Lovino stacked his newly cut mats, sighing over the loss of his money one last time before chucking the blood-stained piece into the bin. He was feeling much better now that he had food in his stomach, his head didn't throb as badly and his legs no longer threatened to collapse beneath him. He glanced at the clock as he hoisted up the mat cutter, carefully placing it back under the table before lifting up his stack of mats and heading towards the door. It was late in the afternoon, he realized with a sinking heart. The prospect of having to stay up all night was becoming more probable with every ticking minute, he had always taken longer than he intended to when cutting mats. He was clumsy and sloppy, though he would never admit it, and Antonio's presence hadn't helped matters, even if his food had ultimately sped up his progress.
The Italian wandered up the stairs into the print room, nodding at a few of the working students as he lay his mats on the table and walked over to his flat file, jerking it open with more force than he intended. A few curious heads glanced over as notes and transparencies scattered across the floor. Lovino ducked his head immediately to scoop them up, not wanting to cause undue attention that would encourage someone to actually speak with him. He had enough problems with the few people in his life. At this point, he decided angrily, he was ready to become a hermit. He threw the papers back into his drawer, his mind too jumbled to worry abut trivial things like neatness, and knit his eyebrows when he noticed an unfamiliar folded paper with his name scrawled across the front in forceful script. He reached for it with a trembling hand, nerves immediately pulsing painfully into his palms. He considered opening it right then, to relieve himself the tension, but quickly deciding against it, shoving the note into his pocket and grabbing his mats from the table to toss them uncaringly into his flat file. He willed himself to walk slowly to the door, desperate not to seem too frantic as when entered the hall and checked to make sure it was empty before sprinting to the stairwell.
His normally roaming eyes stared straight forward as he bound down the stairs two at a time, trying to figure out where his feet were taking him. Once he rounded the corner into the basement he understood, and made his way into the bathroom. It was the only single stall in the whole building and thus offered complete seclusion. He shut the door behind him, being mindful not to slam it and bring someone to the door, knocking to see if he was ok. He huffed slightly from the light exertion and briefly considered sitting on the floor when the room tipped beneath him, but decided to lean against the wall instead, still feeling too well to lower himself to the germ laden ground.
With a deep breath Lovino reached into his pocket, drawing out the note and bending over to iron it out on his thigh. Once it was in a more readable state, he took it in both hands, lifting it in front of his face as he scanned the content. "Lovino Vargas," it read, "Please see me in my office. I would like to discuss your unsatisfactory performance. - S." Lovino felt a burning heat travel up his neck, settling into his cheeks and the corners of his eyes. He didn't want to cry, he knew if he did he his shell would be lost for the day, inviting everyone to notice his injury and ask him what was wrong, exacerbating the pain like wind on a cavity.
Lovino dropped the note to the floor, turning to the sink and gripping it with both hands. He stared at himself angrily, soaking in the inflamed cheeks and watery eyes. "Don't do it, you idiot," he warned himself, his knuckles turning white from his grip on the cold porcelain. "Do you want to prove that Spain bastard, right?" His body ignored him, sending a hot tear down his cheek in rebellion. "Dammit," he choked, knowing he wouldn't be able to stop if he let his emotions overtake him. The past few weeks miseries were building up in his chest, hovering precariously in the back of his throat in preparation to loose themselves at the slightest injustice. Lovino bowed his head, forcing himself to take deep breaths and clear his mind until tears stopped wavering in his vision.
"You can do this," he told himself quietly, refusing to raise his head and regard his reflection a second time. He knew if he looked at his flushed cheeks and red eyes, he would be reminded of his distress, and his body would attempt to mutiny once more. "I don't blame him for wanting to speak with me,' he scolded himself bitterly, 'I knew I've been neglecting my prints.' Lovino grimaced, growing weary with himself. The truth was, he knew this criticism was coming. His professor was notorious for being the toughest in the art school, he was a very accomplished artist with an inflamed ego and expected nothing but brilliance and a fast production rate from his students. Lovino had avoided his wrath so far by diligently cleaning the studio and attending his tutoring sessions, but he knew he had been shirking too many critiques, praying his professor would somehow miss the sparse number of Lovino Vargas originals.
Lovino took a shaky breath and squeaked on the faucet, splashing his face with the cool water a few times before reaching for a paper towel and wiping off the condensation. He looked a little more presentable, he decided when he glanced back to the mirror. His cheeks were slowly fading to a light pink, and while his eyelashes were still clumped together, he doubted if anyone would notice. Lovino turned from the sink and bent down to pick up the forgotten note. He stressed over what to do with it for a moment, somehow the idea of taking it back was nauseating, yet he didn't want to leave it behind for some curious passerby to find. After contemplating his dilemma, he crumpled up the paper in a tight ball, tossing it into the toilet and flushing it away with the stagnant water.
Lovino hesitated before leaving, he had to be certain the note wouldn't try to find its way back up the pipes before making the painful trek to his professor's office. After a few minutes with no trace of residue in the porcelain bowel, Lovino felt satisfied that the letter was making its way through the sewer system and clicked back the lock, stiffly opening the door and glancing down both ends of the hallway before exiting. Though his pace was considerably slower, the expedition back to the second floor felt incredibly shorter than the journey down. Lovino felt his heart beating rapidly behind his ears and in his fingertips, he knew any semblance of calm his face had achieved was since been painted over in deep crimson.
He tried to fix his face into a disinterested smirk when he neared the glass-walled office, cursing mentally when he felt his lip tremble. 'Stop being stupid,' he scolded himself again when he reached for the doorknob, rolling his shoulders backwards to release their tension before passing through the threshold and walking to the black and white nameplate labeled "S. Adnan." The air in the office was cold, yet somehow more stifling, he pondered as he lifted a hand and knocked. He would have liked to linger in front of the door for a while and completely compose his thoughts, but he didn't want to appear so pathetic in front of the few people in the lobby. He shot a sideways glance to the individuals sitting around the central table and wondered if they were having as much trouble breathing as he was.
"Come in," a cheerful voice sounded, making the Italian's shoulders rock in surprise. Before giving himself a chance to consider fleeing, Lovino grabbed the knob and forcefully swung the door open. "Ah, Lovino Vargas," his professor nodded when he spied the boy, "please take a seat," he added, gesturing to an empty chair situated across from his desk. Lovino shut the door quietly behind him before making his way to the seat, falling into it when his legs started to wobble precariously beneath him.
"So I guess you received my note, I was thinking it might go unnoticed with the state of your flat file," The older man laughed.
"I don't have any trouble finding things," Lovino piped in, his obstinate side making it impossible not to defend himself.
"No, no, I'd imagine not. I used to be the same way," his professor nodded absentmindedly as he combed a pile of essays he was grading into a stack and placed it to the side of his desk. "Now, about your work-"
"I know I haven't produced enough," Lovino jumped in immediately, not wanting to give the man a chance to say the things he already knew. It was painful enough to have the critique coming from himself, it would be much worse to hear it come from an outside source. "I need to learn how to better balance my time between my assistantship duties and my student ones, give me time, I'm sure I can do it." That was a lie, he wasn't sure at all. These past two weeks had been hell, and for the life of him he couldn't figure out how one was supposed to sleep and eat with his over-packed schedule.
"I certainly hope that's true," the man said, scratching absentmindedly at his bristled chin. "Although that's not really what I wanted to talk to you about." Lovino was taken by surprise by that, this whole time he had worked himself up to be scolded for his poor production, but now that he realized he was wrong his mind whirled in an effort to discover where else he had failed. "It's your art," his professor continued, seemingly oblivious to his rapidly paling student.
"Ah, m-my art?" Lovino squeaked out, feeling his pulse freeze suddenly in his chest. The air seemed to weigh a hundred pounds as he desperately tried to force it into his lungs, but his throat constricted painfully and seemed to reject anything that would dare enter his abused body. "What's wrong with it?" He croaked out after what felt like an hour of silence.
The older man leaned into his chair, folding his arms over his chest, "Lovino, why did you want to come to this school?" He asked simply, staring at the ceiling.
Lovino felt his neck burn as he pondered the answer. 'I didn't want to be left alone in Austria.' 'I need to protect my brother.' 'I had nothing better to do.' None of those would be acceptable, he realized, so he drew in a breath and told his professor what he knew he wanted to hear, "I love art."
The man shot up in his chair, regarding the smaller boy with a critical stare, "do you?" He asked sarcastically.
"Do you think I'd do all this hard work if I didn't?" Lovino spat, anger coursing through his veins at the man's teasing.
"I don't know, Mr. Vargas, I really don't. Perhaps you just have a masochistic streak that needs satisfying?" His professor shrugged, scooting his chair closer to his desk to better examine the Italian's face.
Lovino turned his head to the wall to hide his reddening cheeks, "If you don't think my art's any good just say so!" He couldn't take this tortuous wait, if the man was going to kick him out he wished he'd just do it already instead of jerking him around.
The older man sighed before slumping back once more, "no, it's not that you're not good." He pondered, "you're too clinical. Your technique is good, and you certainly have talent for color and composition, but..." Lovino grit his teeth as he waited for the man to finish his thoughts, he couldn't understand why the arrogant prick had waited to gather his thoughts until his student was in front of him.
"You keep your work at a distance," his professor decided finally, "your concepts are dry and, to be quite honest, cliche." Lovino reeled at the utterance of that word, the kiss of death for any artist. "You can do better, I think, I wouldn't have taken you on as my assistant if I didn't think you were capable of great things."
"Thanks," Lovino mumbled half-heartedly, what good was it for him to hear how great he might be when he was being told at this moment that he was far from it. What had all this effort been for anyway?
"You need to learn how to be introspective," his professor moved a finger to his temple and tapped it, "self-reflection, do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes sir, I'll try," He ground out, finally tearing his face from the wall and regarding his teacher with as earnest a face as he could muster. He needed to get out of this office, and if conceding the older man's point would grant him his departure, then he would suck up his pride and do it. The two sat in silence a while, each trying to read the others expression before finally his professor sighed.
"You can go," he said, "but I want to see two new prints by Monday." Lovino nodded and stood from his seat, shocked by how unsteady his legs felt as he exited the room. He was reaching the end of his tether, he realized as the office lobby seemed to spin slightly around him. He needed fresh air, he needed to be alone, he needed to lay down on his bed and cry for a year, but he could have none of those things. It was Friday afternoon, he had two new prints due by Monday and he had nothing planned. And even if he had, he was certain after that conversation he would have sent it down the toilet along with the offending note.
'Why are you letting things get to you?' He berated himself as he walked towards the printmaking studio, trying not to notice the fuzzy black vignette in the corners of his vision. Somehow, since he had arrived at this school, he had forgotten his master plan. Art wasn't supposed to matter so deeply to him, it was a chore to be accomplished so he could continue to receive his funding. If his art looked clinical, that's because it was. It wasn't an outlet for him, he didn't even enjoy it that much, and he certainly wasn't supposed to get upset over critiques. He breathed a sigh of relief when he rounded the corner into the studio and found it blissfully empty. The warm early evening sunlight filtering through the large windows clued him into the reason for the students' early departure. It was Friday after all, any sane human was getting ready for a night of fun.
Lovino slumped into a chair at the back of the room, draping his upper body over the solid wooden table in front of it and blinking sullenly at the poster covered wall. He didn't have time to mull over a design if he was expected to finish two new works by the end of the weekend, and even if he did have the time, he doubted if in his current state he'd be able to create anything of great merit. In a way it was good, he thought as he slid his tired body from the table and slumped over to his flat file. His professor couldn't have been more wrong in implying he wasn't introspective, in fact, his work's dry and analytical nature was a direct result of him being too self-critical. Every move he made, every word he spoke or breath he took was deliberate, a calculated action to garner a calculated response. He didn't want to become attached to anyone or anything and he didn't want anyone to become attached to him. He acted short towards people and so they tried to avoid him, it was what he wanted, what he expected.
It was the unconscious responses that scared him: the way his cheeks turned red of their own accord, the way a light hum would push its way through his throat when his hand was moving a pencil freely around a page, or the way his heart would thump when a certain damn Spaniard was in his presence. These reactions, impulses of his body's most hedonistic desires, terrified him. They indicated that he didn't have the complete control he desired. If he was still capable of feeling happiness, he was still capable of feeling sad, but the two didn't balance out to him. It wasn't worth being hurt just so you could experience being joyful. After all, when he lay awake in his bed at night it wasn't the happy things he recalled. It was his mother's screaming that echoed in his ear, so shrill and unearthly that it seemed it was death itself straining its way through her vocal chords. He pushed some papers around in his drawer,combing his fingers through the disheveled sheets until they brushed against a cold surface. He traced his palm to the edge of the metal plate, hoisting it up when he had grasped the corner and sending the papers laying on top tumbling back into the drawer like a waterfall of looseleaf.
He threw the plate unceremoniously on the table, digging around in his flat file once more until he found a well-worn stick of red compressed chalk and a fresh black, greasy pencil. Pushing the drawer shut, he tossed the drawing tools onto the table before walking across the room to grab a jug of gum arabic and a paintbrush. He paced back to the tables, shoulder slumped in resignation to a tough night ahead as he slammed the heavy jug onto the table and reached behind him to pull a long ruler from the wall. He leaned over the metal plate, quickly tracing a border with the red chalk before pushing the ruler aside and slumping into the chair. He pulled the jug of syrupy looking liquid over, screwing off the plastic cap carefully so no rogue crispy pieces would fall into the container. Once the top was removed he ran his fingers around the edge, pouring a dollop of the thick brown liquid into the cap when he was sure that all the dried debris had been cleaned away.
"Lovi?" A cautious voice sounded when the Italian had just started to paint the borders with the noxious brown liquid. Lovino snapped his head up, thankful that the sudden interruption hadn't caused him to jerk his hand and ruin his work.
"What is it?" Lovino ground out when his brother lingered quietly in the doorway.
"I-I just wanted to check on you, fratello," Feliciano whined, quickly scurrying to the table when his brother had acknowledged his presence.
"I'm fine," Lovino barked, growing tired of those two words.
"Are you sure?" Feliciano leaned his body across the table to get a better look at his brother's face.
'Bastard,' Lovino thought bitterly, the younger Italian knew that his brother's face would reveal whatever his mouth wouldn't say. Lovino lowered his head even more, letting his hair obscure his features. "Yes, I'm sure. Why did you come really? To slow me down? Piss me off? Because you're accomplishing both."
Feliciano sighed slightly and straightened back up, "I wanted to see if you want to get dinner with me." He admitted finally.
"Why, is Antonio too busy or something?" Lovino growled, lips curling slightly in anger
"He is," Feliciano admitted, "but I wanted to get dinner with you anyway. I-I miss you fratello."
Lovino laughed angrily, "I haven't gone anywhere you idiot."
"Hmm" Feliciano replied quietly, sliding in a chair across from his brother and resting his elbow on the table, moving his head into his hand as he pouted at the wall. "No, but you act like you don't want to be around me."
Lovino tensed defensively, this was not happening, he was not being blamed for one more thing. It was his brother's fault for trying to add the Spaniard to their dynamic, in fact, it was his brother's fault for making them go to this damn school in the first place. "How many times do I have to explain that I have a shit-ton of work to get done?"
"But-"
"Maybe I don't want to be around you because every time I am you draw me into your stupid conversations and slow down my work!" Lovino snapped, wanting more than anything to just be left alone, no matter the hurt it caused those around him. "I'm so sorry that everyone loves you and you're not used to rejection," Lovino said sarcastically, "but I have better things to do than deal with you and your shit."
"A-are you saying you don't love me?" Feliciano muttered, staring wide-eyed at his still downward-facing brother. Lovino didn't reply. Of course he loved his brother, but if he said that then Feliciano wouldn't leave. He'd want to hug and make up and suck up all of Lovino's time. The older Italian wasn't ready to get all mushy, his problems wouldn't be resolved by just making up with his brother.
"Look, I just want to get this shit done, find someone else to get dinner with you." Feliciano nodded slightly, he had lived with his brother long enough to know that with Lovino sometimes any answer was a good one. The boy couldn't remember if he had ever heard his brother actually say he loved him, rather he showed it through his actions, and the mere fact that his brother wasn't yelling at him-despite his current stresses-was enough to placate him for the moment.
"Ok," Feliciano sniffed, wiping his tearing eyes on the cuffs of his sleeves as he stood from his seat and wrapped his arms around his waist. He stared at his brother for a moment, opening his mouth to say something before deciding against it and heading toward the door, "bye Lovi," he whispered as he wandered back into the hall, "I love you."
Lovino sighed and let his shoulders slump when the sound of his brother's footfalls dissipated into silence. He didn't want to hurt Feliciano or to make the boy worry. For as many issues as Lovino had, he had always considered his brother the more sensitive of the two, and his older brother instincts made it impossible for him not to want to protect younger Italian. Lovino was ok with being hated, in fact he often preferred it, but Feliciano seemed to be dependent on the love and praise others. That perceived vulnerability frightened Lovino and made him feel as if he had to protect his brother from the fickle nature of people. If Feliciano insisted on acquiring the admiration of others, then Lovino would serve as a contrast to him, being the selfishness to his brother's selflessness, the cruelty to his brother's kindness.
Lovino waved his hand over the drying borders of the large gray metal plate and lifted the pencil, tapping it on the table a few times before shrugging his shoulders and attacking the surface of the sheet. He lost all sense of time and place as his hand moved around deftly, completely consumed by his quickly forming drawing. 'I don't want love anyway,' he told himself as he drew, 'this arrangement probably benefits me more than him.'