Lovino sat on his couch and sipped his coffee. He had recovered enough to make it for himself because, although Alfred was good at a lot of things, his coffee was shit. The house was silent and empty apart from the two teens; Feliciano was still at school and Nonno was at work. Alfred, bearing his own cup of coffee, sat down next to him and looked at him. The brunet didn't meet his eyes. It was fucking embarrassing, the mess he had turned into. On a public sidewalk, no less. He groaned.
"Lovino?" Alfred asked, touching his arm gently. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," he snapped, pulling his arm away. "Never tell anyone what you saw back there, understand?"
"Haha, fine," Alfred laughed. "But at least tell me who that guy was, okay?"
Lovino paused. He really didn't want to talk about this, but if anyone deserved an explanation, the blond did. "Ugh," he grunted, putting his coffee down and throwing his arm over his eyes. "Sit down, bastard, and get ready for the long haul.
"His name is Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. You just moved here last year, so you've never met him, but he used to go to our school. He's a year older than me. We…" here the Italian trailed off, not exactly sure how to explain the relationship they had.
"Dated?" Alfred filled in the pause, eyes dark and grip on his mug tight. "Not exactly," Lovino replied. "He kept asking me out, but I always said no. I knew him since I was little, he was practically my best friend, and…and I probably would have said yes, eventually. And then he left. For a year in Spain to study Spanish history with some famous professor his uncle knew. The fucker didn't even say goodbye."
Lovino stared down at his knees. That explanation did absolutely no justice to what the boy had meant to him, or what he had went through when the green-eyed Spaniard left, but he didn't know how else to explain. More than the bare bones would be taking pieces of off him, pieces that he wasn't sure he could afford to lose.
Luckily, Alfred seemed to understand. Solemn, as he so seldom was, the blue-eyed boy said softly, "You were in love with him, weren't you." It wasn't a question, so Lovino didn't even try to answer it. He scrubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes. He was so fucking tired.
"That's not the worst of it," the Italian continued. "I was upset, but it wasn't too bad. Every so often I would get a postcard in the mail from various places in Spain, with a note on the back. Usually something idiotic about tomatoes," he snorted. "I saved every one.
"Then, one day, I was there when Feli got the mail. Usually I worked at that time, but for whatever reason I was home that day. I can't even remember why anymore. He gave a little cry of excitement, you know how he does, and said, 'Oh yay! Another postcard from Antonio! Here's yours, Lovi!'
"He handed me a postcard and then looked at his. They were the same fucking postcard. Different messages, but still. The fucker was sending us the same postcard the whole time."
Lovino fell silent, and Alfred knew that the smaller boy was done. The blond didn't really get why sending him and his brother the same postcard was so awful, but he did understand that Lovi was really hurt by it. He reached over and pulled the brunet into a hug. Lovino let him, for a moment, before pushing him off and standing up, already pulling himself back into the present. "I'm fine," he said, not looking at Alfred. "But I'm tired. Go away."
Despite Alfred's protests, the Italian showed him to the door. Alfred stopped it before it could be closed on him entirely, however. Leaning down, the tall American peered into Lovino's face. "I'll pick you up tomorrow, like usual, okay?" he asked anxiously.
He was relieved to see the familiar annoyed expression on the hazel-eyed brunet's face. "Fine, fine," Lovino answered. "Goodbye." And he shut the door.