Author's Notes : Here we have Lovino's joyous introduction. Behold! Violence and heartwarming family trauma. To YumikoSound, the 'ze's are part of a stereotypical French accent. For Francis and Gilbert, I wanted to add a bit of the accent without letting it get obnoxious. You're reading for the story, not to stumble through the language labyrinth. o3o A big thank you to the other reviewers, as well, and to the surprising number who alerted so quickly. o.o
Without further ado...
Spend My Time Dancing
Lovino
Hustling
-x
...That we can't survive on your bedroom eyes
and a Spanish guitar.
o-
-x
Antonio Fernandez Carriedo did not know when to give up. Sure, everyone at university worshiped the guy like some kind of holy man—seriously, the world religions teacher had a pre-prepared 'sensitivity' talk for the few remaining people that actually called him 'San Antonio'—but wasn't that supposed to imply some sort of intuitiveness?
Or, you know, basic common sense?
It utterly amazed Lovino that the man was so unwaveringly persistent in the face of near-constant physical punishment. It would almost be attractive, if the dunderhead could stop professing his appreciation for Lovi's good form and muscle tone, or whatever the hell it was he kept blabbering about.
Coming from the mouth of the tanned, toned 'Tonio', the praise was almost condescending. He got the sensation that he'd feel nothing short of vulgar running on the same field as the cheery Spaniard. If he could even manage to run without tripping all over himself, trying to come up with something nice—or at least PG to say.
The best he'd come up with was today's stunningly brilliant, Give it up, shit for brains. I told you I'm busy. Why don't you go chase a ball, or something? Leave me alone!
(Followed, as per tradition, with an attempted kick to the Spanish soccer-god's nads.)
He didn't really want Antonio to leave him alone.
He just...wanted him to notice something else. Other than how fast that 'scrawny loud-mouthed Italian' could get the hell out of dodge.
Like what color his eyes were.
Or how pretty they were when they soaked up his every match. Because whether Antonio noticed or not, he never missed a game.
o–
...It wasn't that Lovino didn't like soccer. He'd been in love with the sport since his nonno had taken him and his twin to their first match. They'd been all bundled up in the stands, beaming down at the athletes. Lovino had cheered until his little throat went dry and sore even though he was still just a little too young to understand the technical side of the little running battle below.
He hadn't even complained that he and his brother had to share a hot chocolate—not with the way his sweet-tempered sibling kept pressing it into his palms and urging him to soothe his throat. He didn't really mind sharing, either. Not with Feli.
He'd even stayed still and smiled a little when Rome insisted on taking a picture of the two of them, all bundled up together in his massive scarf, red-nosed and rosy cheeked and spitting out some garbled mess of Italo-Americanese in their excitement.
Hell, he'd been so absorbed in the whole experience, he hadn't even minded when nonno and Feli left without him. It happened a lot, throughout their lives, but Lovino had eventually realized that it had more than a little to do with his twin's bizarre ability to make everyone feel at ease.
Backpacks left at home.
Suitcases left in hotel rooms.
Small Italian children left waiting on various curbs and benches. (Not to mention the occasional tree.)
He had grown quickly accustomed to awaiting the speedy and often reckless return of his responsible adult and wailing sibling. More than a few times, he had been approached by concerned citizens and police officers, and every time he was forced to explain that, 'No, Sir and/or Madame, I am not lost and/or abandoned and/or waiting for my crack whore mother to finish. I am waiting for...oh, there, you see? That big Italian man. The one who's crying. Yes, he's here for me. I am going home, now.'
At soccer practice, when they were old enough, Lovino and Feliciano had been mocked incessantly for the first few days for holding hands while they awaited pick-up.
Of course, Lovino hadn't tolerated it for very long.
Finally, after one too many, 'Why are you holding hands? Is he your boooooooooyfriend?'s, he had hissed, rather menacingly for a boy his age, "Why aren't you? Didn't you see the van?"
This, unfortunately, had put the mothers on freakishly high alert for the rest of the season, and had nearly resulted in the violent mauling of a florist mid-delivery.
But that wasn't the point, really.
As long as he could play soccer, he was golden.
The problem arose once he hit puberty and, embarrassed beyond belief, abruptly quit the soccer team.
-x
But it was okay. He'd found other ways to occupy himself.
Now that he'd hit eighteen, they were even legal.
o–
Really, when he told Antonio that he was busy, he wasn't lying.
He was busy.
Dancing.
Drinking.
Teasing and touching.
And picturing Antonio, Antonio, Antonio all over the place.
Watching him run and sweat and breathe and smile like a complete doofus Casanova. He didn't even bother to take his cleats off while he ran laps around Lovino's stupid shaky heart.
Lovino couldn't join the team, because his head wasn't in it.
He'd rather spend all of his time waiting around in the locker room, watching for Antonio.
–x
Of course, he couldn't do that, so it was another night out for him, playing a different kind of game.
Swaying and pulsing with the overhead lights and the rumbling beats underfoot, racking up classical denominations: in hearts, numbers, and free drinks.
He had to concentrate more and more, these days. The instant gratification of being touched and admired was starting to lose its kick. He got 'admiration' all the time these days, just not the way he wanted.
It was starting to feel less like he was indulging and more like he was trying desperately to distract himself.
Right here, right now, I am important.
It used to be louder than thunder, better than scoring a hundred goals. Now, it just fizzled into a certain sun-warm accent, taking stock of his good musculature.
He was pouting before he could stop himself.
Trust San Antonio to be the only guy ever to offer an actual friendly rubdown.
"Gesù Cristo."
"Something wrong, Roma?"
He plastered on a lewd little smile he'd finally perfected around age fifteen and turned his head to look at his latest dance partner. If you could really call this dancing.
"Mmmmm, nothing. I'm gonna get a drink."
Anyone who called him 'Roma' knew his tastes well enough to understand that that meant it was time to 'let the fuck go'.
Still, the man made a little humming whine that Lovino felt on the back of his neck, rubbing a thumb against a teasing hint of hip bone.
He wasn't in the mood to render any more men infertile today (whether or not it actually made a difference), so he gave a little, curling his fingers around his friend's and peeling them away gently. He moved away, putting space between backside and pelvis before turning slowly.
He wasn't really one for vanity, but the poor guy definitely couldn't pull off a pout as easily as he could. Lovino's smile grew just a little bit genuine, and he leaned in to whisper, "Miss me" before sauntering off toward the bar.
o–
It took a moment or two for the recreational tease to realize that he was not, in fact, hallucinating the man by the bar.
He'd burned off the last round of drinks, by now, and he was borderline paranoid about taking (or being slipped) anything. No. That broad back bunched up in unconscious anxiety was the same broad back streaming in full color in 97% of Lovino's dreams. (The rest, of course, were dry.)
Come to think of it, he'd be hard pressed to come up with this—only San Antonio would be dopey enough to wear his soccer jersey to a gay bar. There was no way he'd planned it.
Which meant that he was here.
In Lovino's favorite bar—Lovino's favorite gay bar. Home of faeries and foxes and bears, oh my. Where 'friendly rubdowns' were never actually friendly.
He felt as if he might weep.
But no. Suddenly, he was back at the peak—the one he'd been trying so hard to get back to. That first heated realization that he wasn't just some skinny little loudmouth, here—he was wanted, and he was in charge.
This wasn't a school hallway, this wasn't a locker room, this wasn't a field.
This was home—his home.
And, make or break, it was about time Romano introduced himself.
After all, Antonio had opened the door. It'd be rude not to enter.
–x
A/N: Again, breaking it up for the sake of flow. It's time for me to sleep, and I don't want the quality to take a dive. I'll understand if you take issue with Lovi's...ah...'unusual' attitude, but under the circumstances, I really don't think it's unusual. Please do tell me what you thought. :)
Ciao~.