chapter xi - eleventh hour
Everything was gray. Gray streaming through the windowpanes, nestled in the folds of the curtains, swarming quietly under his bed. It took a few seconds for the solid outlines of the morning to sink in. 4 AM – far from dawn, the air a dreamlike stillness – and Antonio felt disembodied, drifting, lost in a sliver of time. On the other side of the room, he could still see the dimness that was Lovino silhouetted against the wall. Sleep seemed to be his only real refuge, and Antonio hated to be the one pulling him from it.
He went and did it anyway. Routines were routines, and their weekend had just ended. But Lovino wasn't easy to wake; this wasn't one of his LA days where he'd snap to alertness like he'd never been out in the first place. When he finally opened his eyes, they looked for a moment wide and innocent, like a child's before the weight of the world settled in, and then it settled in. Lovino sat up, his shoulder brushing Antonio's on the way.
"Good morning," he said, not meeting Antonio's eyes as he forced himself to stand. Perhaps he, too, had gotten a faint memory of when they had last been this close to each other. "Any news?"
"Still waiting to be published, if there is any." Antonio offered him his glass of water. "I think laying low the last few days helped. We're back on schedule at 7 but nothing else."
Lovino groaned. "If this is what 'nothing else' feels like, I think I'll pass."
He also planned to pass on breakfast, but at Antonio's urging had a few bites of croissant along with coffee. He drank it too fast, as if he was trying to wash out the taste of something he shouldn't want; later Antonio would find that the small bottle of vodka hidden in the back of the fridge had gone down by half an inch. At what point had he learned to notice these things, these unconscious little slips and gestures that made up the man he had grown to care for?
The knowledge settled quietly in his chest, as if it were meant to be there, but he couldn't make any sense of it.
He'd gotten Lovino a darker cloth mask the other day, and when Lovino paired it with a wide-brimmed hat and long coat, he looked like a brooding detective straight out of an old noir film. Antonio allowed himself to picture it as the Italian paid their cab fare – the two of them hurtling toward the next crime scene, poring over files, names, dates, and personalities, setting up stakeouts and bagging the prize, then doing it all over again. Just another episode in a long-running series that might toe the line here and there, but never cross it; a steady and straightforward march with no strings attached, no chance encounters, no complications of the heart. He could write it, perhaps, one day in a distant and uncertain future when he'd mastered the art of calling upon words as easily as breathing. But life was never that simple. The cab stalled in traffic just long enough for the idea to lose its hold on him.
The clock on the dash read 5:30 AM. They were making good time, the headlights carving a thin path through the semi-darkness. Soon the realities of the day would be thrown into stark contrast against their unwilling selves, but for now at least, they were suspended in the small, liminal space provided by the predawn sky.
"What've you got there?" Lovino asked, cutting through the silence. The driver's eyes flicked to his mirror; Lovino had broken his own rule of not talking in public places, particularly cabs. Antonio pulled the small book from his pocket. Beginner's German.
"Just thought I'd brush up a bit," he admitted. "My accent is pretty terrible." For a moment, he wondered what Gilbert would think if he knew.
"I've heard you speak," said Lovino. "You should give yourself more credit. Languages aren't all that easy to learn, you know."
"Yeah, I guess you're right." Antonio looked ahead at the filmy gray sky, already shaking loose the first snowflakes of the morning. "At least I can say kaffee perfectly for when the espresso machine finally breaks."
Lovino let out a small chuckle and gazed out the window, his shoulders relaxing slightly, but there was still a hint of tension in his face. He had the cab drop them off about three blocks from the set, a safe distance as usual, and they walked the rest of the way. The thinly fallen snow crunched underfoot, Antonio's book poked into his side every few minutes, and he found himself noticing how their footsteps started to fall in sync, their smoky breaths mingling in the chilly air. They passed shops that weren't yet open: brick-and-mortar bookstores, smartly arranged toy stores, antiques dealers with their gleaming wares, and here and there a terraced café, chairs and tables neatly stacked in corners. The reflections off the windows were just that – two people strolling down the street, no obvious followers in sight; it could almost be peaceful, normal even. Dawn began to seep through the shadows, painting its soft red hues on the horizon. They entered a small, tidy park with slim trees leaning over empty wooden benches.
"Let's sit down," Lovino said suddenly.
Antonio looked at him. Lovino's hands were stuffed into his pockets and he was staring straight ahead through the growing light, concentrating on something Antonio couldn't see, something distant.
"Sure," he said, taking the nearest bench. The tendrils of a stray branch caught in his hair, but spared Lovino when he sat down. "What's wrong, Lovino?"
"Nothing. Everything." Lovino's voice held an impatience that warned against too many questions. "Please don't take this the wrong way, Antonio. I know you mean well… it's just that ever since last week everyone wants to know how I'm doing, if I'm okay, why not, the whole nine yards. And I still don't have an answer to that. Hell, sometimes it changes by the hour, the minute. I want to say I'm not a goddamn glass vase, but how could I be sure? I might just be saying it out of a hardwired instinct to save face."
He made to pull off his hat but couldn't quite steady his hand; his fingers trembled even as he grasped the brim. Without thinking, Antonio reached out, and they both stared for a moment at Lovino's hand nestled in his, the tremor subsiding.
"Don't do that," Lovino said softly. "You know it's not a good idea."
"Maybe. But maybe you should let someone in sometime, Lovino. It doesn't have to be me."
"You… make it sound so easy. Look at me." The Italian removed his hand; indicated his mask, his hat. "This isn't the look of someone who can handle that. You've seen what happened the last time I did."
"I'm not asking if you can or can't – I'm only asking if you want to."
"Anyone can guess the answer to that."
"Who cares what anyone thinks?" persisted Antonio. "You only need to admit it to yourself."
Lovino shook his head ruefully. A hollow laugh. "First you're gonna have to give me that patient-confidentiality agreement."
"Will you accept a verbal version? I think I misplaced it in the cab."
"You know, you're stubborn as shit sometimes." But the ghost of a smile had appeared on Lovino's face. "Almost insufferable. Make that the first entry in my file, Doctor. And for the record… yes."
The pale sunlight lit up the angles of his face as though they were carved from the finest marble. His eyes, however, were soft. A few rogue thoughts chased each other through Antonio's mind.
"I got you," he said.
Lovino's watch buzzed, breaking the spell that had fallen over them; the tenseness returned to his face but less severely than before. He put his hat back on, his hand steadier this time, and stood up. 45 minutes until their absence would be noted.
"Have you ever run away from anything?" Lovino let the question hang in the air as they reached the sidewalk. "The sort of running you do without a second thought, just saying fuck it and going, never looking back?"
"I might have, once," admitted Antonio, the words dredging up echoes. The click of a front door closing quietly for the last time. Meager luggage hidden in the alcove of the front hall, that same luggage knocking against his knees in the back of a cab. Rustling notebook pages in a motel room, as he fought a whirlwind of thoughts, a stray tear splashing on the table. Furious calls and texts lighting up his phone until he'd finally worked up the courage to change the number…
"Yeah. It's a dumb question, I know. Just thought I might not be the only one who wants to turn around and head home right about now."
"I wouldn't blame you."
Lovino startled him by breaking into a jog – in the direction of the set. His hat flew off, but he didn't stop.
"Let's go, then," he called over his shoulder, the edges of his hair gleaming golden in the sun. "You're going to freeze out here if you can't keep up."
Years ago, a similar palette, painted by a soft red sun. Breaking into a run out the front door, past the old swimming pool that had been drained and filled with concrete, reaching the gray stone wall that enclosed the grounds, and slipping out through the gate. Resolving not to look back, and then looking back, at the place that had eaten up more than a decade of his life. Families would continue to move in here out of desperation, fight and rot behind the barred windows and doors, tend to the planters that killed off everything but three-leaf clovers in the dry and crusty dirt. The parking lot asphalt would continue to crack faster than the landlord cared to repair it, and the heavy, tall palm tree that loomed over the roof would continue swaying dangerously in high winds until it fell over one day and put everyone out of their misery. But he would not be there to see it.
Knees knocking together in the back of a cab. Teeth chattering even as he braced them. The cab driver gave him his bomber jacket and he didn't know how to say thank you. What had the man deduced from the scared look on his face – a street kid caught in a gang war, a recently escaped psychiatric patient, a homeless dropout looking for a drug fix? Just a boy running from his mother. Kid, escaped, homeless. Maybe that was why he hadn't been dropped off right back where he'd started, this skinny boy who hardly looked the 17 years he was supposed to be.
On to the bus station, where the driver wished him good luck. Another hour until he reached downtown New York City, unable to breathe every time the bus got stuck behind another line of cars, every face outside potentially hers, potentially crazy enough to jump into traffic just to get to him. A small part of him still wanted to close his eyes to the lie and be a good little boy for the rest of his days. But something dug into his leg through the pocket of his cargo pants. He held up the cut padlock in the choked light coming through the dirty windows. Copper, the color of old scars and dreams dangled over the stovetop flame until they curled in on themselves. The color of locked rooms and closets, everything he needed to escape tucked away behind those walls and barriers and sometimes him along with them. It's for your own good. Whispers from the other side. Someone's got to protect you from yourself.
Standing on the balcony of the motel room he could barely afford, watching the flickering streetlights and lone, confused people passing below them in the dark. The walls behind him were dingy, faded orange, with doors missing half their numbers; the parking lot before him was cracked and stained. But the half-asleep receptionist asked no questions when presented with enough cash for the night. He spent most of it huddled at the foot of the bed, watching shadows flit across the palely lit curtains and wondering if each one of them would bring a knock, papers slipped under the door, shouts for the resident runaway to come out – you're safe, no one's going to hurt you – and there she would be standing behind the cops, a convincing mess of tears and hugs until they were out of sight and earshot.
In the morning, campus, hiding in plain sight among all the other kids with their baggy street-chic clothing. Trying to look like he knew where he was going… going to class, then slinking out of the back row halfway through. Failing his classes was secondary to avoiding the inevitable moment she came to look for him here. Wandering through the hallways in between class changes, the clock in the courtyard tolling to remind him that both his time and options were running out. Sitting alone in the cafeteria, staring at the empty, tombstone-gray table before him. Only half a year away from legally reclaiming his life, and now he might never get his chance. Scenes whirled by in his peripheral vision: the prison of home, troubled youth shelters, therapists without the faintest clue, and an empty seat in the first-year classes for the rest of the semester. At least he had given it a shot, his best shot, even if it had all gone better in his head as it always did.
A pair of hands appeared on the other side of the table, scaring him back into his body. It took him a moment to realize the hands belonged to another student, and one of them was extended toward him in friendly greeting.
"I hope I'm not bothering you. I saw you sitting here, and you looked like you needed someone to talk to." He smiled, his blond hair playing lightly about his face as other kids rushed by, stirring up a small breeze. "What's your name? I'm Francis. Francis Bonnefoy."
Night had fallen outside. Antonio leaned against the dividing wall between the two train cars, book completely forgotten in his pocket. It wasn't cold but an involuntary shiver ran down his spine when he caught sight of Lovino's eyes. Sitting across from Bella in the window seat, warming his hands on a mug of coffee, he had finally started talking to her – looking at her – like she was the only other person in the world.
There was a script to stick to, after all. They had finally reached the point where Jesse and Céline's careful dance began to spiral into that well-known cardiac affliction called love, taking the viewers with them. And yet Antonio couldn't help wondering at the sudden improvement in Lovino's acting this time around. Hadn't he admitted to disliking it before?
The growing ache in his chest as he watched them wasn't promising.
Outside, the wind had picked up, contrasting with the apparent gentleness of Lovino's voice as he asked Bella a few more questions about her fictional life. Surprise flashed across her face – almost a script deviation, but Alfred didn't call for a second take – and she used it as a segue into her answer, sneaking a few extra glances at him when he wasn't looking. The invisible noose around them tightened just a notch, taking a few of Antonio's heartstrings along with it.
A few more minutes of meaningless conversation, made more so because no one outside of the first car could hear it. They might very well breeze through these next few takes and come out ahead the next morning; that was how well they had done so far. Alfred hovered in the corner, almost out of sight, gesturing madly like a conductor for cameramen to shift this way and that. But anyone could tell he was pleased with Lovino's and Bella's progress. From being unable to stand the sight of each other, to sitting down together and sweeping it all under the plush lounge car rug… getting closer by the second, Lovino's fingers meeting hers ever so slightly, their faces almost conspiratorial as they leaned towards each other. Suddenly Antonio didn't want to watch anymore. He turned, maneuvering back through the small throng of personal assistants, makeup artists, costume designers, and eager extras until he reached the exit. As he passed, the sign seemed to taunt him, lit up neon red like a pair of forbidden lips.
How could he have been so naïve? How could he possibly have expected anything other than a working relationship with Lovino Vargas, if he couldn't even bear seeing Lovino with someone else on a set, on a screen, in a mere story? At best, it was pretentious; at worst, it was dangerous. He had forgotten that their worlds spun on different axes, rested on different planes, never meant to intersect but for a cruelly humorous twist of fate. And now he'd been inexorably drawn into Lovino's orbit like a moth to a flame.
Was there any version of this that could end happily? Or had it all been doomed from the start?
But since when have actors been truthful, Antonio?
He shook his head to clear it. Gil hadn't exactly been impartial when he'd said that…
Don't do that… You know it's not a good idea.
Antonio sat down at the exit to the warehouse that hid their set, stray snowflakes catching in his hair, and looked at the half-covered footprints in the snow leading to and from the front steps. Could he and Lovino ever just walk down the street like a normal couple, doing all the things a normal couple did? Hand in hand, no masks and no disguises; pointing out the sights, dancing in and out of fountains, posing for goofy pictures, and melting facelessly into the crowd when they were done. Could they really run away from it all, or would there always be at least one sleepless camera lens pointed at them, siphoning off their every breath, every expression for the world to see? He could kick himself. There was no point imagining all these things if neither of them was sure how he felt; if there were still tears through the fabric of their lives in urgent need of mending.
It was stupid to hope, he knew, and he hadn't believed in any higher power for a long time, but now he found himself sending out a poor excuse for a prayer, like an unaddressed letter in a blank envelope, to whoever or whatever might be out there watching.
Please give me a sign. Anything. I just need to know if I'm making the right choice or not.
The various close calls over the past few weeks. The one time they had accidentally crashed together. Like two boulders in a sudden earthquake, the force of it permanently breaking the professional balance between them. For every step forward they had taken ten steps back. So what, exactly, was one supposed to make of it?
Something forced itself out of his tangled mass of thoughts to slap him in the face. No one had handcuffed him to the aisle seat of a plane and brought him here; he had willingly signed up for this job and would have to see it through to the end. Maybe, once it was all over… the rest of the attached strings would follow suit. Or not. It was too early to worry about such things. And maybe there never would be a good time to worry.
As if on cue, Alfred gave the signal for their last break – the tolling of a large hand bell. Antonio took himself back to the refreshments table. The others were still piling out of the train car, but Lovino was already at the table by the time he got there. He beckoned Antonio to a relatively empty corner.
"Where were you?" he asked.
It wasn't technically a lie, Antonio told himself. "I… just had to get some air. That's all."
But Lovino must have caught something regardless; he looked closely at Antonio, the white fluorescent light casting strange shadows over his face.
"Were you uncomfortable seeing me with Bella?" he asked abruptly.
"I… uh, no." Antonio could only hope Bella wasn't anywhere nearby. "It was a good performance. Everyone was glad to see it."
"Everyone…" said Lovino, almost thoughtfully, and something shifted in his face. "I just wanted to get it all over with. So I imagined I was talking to someone else instead of her."
A pang. "Ah. I see."
"Look," said Lovino. "You gave me a reminder this morning. Lately I've done nothing but run away from things instead of facing them head-on, and it's not helping anyone or anything. This is me trying to fix that. And… just so you know… I'm glad you're around to tell me the things I need to hear."
His eyes held a strangely intense look that made Antonio's mouth go dry; the noise and bustle around them seemed to fade, as if they were the only two that mattered. Maybe he really was going mad, he thought, his heartbeat ticking off the seconds in his ears.
"I don't believe this is the right place for that sort of refreshment," a voice said brightly.
They both turned to look at Bella standing there, shorter than usual without her heels, exhibiting a rather strong grip on her paper cup. Antonio was almost grateful to see her, if only because she had spared him the moderate inconvenience of a heart attack.
Lovino was the first to recover. "Are we up for the next scene already? I must have lost track of time."
"You've still got ten minutes." Bella examined her nails, her standard smile vanishing like a dropped mask as she did so. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but the shadows under her eyes seemed more pronounced than usual, perhaps due to the lighter makeup they'd given her. She glanced up at them again, and her eyes looked a bit too wide. "You're not getting too bored out here, are you, Antonio? With how fast the scenes are going by today, I'm afraid there hasn't been much left for you to do."
"No, it's all right. I'm here for when I'm needed."
"That must be nice. To be needed."
Something wavered at the edges of her pasted-on smile, something that was neither anger nor jealousy. Antonio could tell Lovino was fighting the urge to retort, or break away, or both, and he wasn't sure what to say himself.
"For what it's worth, you were really great in there."
"Thank you." Bella lightly swirled the contents of her cup, but made no move to drink. "I'm sorry for the intrusion, boys. But everything's going so fast, you know, and we're coming up quick against the end. I hope you're enjoying it while it lasts." She looked at each of them in turn. "As for me, I never want this to be over. Endings are bittersweet, and rarely as clean as we want them to be, aren't they?"
"That may be," said Lovino, "but some things have to end before others can begin."
"You're absolutely right." Blessedly, Bella's phone buzzed and she hefted it to her ear with one hand. "Hello? Oh, Ivan, darling!" she said, stepping back and giving them a little parting wave over her shoulder. "You've no idea how long I've been waiting. Tell me all about it…"
Lovino watched her go with a deep frown. "Ivan," he said slowly, half to himself, as if the name had caught on some memory that he'd rather forget.
"Is that someone you know?" Antonio couldn't help asking.
"No. Just sounded familiar for a second," said Lovino, a bit too quickly. The frown still hadn't quite gone from his face, but he was no longer looking in Bella's direction. "No one on my blacklist by that name, anyway."
"Good to know. I'll keep an eye out though, just in case."
"Yeah, of course. Thanks, Antonio."
The bell rang somewhere off in the distance; their time was up. Heaving a sigh, Lovino finished his coffee and crumpled up the cup. Antonio could already see the makeup artists and costume designers heading their way to corral Lovino into another quick grooming. Bella, meanwhile, was nowhere to be found – she must have gone in early, might already be waiting patiently on set for Lovino to appear.
Lovino gave him an apologetic look. "Just a couple more takes and then we're off. I know we're kind of spilling over the usual schedule. But Alfred asked if we could keep up the momentum, and Bella was the first to say yes, so…"
"It's fine, really. You don't have to explain it to me – I'll be here waiting until you say otherwise." Antonio walked with him toward the train car. "It'd be bad form to back down, right? But only do it if you're feeling up to it."
"Yeah." Lovino let out a breath, and then another, his brows knitting together. "So, uh… what do you say to – to a movie or something? After we get back, I mean. If you want to. Ah, what am I saying, it's been a long day – just, uh, forget I said –"
"Sure," said Antonio, stunning himself with the answer. He couldn't exactly say no, after all, but he couldn't quite explain the strange sensation that accompanied that one simple word. Lovino wouldn't look at him either. A bit of color had risen to his cheeks that looked suspiciously like a blush; his fingers brushed Antonio's slightly, possibly by accident, setting off tingles where they met.
Antonio could have kicked himself again. How was it that, where Lovino was concerned, he could never muster up any courage, wit, willpower, or anything even remotely within that ballpark?
The lights above and around them went out with a sudden pop.
Reflexively, he grabbed Lovino's arm. A small commotion had started up in the direction of the train car, and people were bumping into them, pushing past them, in the now near-complete darkness. The few who were quick to react had turned on their phones, providing small beacons of light, but they winked in and out as their owners passed through the crowd. Antonio took the opportunity to lead Lovino toward the nearest wall to their right. Off in the distance, the hand bell rang through the panic, Alfred roaring for silence.
"Ladies and gents!" he bellowed through the dark. "It appears we've lost power for unknown reasons. Our techs are checking out the issue now and we'll be bringing it back up as soon as possible." The whispers and questions had started back up, and he rang his bell vehemently again to quiet them. "I truly apologize for the inconvenience, but I'm asking you all to stay put for just a few minutes while we hand out some flashlights. Feel free also to use whatever light sources you have at your disposal. I want everyone to check in with their team leaders before heading home, for their own safety. Once again, please stay put until we can get some lighting in here. Thank you for your patience."
Antonio looked over at Lovino, though he could hardly see him, and started when he felt a hand slip into his own. Lovino's fingers were rough, but they were warm, and he showed no signs of letting go.
"Let's get out of here," he whispered, his voice dangerously close to Antonio's ear, sending a shiver down the Spaniard's neck.
"I…" Antonio grasped for words. "We should probably let Alfred know, and –"
"We can in a few. We don't need to be here to do it." There was an undercurrent of impatience in Lovino's tone. "Do you remember what I said this morning? About running away?"
"Yeah."
"So…" A pause; a barely audible smile. "Will you run away with me?"
Antonio suddenly wanted to do something that he really, really shouldn't. He squeezed his eyes shut to ward off the thought.
"Yeah, sure."
"Come on then." Lovino led him along the wall, towards the exit with its now-disabled sign, and then the cold air met their faces in a sudden, salutary burst and they were running down the snowy street like madmen, against the wind, as if there was nothing else in the world but the two of them and that invisible thread that stretched tantalizingly between their hearts.