Lovino chewed his lower lip as he tried to focus on the sheets of transparency in front of him. His heart thumped heavily against his chest, whether from anxiety over his slow pace or from desire to be with Antonio, he didn't know, nor did he wish to. What he wanted was for his fingers to stop trembling long enough for him to render a clean line, for his fickle emotions to bow to his will for once, instead of overriding every center of logic his brain possessed.
He dipped his brush into a bottle of India ink, watching oily droplets fall from the blackened bristles before holding his breath and moving over a fresh piece of mylar. His fingers moved smoothly and surely, guided by his practiced wrist, until a rogue vision of curly hair bubbled in the recesses of his mind, making his heart shudder and his grip twitch fretfully to the side. "Shit," he uttered for what seemed the hundredth time, slamming his ink brush on the table while angrily eyeing the contorted line. He breathed deeply for a moment, waiting for his irritation to abate, and when it didn't, he pushed the marred transparency off the table, vaguely enjoying the sound of it crumpling abject on the ground as he slumped heavily into his seat.
Lovino sighed and leaned back in the chair, rubbing his palms over his eyes, wincing only slightly from the pain in his bruised socket. "This needs to stop," he mumbled vaguely, letting his arms fall to his sides so he could stare at the brittle afternoon light seeping lazily through the studio window. The solitude, while usually so coveted, was making it impossible for him to leave his own head. It wasn't his slow production rate he was worried about though, at least not completely.
"Stop," Lovino shouted louder than he intended while slamming his fists on the table. It didn't seem to matter what he did, he couldn't get the bastard Spaniard out of his head. Every thought was infected with his over-zealous presence, every stimuli tainted by one of the few memories he had of him. 'This is ridiculous,' he tried to rationalize internally, 'I'm officially losing it, I must be, it doesn't even make sense to feel this way, I don't even know this guy.' And he didn't, not really, because no one was so nice or so forgiving, everyone harbored a secret side of themselves that you only became privy to after repeated exposure.
'So that's it then,' he determined finally, scooping up his materials before he had a chance to change his mind. He tossed the sloppily inked mylar into his flat file before recapping the bottle of India ink and throwing it in, too. He rushed to the sink in the adjoining room to clean his brush, worried that if he lingered in one spot too long, allowed logic the slightest chance to catch up, that he would over-examine his intentions and chicken out. He turned the faucet to full blast, ignoring the rogue splatters of water that dotted his clothing as he held the ink-laden bristles under the heavy stream. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, impatiently waiting for the dark splotches of water to clear before twisting the water off and pulling a paper towel from the dispenser to dry the sopping brush.
He clamored back through the doorway, barely making it into the room before throwing the still-dripping paintbrush into his flat file and slamming it shut on his way to the hall. He fingered the dorm key in his pocket, desperate to occupy himself with any stimuli that would allow him to keep his looming thoughts at bay. Lovino didn't need to rely on his mind, his body knew his intentions, and it carried him mechanically into the brisk autumn air, up the stuffy dorm stairs, and into his closet to deposit mounds of clothes into an empty hamper without him ever having to engage it. Lovino ran a hand through his hair, and let his hands rest on his hips as he caught his breath. He allowed himself a brief moment to appraise his work before moving to lift the mass of laundry, leveraging the hamper on his knee as he wrenched the door open and squeezed past the narrow opening into the hall, for once neglecting to lock the door in his hurry to make it back to the art building.
He felt the weight of his cell phone in his pocket and secretly wished he had stowed Antonio's number in his contacts after their first encounter, rather than ripping the paper to shreds as soon as he was out of the Spaniard's sight. Then again, he decided as he struggled his way through another doorway and headed unthinkingly toward the basement, maybe it was good to take Antonio off guard. If he wasn't expecting to see the older Italian, he wouldn't have time to apply his amiable veneer.
The rhythmic scuff of Lovino's soles against the linoleum floor ceased suddenly, shocking even their source as he waited for his mind to catch up with his body. He carefully lowered his hamper to the ground, eyeing the name on the door he stood before as if it would attack him if he were to avert his gaze. 'Francis,' his mind registered, sending a subtle shiver through his tense shoulders. He almost chickened out then, the gravity of his decision and the various uncomfortable possibilities it presented finally registering amidst his tumultuous thoughts. But his fist met the hard wood of the door without his guidance, the knocks echoing ominously in his ears as if nails in a coffin. Lovino held his breath when the last rap petered off, letting the stowed air seep slowly through his lips when only silence met him for a few blessedly long seconds. He allowed himself to indulge in the idea that his plan had failed and that, by no fault of his own, he wouldn't have to go out of his way to spend his afternoon with an annoying Spaniard.
But a muted clang from the depths of the small room pulled the forming smirk from his lips, exchanging itself with the tension that had only just begun the process of retreating his leaden limbs. "Hold on," an accented voice sounded, accompanied by the whining of wooden furniture being pushed across linoleum flooring. Lovino took the moment to steel his resolve, wetting his lips nervously as he glanced down at his laundry basket and back to the shifting doorknob. The Italian backed up to the wall when a blonde head poked itself from the doorway, open only enough to allow his shoulders access to the hall as his eyes knowingly measured the boy in front of him.
"Lovino, what brings you here?" Francis asked, a lazily concealed cockiness tinting his words.
Lovino scoffed at the self-assured way the Frenchman quirked his eyebrow, "I need a ride," he spat finally, nodding his head towards the pile of clothes still resting next to the door.
"Are the laundry machines in your dorm not working?" Francis pressed, his brash mannerisms becoming more apparent as the conversation persisted.
Lovino considered lying, just to end the dialogue as quickly as possible, but instead he shook his head and screwed his face into what he hoped looked like indignation, "look, will you help me or not?"
"No need for that," Francis waved a hand, unfazed by the Italian's temper, "there's a laundromat within walking distance, there was a map in the paperwork I gave you earlier this semester."
Lovino stared angrily at the opposite wall, biting the inside of his cheek as his mind raced for an excuse. The awkwardness of the lengthening silence wasn't lost on him, but the weight of his admittance rested heavy on his tongue, the words too cumbersome to transmit easily.
"Well, if that's all," Francis broke the still air finally, starting to sink into the depths of his studio before a garbled cry ceased his retreat.
"Ah," Lovino bit his lip, the awkward noise he had made echoing relentlessly in his mind while he felt blood rush into his cheeks. "I need a ride to Antonio's," he managed finally, mercilessly aware of how ridiculous he must look, like a schoolgirl with a crush.
Francis quirked an eyebrow, a salacious grin twitching in the corner of his mouth, "what was that?" He pressed, amused by the discomfort the admittance was causing the Italian.
Lovino dug his nails into his palm in a bid to abate his anger, "I don't have money for a laundromat," he clarified, jaw tensing with the desire to grind his teeth. "Antonio said I could do my laundry at his place."
"If it's an issue of money, I could always loan-" Francis teased, words dying in his throat when he spotted the bloodlust glistening in the other boy's hazel eyes. He laughed through his nose, "how could I stand in the way of love," he winked, disappearing into his studio to grab his keys. If Lovino heard the whisper of another man's voice coming from the small space, he didn't focus on it, too relieved at having made it through the most embarrassing part of his plan, ego relatively still intact. He picked his hamper of clothes from the ground as Francis squeezed his way through the doorway, gently closing the door before placing a hand on the small of Lovino's back, guiding him down the hall to the parking lot.
Lovino jerked away from the unwanted touch, turning his head from the Frenchman, face contorted in a deep scowl. "What's wrong with your door," he grumbled, wondering why he was even bothering to try and converse with the perverted man.
Francis smiled wistfully and cocked his head to the side, holding the door open for Lovino before answering. "Well, the space really is too small for a bed," he replied cryptically.
Lovino scoffed indignantly, muttering something about perverts as he thumped his heavy basket in the backseat of Francis' car, slamming the door harder than necessary before falling gracelessly into the passenger seat, folding his arms in front of his chest as soon as his seatbelt was buckled. Francis paid no mind to his ill-tempered company, he accelerated down short back streets, completely mindless of the low speed limits, all the while prattling on about things that made Lovino flush in joint embarrassment and irritation.
"Does Antonio know you're coming?" Francis asked, the question glancing off the blockade of Lovino's subconscious before he realized he was meant to supply an answer.
"No," he said simply, pulling his arms tighter to his chest as he slumped in his seat.
"Is that wise, mon cheri? Antonio has obligations, too, you know."
Lovino glanced at Francis' neutral face, annoyed by the pang of guilt that strummed in his chest. "That bastard is always interrupting me when I'm working, he deserves it," the Italian spat, turning his face to the window with a huff. It was true, Antonio hadn't exactly helped his productiveness, at least not in any measurable way, and that was all beside the point anyway, because he wanted to be an inconvenience to the Spaniard. 'Not that that will be hard,' he thought to himself dryly, 'it seems to be my only characteristic lately.'
"Whatever you say," Francis leered knowingly, braking a little too abruptly as he pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex. "That's Antonio's place," he said, gesturing to the door on the ground floor, nearest the car. Lovino mumbled a thanks and undid his seatbelt, pausing when he felt the weight of the Frenchman's hand placed uncomfortably high on his thigh. Francis used the moment of confusion to move in close to the Italian's ear, "but you know there's no reason to bother with Antonio when there is someone closer to home that would be happy to accommodate you," he purred.
"Pervert!" Lovino screamed, wrenching himself from the Frenchman's oppressive hold and piercing him with a murderous glare. Francis only laughed, delighted at having successfully gotten under the prude boy's skin.
"Lovi?" A familiar voice sounded from a few feet away, "and Francis? What are you two doing here?"
Francis continued giggling to himself as he lowered his window, leaning his shoulder out to smile at his friend, "Sorry for the noise, mon cheri," he winked, "enjoy your Italian." He called obscurely, checking to see that Lovino had removed his hamper before pulling out of the parking lot without further explanation.
"What's going on?" Antonio pressed, eyeing the fuming Italian.
Lovino chewed on his bottom lip, shoulders shivering in disgust every time he imagined Francis' hot breath on his ear. "Laundry," he said simply, not trusting his voice with anything but clipped responses.
"Ah okay," the older boy nodded, motioning Lovino towards his door, "why didn't you call?"
Lovino's heart skipped a beat, he had been expecting Antonio to be irritated with him, but some covert part of himself had hoped it wouldn't happen, that the Spaniard would prove there existed some bright spot to human nature. "I can leave if it's an inconvenience," he bit back, fully aware of how obnoxious he must sound.
Antonio only laughed, wiping his feet on the welcome mat before entering his home and holding the door open for the Italian. "It's not that, I just would've cleaned if I knew you were coming."
Lovino ignored the flood of relief in his chest as he looked around the small but cozy apartment. It suited the Spaniard perfectly, pictures of smiling faces littered the walls, accompanied by trinkets of his home country. Everything seemed soft and warm, as if the tenderness of the apartment's occupant had seeped into the very walls.
"Let me help you with that," Antonio easily lifted the bulky laundry basket from Lovino's arms, shocking the boy from his thoughts. "Did you want to sort these?" The older boy asked, motioning to the clothes in his hands.
"Ah," Lovino started, he hated to admit that, despite his appearance since arriving at school, he tended to air slightly on the vain side in regards to his attire. Somehow though, it seemed wrong to take advantage of the Spaniard's generosity, so he only shook his head, "I don't care." He lied, mentally cursing himself as soon as the words left his lips.
Antonio nodded and padded down the short hall to the right of the doorway, "you can go to the kitchen, I'll just toss these in for you," he called over his shoulder, not noticing the cringe that traced Lovino's face at the thought of his carefully selected wardrobe being 'tossed' anywhere.
The Italian walked hesitantly forward, following the warm light and spicy smell that he assumed were wafting from the kitchen. He smiled lightly when he realized he was right, allowing himself to purvey the items simmering on the stove, only to jump when a warm hand grabbed his elbow. "Have you had lunch?" Antonio asked, gentle voice heating Lovino's cheeks with it's proximity.
"N-no," the Italian stepped to the side, praying the older boy didn't notice his flushed face, "Not yet." He steeled himself, swallowing his trepidation as he reminded himself of his purpose in being there.
"Perfect timing then," Antonio grinned, stirring a pot of tomato sauce before spooning a small portion and blowing on it. "Will you try this for me, it's a new recipe."
Lovino backed up unconsciously, not making it far in the squat kitchen before bumping into a wall. "Why would I do that, bastard?" He scowled, "you're not trying to poison me, are you?"
Antonio blinked in confusion before tilting his head and laughing, "of course not," he giggled, "it's just that you're Italian so I thought you'd be the perfect person to ask for an opinion."
Lovino sniffed in mock indignation, in truth he was hungry, and the savory scent of perfectly cooked tomatoes was incredibly alluring."Fine," he acquiesced, leaning forward to take the spoon from the Spaniard. With the Italian's approval, Antonio thrust the utensil into the boy's slightly open mouth, not realizing Lovino's intention to feed himself. The younger boy jumped back in surprise, staring wide-eyed as bright red sauce dribbled down his chin onto his white shirt.
"Ah, Lovi, I'm so sorry~" Antonio wailed, dropping the spoon back in it's holder and grabbing a washcloth from the nearby sink. Lovino blinked down at his top, wondering why anger wasn't immediately setting in as the Spaniard slid a hand up the inside of his shirt and started vigorously rubbing at the crimson stains.
"Hey hey hey, stop," the Italian screeched when Antonio's knuckles brushed his cold stomach, "that's not helping." Antonio stared at the spreading orange blotches and pulled his hands away, tossing the washcloth in the sink and reaching to pull Lovino's shirt over his head. The Italian gave a decidedly unmanly shriek and crossed his arms over his chest in embarrassment, "the fuck are you doing?" He gasped, face heating to a maddening degree.
"We still have time to throw it in the wash with the rest of the clothes," Antonio explained as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, completely indifferent to the Italian's flustered state.
Lovino hesitantly straightened back up, desperate to regain any shred of pride he had left. "Right, but, what will I wear?" He mumbled, scowling when the older boy laughed at his uncharacteristic modesty.
"You can borrow something from me, it's not a big deal," Antonio winked, holding a hand out to take the soiled shirt from the Italian.
Lovino gave a clipped "hmph," in reply, keeping his eyes on the terracotta floor as he pulled the shirt over his head and handed it to the leering Spaniard.
"I'll be right back," Antonio grinned, leaning forward to brush the rogue streak of sauce from Lovino's chin and popping his thumb in his mouth before padding out of the kitchen to the laundry room.
Lovino waited till Antonio's back disappeared around the corner before silently collapsing against the wall, miming braining himself on the counter at his total lack of composure before straightening back up when he heard footsteps making their way back to him. "Here ya go," the Spaniard called casually when he reentered the kitchen, tossing a t-shirt to the smaller boy.
Lovino mumbled a thanks and pulled the shirt over his head, ignoring how embarrassingly large the top felt on his slight frame. He padded around to the other side of the bar, hoisting himself on a stool and leaning his head in his hands as he watched Antonio whiz expertly around the kitchen. "You never told me what you thought of the sauce." The Spaniard reminded when he settled in front of the stove, glancing between a pot of cooking noodles and Lovino's face.
"It was fine," the Italian responded quickly, not wanting to give Antonio the satisfaction of having him actually contemplate how truly amazing the taste was.
"Fine, huh?" Antonio chuckled, seemingly unbothered as he hummed an unfamiliar tune.
The two fell into a comfortable silence, only the faint bubbling from the stove and Antonio's occasional soft hums filling the space between them. Lovino felt his eyelids get heavy, he didn't want to admit it, but he just felt so damn comfortable, like he had known this place and the man across from him his whole life. He felt his chin dip and immediately jerked his head back up, searching Antonio's face for any sign that he had noticed him nodding off.
"Hey Lovi," the man said, not bothering to look up as he sprinkled what looked to be basil into the simmering pot of sauce, "if you want you can take a nap, I'll wake you up when the food is ready."
Lovino wanted to argue, just to be contrary, but he was tired, and the couch in the living room behind him was calling his name. "Fine," he muttered, "but don't try anything while I'm asleep, you tomato bastard," he tacked on for good measure.
Antonio tittered quietly at the new nickname, watching covertly as the Italian curled into a ball on the couch, cuddling a throw pillow to his chest. Lovino had barely laid down before he was completely passed out, and it seemed as if only a few seconds had passed before he felt calloused fingers brush the hair from his forehead. "-vi" a distant voice sounded. The gentle hand squeezed his shoulder and this time he recognized his voice being called again as he shifted into wakefulness. "Welcome back," a familiar tan face hovered in front of his blurry vision.
Lovino pushed himself into the cushions and hid his face behind his wrists, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "What time is it?" He murmured groggily, clearing his throat when his voice filtered weakly from his mouth.
Antonio glanced over his shoulder to spy the time displayed over the oven, "ah, almost 4," he said, rising from his crouched position and holding a hand out to hoist up the waking italian.
Lovino took the offered hand without thinking, stretching his arms over his head when he was in a sitting position. "You sure are a slow cook," he sneered, antagonistic disposition returning with his alertness.
"You could say that," Antonio shrugged. In truth he had finished cooking a while ago, but he had found he didn't have the heart to wake the sleeping boy. "What can I get you to drink?"
Lovino lifted himself from the couch and gave his sleep-matted hair a shake, "just water is fine," he managed around a yawn, treading towards the already set table. "It smells good," he said as Antonio plunked a glass in front of him, his groggy mind not yet alert enough to engage his filter.
"Thanks, I hope it tastes good," Antonio smiled from across the table, watching for Lovino to take a bite of pasta before he followed suit. The younger boy perked up when the flavorful food hit his tongue, he had eaten much pasta in his life, but Antonio's was so different, no ingredient fought any other, all the seasonings had life breathed into them. He didn't dare ask the Spaniard what his secret was, though, as he was sure "love" would be the answer. He rolled his eyes at the idea, even if some secret part of him could start to believe it.
"Yum," He said noncommittally, taking a sip of water while he pretended not to notice Antonio's face light up as if he had told him the pasta was the best thing he had ever eaten. Although, he considered as he twirled some more noodles on his fork, it may very well be true.
"I'll admit I was trying hard to impress you," Antonio grinned after swallowing a mouthful of noodles.
Lovino stole a glance in the Spaniard's direction, he wanted to ask why he would bother, but gave a disinterested "hn" instead. "It should be good after how damn long you took to make it."
"Well, cooking is what I love," Antonio shrugged, seemingly unbothered by the Italian's rudeness.
"But you go to school for it, don't you just want a break sometimes?" Lovino pressed.
"Uuum," Antonio responded, tilting his head upwards as he considered his response, "no, not really. I guess I get tired sometimes, but I never feel like it's a chore to cook. I mean, I wouldn't be going to school for it if I hated it."
"I can't relate," Lovino bit back, instantly regretting the words as soon as they left his tongue.
"In what way?" Antonio pushed, mindlessly twirling noodles on the tines of his fork as he studied the Italian's face.
"It's not important," Lovino corrected, "stop trying to play therapist."
Antonio leaned back in his seat, "you're right, I'm sorry, I just worry."
The Italian gritted his teeth at the stupidity of the statement, at the very idea that one could worry about an individual they had only just met. He glared at Antonio, taking in the slightly darker patches of skin under his eyes, barely perceptible on his tan complexion. The Spaniard may claim to love what he was doing, and he didn't doubt that to be true, but the boy was still human, and there was no way the time he had taken to tend to Lovino hadn't affected his schedule in at least some way. "I have a guardian for that, and a brother, it's not your responsibility." Lovino replied, agitated at having to admit to being a burden.
"It's not about responsibility, when people love you, they worry about you," Antonio chuckled.
Lovino scowled at the Spaniard's easy admittance. "Not from my experience," he shot back, aware that it was a lie as soon as he said it.
Antonio seemed unfazed by the confession, "I don't think that's true," he offered, not bothering to scold the Italian for his lie, but not letting him get away with it either. "And anyway," he started, pausing as he took a sip of water, "you worry about Feliciano, so I know you understand the concept."
Lovino felt his cheeks at ignite and he was filled with the sudden insatiable urge to run back to the safe solitude of the printmaking studio, where no one bothered to read his apparently unconcealed emotions. "Ah, the laundry!" He choked out suddenly, partly in a feeble attempt to change the subject.
"I already took care of it," Antonio shrugged, motioning to a basket of folded clothes positioned against the bar in the kitchen.
Lovino turned his head sharply to the basket, ashamed that he had left Antonio with the task of feeding him and doing his laundry, like he was his fucking wife. The connection made his flush darken, and he opened his mouth to scold the Spaniard for trying too hard, but all he managed to choke out was, "Bastard, there was underwear in there."
Antonio laughed heartily at that, and the rest of the conversation ran smoothly, sailing from cursory topics like school and the weather and whether tomatoes were a fruit or not. Lovino barely noticed the time ticking by as he stood with suds up to his elbows, only managing to shatter one of Antonio's glasses, which, he thought smugly, might be a new record for him. When the pressure of his impending work load became too much to continue to ignore, Antonio offered to drive him back, and Lovino didn't refuse, the memory of his time with Francis still sending waves of unabated anger down his spine.
When the familiar sight of his dorm building closed in, Lovino felt a weight in his stomach. He wanted to believe it was from exasperation at still not discovering anything about Antonio worth hating, but he knew it was because he wasn't yet ready to part with the boy, a thought that made his stomach churn. Antonio rolled up to the curb and downshifted into park, staring expectantly at the unmoving Italian. "Lovi?" He asked, when the boy didn't seem to acknowledge their arrival.
"Three meals," the boy muttered quietly, the ambiguity of the statement making Antonio blink, mouth agape.
"I don't under-"
"You can bring me food, but only three meals a week." Lovino clarified, leveling a serious stare at Antonio to emphasize his seriousness.
"But it's not a bother-" Antonio started in, only to be cut off once more.
"I don't care, say what you want but I know your workload is a lot. You're lucky I'm letting you bring me food at all. Three meals." He reiterated.
Antonio's soft lips quirked into a knowing smile, "only if you make time to eat, and take a nap every day." He negotiated.
Lovino rolled his eyes and scoffed, "fine, bastard." He relented, "I'll try."
"Then it's a deal." Antonio gave a thumbs up, giggling when the Italian rolled his eyes again and opened the car door, moving to exit the seat.
"Hey, Lovi," he called, grabbing the boy by the hem of his freshly-washed shirt and pulling him back inside the cab. He pressed a kiss to the side of his face, warm lips brushing against the corner of Lovino's mouth, "thanks for caring," he said softly before the Italian gave a garbled screech and scrambled into the cool autumn air.
"Perverted bastard," the boy fumed, rubbing his wrist furiously across the tainted spot. Antonio laughed heartily at the action, watching affectionately as the Italian pulled his clothes from the backseat and stomped to the studio without bothering to say goodbye. After all, Lovino hadn't denied the accusation, and that was something was a start.