter?"
"It does. That was you, wasn't it?"
"So what if it was?" Lovino says angrily. "What does that matter to you?"
"Why did you tell me, of all people?"
"What would you do with it, anyway?" Lovino challenges. "Do you really think I'm afraid? Of you?"
"No. No, I don't."
It hits him right then; Lovino doesn't care. He's anything but afraid. He just wants, maybe, for someone to know, to understand, to see into his heart and say You're not alone. That's the same thing Antonio's felt for so long, that longing towards something he barely knows, which has left him with nothing he can value and nothing he can trust, because he never could decide to act upon it.
"I understand," he says, but he is met with silence.
Lovino shivers suddenly and Antonio, disregarding his protest, wraps his jacket around the Italian's shoulders. There's a minute in which he's holding onto Lovino, realizing just how small and fragile and yet utterly strong he is. Right here, right in front of him. Warm and alive and everything he's never known, everything he wants to protect. Lovino's golden eyes are shining up at him and his lips are parted just slightly in his pale-moon face, and Antonio wants nothing more than to move closer, just a little, and bend down and lean in and -
He doesn't do it. He doesn't have the courage.
"Do you want to go back now?" he asks and Lovino nods, trembling a little in his arms. "Where do you live?"
"Over there," says Lovino, waving his arm vaguely to the left. His voice wavers the slightest bit. "I'll be fine. I can go alone."
"All right." Antonio watches reluctantly as he takes a few steps, drawing further and further away. Then, unable to help himself, he calls after him. "Wait! Lovino!"
"What?"
The Spaniard catches up quickly. "I - well, I was wondering... tomorrow... would you - will you - " The words die on his lips like an embarrassed child's. He doesn't even know what he wanted to say.
Lovino's eyes flicker and there's a split-second flash of something gentler, something soft and unprotected, before they shift back to hard and guarded again. "You were saying?"
"Nothing," says Antonio, wondering if he'll ever be able to see that expression again, and entirely unsure of the future at this point. "Nothing - nothing at all."
And he watches as Lovino vanishes into the darkness, a lone small figure among so much confused sorrow.