Lovino leaned heavily across the counter, head tilted on his shoulder and cheeks blushed slightly from the few gulps of cooking wine Antonio had stolen him in celebration of his recent success. The conversation had been light and pointless, but the topics never seemed to matter. After all, it was what was left unsaid, what lingered provocatively in the dead air between the prattled consonants and slippery vowels, that was most truthful.
"Do you dress up for art shows?" Antonio asked, glancing at the tired Italian as he cleaned up his mess.
Lovino straightened his head and shrugged, "I'm not sure, Roderich used to dress up, but then, that's just the kind of person he is."
Antonio nodded knowingly as he wiped the counters, "I guess it doesn't matter anyway, since I won't be going."
"Yeah," Lovino joined in immediately, embarrassed that he had seemingly forgotten, "why do you care?"
Antonio didn't answer, and he wasn't meant to, instead he rounded the corner and placed a warm palm on the Italian's shoulder. "You ready to go?"
Lovino didn't argue the touch, though he did exit his stool quickly. "Yeah, I need to try to come up with a concept tonight." He said, a barely perceptible shudder of misery coursing its way up his spine.
"Aw, it can't be that bad, I'm sure you'll do fine." Antonio encouraged, leading the pair towards the door.
The Italian grabbed his borrowed umbrella as they exited, jumping away from the Spaniard to wield it as a weapon and whipping it through the air in threat of poking the older boy's side.
Antonio laughed and flattened himself against the opposite wall, "Please, spare me!" He whined in mock fear, holding his open palms in front of his chest for defense.
Lovino snapped the umbrella to his side, letting the plastic tip meet linoleum with a determined crack as he cocked his hip and raised his chin. "Never make light of a difficult task, Antonio," he warned through half-lidded eyes, lips quirking slightly upwards at the fun of being the dominant individual for once. "One can't be held responsible for what is done out of frustration," He said as haughtily as possible, pulling the umbrella back into the air with a straight arm and leveling it between Antonio's eyes.
"Forgive me," Antonio whispered in a maddeningly seductive voice. Lovino felt his character falter momentarily when his heart jumped in his chest, and was caught completely off-guard when the Spaniard grabbed the hull of the umbrella and jerked it forward, sending the Italian into his chest. Antonio took advantage of the younger boy's startled state and wrapped his arms around his body, the ensuing hug lasting longer than it would've had Lovino's senses been properly about him.
"Let go," the younger boy protested when he realized what had happened.
"Never," Antonio roared over-dramatically, "if I let you go you'll raise your sword to me again."
"I won't, I won't," Lovino laughed, mirth lacing his words, "let me go, you bastard!"
Antonio seemed to consider it, cocking his chin to the ceiling, before lowering it back down and shaking his head. "Only if you speak the secret words," he prompted.
The Italian bit his lip and contemplated. "I'll kick you in the balls if you don't," he determined.
Antonio's eyebrows quirked at the thought and he paled slightly, "oh c'mon, that's not even an honest guess."
Lovino struggled against the stronger man's hold, genuine irritation setting in. "Give me a hint."
The Spaniard hummed softly as he thought, "tell me you'll be my boyfriend."
The Italian scowled immediately and elbowed the older boy in the stomach, "that's not a hint," he spat when he was released. "And no," he added for good measure, pleased with having gotten free.
"So cruel," Antonio teased, too content with the lighthearted interaction to be disappointed by his rejection. He kept the umbrella in his hold to prevent any further incidents of violence and motioned the Italian to the locker room so he could change into his casual clothes.
Lovino was pleasantly surprised to find his garments had dried, and padded to the opposite side of the lockers to change in privacy. "I'll wash these clothes for you," he said while removing Antonio's t-shirt and pulling on his own.
"Nah, don't worry about it," the older boy replied, unbuttoning his crisp white jacket and shrugging it off his muscular shoulders. "You only had them on for a couple hours," he rationalized, slipping his top onto a hanger and stowing it carefully in his locker. "Besides," he added after a beat, "I don't mind the smell of ink."
Lovino slumped onto a bench to pull on his jeans and rolled his eyes, "I don't smell like ink," he growled, secretly sniffing his shoulder despite himself.
Antonio laughed and folded his work pants over his arm, "I like it, it's cute."
The Italian scoffed and picked the discarded clothes from the floor, folding them in his lap and ignoring the heat trailing up the back of his neck, "well you smell like grease and rotten tomatoes," he returned spitefully.
The Spaniard shook his head, holding back laughter as he leaned down to pull up his jeans. "So mean," he lamented playfully. "You all set?" He called over the lockers when Lovino didn't immediately reply.
"Uh-huh," the Italian said distracted, quickly slipping his socks over his feet before returning to Antonio and pulling on his shoes while the other placed his spare clothes back in his locker.
"You think it's still raining?" Lovino asked as the pair headed towards the front lobby.
Antonio shrugged and hummed thoughtfully, "not sure," he said after a while, "it tends to rain in the fall around here, something to do with the mountains or something, I never really cared to know."
The Italian smirked at the older's admitted negligence, "you wouldn't."
"Aw what's that supposed to mean?"
"I like it, though," Lovino continued, ignoring Antonio's question, "the rain I mean. It doesn't bother me."
The older boy nodded, thinking it was fitting for the Italian to feel that way, but not voicing it. Lovino seemed to have a knack for spotting the beauty where others couldn't, it was a rare and endearing trait, Antonio thought, and the fact that the Italian didn't recognize it made it all the more wonderful. Most like-minded individuals he knew worked for their ability to see beyond the surface, himself included, but for Lovino it was like breathing. Of course he could recognize the good in the world, it was so natural it was almost burdensome, and he feared it left him feeling inadequate in comparison.
Antonio opened the lobby door for Lovino, peering out at the soft raindrops hazily illuminated by orange streetlights before deciding the umbrella wouldn't be needed. "Do you need to be dropped off at the dorm or studio?" He asked, voice accented by the crunch of rubber soles against dampened concrete.
Lovino shrugged slightly, "better be the studio," he lamented, "I'll just fall asleep if I go to the dorm."
"Maybe that wouldn't be a bad thing," the older boy reminded, following the slight Italian to the passenger side of his car and pulling the door open for him.
Lovino fastened his seat belt, waiting for Antonio to enter the vehicle before continuing the conversation. "I won't stay too late, but I don't have a lot of time."
Antonio revved the engine and downshifted into reverse, leveraging his arm behind the younger boy's headrest as he looked out the rear window. "You don't have anything already made that you can show?" He asked, twisting his body back around once he had reversed to ease the car slowly forward.
"No, it's all shit," Lovino scowled, folding his arm over his chest.
"I don't believe you," Antonio replied, glancing at the Italian's scowling face in the periphery of his vision and smiling lightly at the way the street lights illuminated his wispy hairs, encompassing his head with a golden halo.
"It is," Lovino insisted, slumping further into his seat and letting his head fall back against the cushion in order to stare unblinking at the blackened window. "What would you know, anyway?"
Antonio quirked an eyebrow in understanding, "true, maybe I could give better advice if you'd let me see your work."
"No way in hell," Lovino answered immediately, pushing his feet into the floorboard to scoot his body upwards and appear more foreboding.
"Why not?" the Spaniard pressed, ignoring the stern glare he knew was being burned into the side of his head. His question was returned with expected silence, only the occasional squeak of the windshield wiper timing the beats of their travel. "Well anyway, I hope an idea comes to you quickly." He said when the sharp contours of the art studio roof entered his field of vision.
"Me, too," Lovino mumbled in a tone so low Antonio knew he wasn't expected to hear. The older boy pulled next to the outdoor stairwell, knowing from experience that it would be the quickest access point for the Italian. "Thanks for the ride," Lovino said, louder this time, before turning his head to hesitantly study Antonio's gentle gaze.
"Of course," Antonio said, a small but purposeful smile tracing his masculine features. It was nicer than the huge smiles, Lovino thought, it seemed more genuine and pointed, rather than wielded for defense. This smile wasn't meant to diffuse a conflict or abate a bad temper, rather it's small, yet crucial purpose was to convey the feelings of its wearer, and it did its job so well that the Italian barely noticed when he unfastened his seatbelt and leaned across the middle console, placing a chaste peck on the older boy's soft lips.
Neither party was shocked, by this point their mutual sexual attraction was obvious, and, while Lovino still hated the affect Antonio's touch had on him, it no longer surprised him when his body was fitted with the Spaniard's gentle contact. He pulled away hesitantly, admittedly disappointed that the kiss hadn't been pursued, that his taste hadn't been allowed into the older boy's warm mouth. "Well, goodnight then," he said in a tone he hoped sounded nonchalant, wrenching the door open to exit.
"Goodnight," Antonio returned, "and good luck." He managed to call out before the door was slammed shut. Lovino stomped up the metal stairs, taking pleasure in the way they clinked together in a tinny clap and exaggerated his heavy footfalls. He paused briefly at the top of the landing to glance at Antonio's stalling car, before slipping into the hallway and feigning trudging down the hall, only to whip around and peer past the reflecting surface at the finally retreating tail lights.
He smirked at that, satisfied that the Spaniard had waited to make sure he was safely inside the building before leaving. It was confusing, he pondered as he sighed and turned around, stretching his arms over his head as his feet led him unthinkingly to the studio. He knew Antonio wished for them to be together, he had made it abundantly clear, and despite Lovino's self conscious nature, he was fairly certain the man found him attractive, even if he would never audibly admit it. So why then had Antonio not returned his kiss? Lovino wrenched open his flat file and rifled through its cluttered content, attempting to gently excavate a large piece of expensive cotton paper from his drawer and cursing when it dented in the middle. Certainly the Spaniard wasn't eschewing physical contact until he got his way, the Italian's pace quickened at the thought, from fear or anger he did not know.
'Though intimate and physical contact aren't quite the same thing,' his mind provided unhelpfully, making him throw the pencil he had been thoughtlessly nibbling across the room in frustration. He pushed his flat file closed and glanced out the door, glad nobody had witnessed his immature display before ducking to the corner of the studio to retrieve his utensil.
Lovino took the moment to enter the dry side of the room, glancing at the clock to find it was almost 11am before returning to his table and paper to mentally calculate how long he had to work. By the time he had made a neat list of the way he would spend each hour of the next few days on the butcher paper surface, he knew he was just wasting time, putting off the inevitable realization that ever second was ticking away and he still had no idea what to make art about. He let his head rock from side to side, enjoying the way the weight settled into one side of his head before being rolled over again, the undulating rhythm of wind against ears allowing his mind to stay grounded in the present.
The first step was deciding what technique to use. It was an easy decision, Lovino thought. He didn't have much time to allow ink to dry, and with the multicolored prints he tended to make, that immediately eliminated any relief processes. He couldn't do intaglio, he didn't have any unused zinc plates, and even if he sanded the surfaces of his used ones, none were quite big enough to have the impact he wanted. He could always do silkscreen or even a polyester plate, but he wanted to be able to show off his drawing skills, one of the few advantages he had ever claimed to possess in the arts. So that left lithograph; stone, he determined, since he was out of ball-grained plates.
Lovino felt ridiculously pleased with himself for reaching that conclusion, it was small but it was one more task he could tick off his ever-growing list of responsibilities. He wondered how much time had passed as he drummed the lead tip of his pencil against the table, waiting for an idea to come to him. He was lazy when it came to concept, he knew. Most artists researched and sought out their ideas, not sitting with the ambivalence that he tended towards, but they had an access point, something that interested them from the start and gave them a direction. Lovino didn't have that, he had his life and he had art, and he had never cared to intermingle them.
The Italian leaned back in his seat, chewing on his lower lip and staring blankly at the paper looming tauntingly in front of him. He wiggled his foot in anxiety, trying to keep his panic under control, but sensing the deadline drawing nearer and nearer with each hesitant breath. He took to tapping complicated patterns on his knee, and when that failed to abate his panic, he jumped up and paced the room, straightening chairs and untangling apron strings, anything to keep negative thoughts from obstructing the production of ideas.
After untold minutes of aimless cleaning, Lovino paused in the middle of the room, slightly shocked by the sudden silence that descended the studio, no longer filled by the sound of his frantic feet slapping against cement flooring. He stared, eyelids tensed, at the mockingly blank paper, resting so deceivingly innocuous upon the farthest table. Maybe it wasn't a good day to be trying to think of something, he was convinced, finally addressing the void of white he had been unsuccessfully ignoring and walking towards the table to deposit it back into his flat file. He still had a whole week, after all. Plenty of time to produce the work, as long as he planned all his pieces out tomorrow.
Satisfied that it would be okay to allow himself one more peaceful night, Lovino stood in the studio doorway, scanning the room carefully before rolling his shoulders and flicking off the light, closing his eyes as he traveled the familiar path to his dorm.
The next morning came all too quickly, Lovino felt as he threw on fresh clothes, fretful that he had overslept his alarm. He had been up later than he intended the night before, his dreams of an instant sleep dashed when his brother, upon hearing his news, had insisted he relay every detail of the event. Lovino had acted annoyed at the time, and he had been, but he was secretly pleased, and had almost relished the soft sighs and gasps that Feliciano afforded the retelling. He hadn't included the part about not knowing what he would show, it would ruin the beauty of the story, mar it with the gravity of reality; and despite knowing his younger brother was old, and admittedly, mature enough to handle it, Lovino wasn't yet ready to abandon his role as guardian against all things malicious.
Lovino glanced at himself in the mirror while he brushed his teeth, his skin looked healthy, his features soft. The purple petals of sleeplessness no longer lined his eyes, and his hazel orbs seemed warmer, lit by some unknown source. He spit the foamy residue into the sink, filling his mouth with water and swirling it around before emptying it, too. The extra sleep and general care had done him well, but he couldn't help feeling that his health was unimportant if he had nothing to show for it. What was the point of energy if he was unable to expel it, frozen by the failing mechanics of his mind.
"What am I going to do?" Lovino asked his reflection, sizing the image up and fixing it with a pointed stare as if, by will alone, he would receive an answer. When no response was given, and the reflected portrait remained his own, the Italian sighed and visibly wilted, turning dejected to exit the dorm and start his morning class.
The usually tedious courses whizzed by for Lovino, propelling him closer to the time in which he would once more be forced to struggle against his unyielding brain for a concept. He knew he wasn't ready when the time arrived, the emptiness of the day before was fresher than ever, a gaping maw amidst his day to day thought processes. When an hour had passed by without even a hint of a design, Lovino dug his nails into his hairline and chewed his lip nervously, when another flitted by as unproductively as the first, he seriously considered telling Sadiq he wasn't suited for the task.
"I can't do this, can I?" Lovino asked no one, turning his head to the window and wincing against the yellow beaming light. He let his eyes linger there, pleased with the way his eyes stung and watered, a silent retribution for being so shallow. He bit his lip in surprise when a knot formed in his throat and the water tracing his long eyelashes turned to tears, he didn't want this to matter so much, but his self-esteem had long ago affixed itself to it. It wasn't just the show, but his performance in art in general that held his self worth so precariously before him. He had no talents, no redeeming qualities, but printmaking he understood. He had found solace in the medium, had even gone so far as to excel at it. But what did that matter, no one would care if he could print well if he didn't have any ideas to back up his technique. He had fooled himself into thinking he had finally found an area of life in which he was competent, only to find that in this, like everything else, he had come up lacking, missing a key understanding of living that, while so obvious to everyone else, was impossible for him to identify.
Lovino swallowed thickly, looking around the room with a scowl, suddenly disgusted by the presses, the flat files, the ink-stained aprons and smudged palette knives. How ridiculous to think one could find a meaning amongst these things, these tools of frivolous individuals thinking they could make a difference by littering the world with their presumptuous graffiti. Before giving himself time to consider his actions, Lovino dug through his satchel, withdrawing his phone to immediately open his contacts list and select Antonio's name.
He bounced from foot to foot while the phone rang, anxiety growing as each tinny exclamation petered into silence. "Hola!" A chipper voice proclaimed finally, making Lovino sigh audibly from relief.
"Antonio," the Italian started in immediately, not in the mood to prolong his torture, "can you come pick me up?"
"Sure," the agreeable voice replied easily, "why? Is everything okay?"
Lovino gripped the phone to his ear with both hands and nodded, "yes, yeah, I just can't be here anymore. I-I need out." He said, desperately trying to convey the immediacy of his wish.
"Okay," Antonio said hesitantly, deciding he'd ask for the Italian to clarify when they could speak in person. "Are you in the studio?"
"Yeah, but I'll wait for you outside. In front of the studio." Lovino waited for the Spaniard to give a word of understanding before hitting the end button, not bothering to say goodbye. He tossed the device back in his bag and flung it over his shoulder, heading in a half-jog towards the closest stairwell, and breathing a sigh of relief when he exited the stale, pretentious walls and was encompassed by gentle autumn air.
Lovino settled onto the curb and stared expectantly at the street, grateful that he didn't have to wait long before a familiar red car rolled into the lot and parked. The Italian jumped to his feet and started towards the car, beginning on a tirade before the Spaniard had even had the chance to properly exit his vehicle. "Oi, oi, what are you doing? We're not staying here, I want far away from here. Now." Lovino said seriously, gently pushing Antonio back into his seat.
"Lovi, Lovi," the older boy soothed, grabbing the Italian's flying palms and leveling him with a stare. "What's the rush, what's going on?"
"I just, I-" Lovino started, suddenly finding how incredibly hard it was to properly articulate his issue. "I need fresh air." He said lamely, "to clear my head."
Antonio nodded knowingly, not bothered by the dramatics, and eased his car door shut with his foot. "Right, I figured." He said, ignoring the slight blush that marred the Italian's cheeks from being so easily read. "It's a really nice day so I thought we could go on a walk, maybe talk about what's bothering you." He prompted.
Lovino only blinked in reply, fingertips tingling as his senses caught up with his racing brain, allowing him to enjoy the soft breeze that whirled playfully across his body, upsetting the soft brunette tendrils on the nape of his neck. "Yeah, okay," he said after a while, eyes widening in shock when Antonio wrapped warm fingers around his smaller hand and guided him towards the closest neighborhood.
"How's your day been?" The Spaniard asked, other hand slipped into his pocket and posture relaxed.
Lovino only shrugged, eyes pointed downward as he kicked the loose pebbles that littered the sidewalk. "Fine," he said finally, voice so forced that even he didn't believe it, "how about yours?"
Antonio sighed and squeezed the smaller boy's hand, "What's got you so worked up, huh?"
The Italian looked to the older boy's face and immediately regretted it, his expression was so soft and empathetic that even he felt sorry for himself, and his desperation from before flooded back with renewed vigor. Finally he shook his head in reply, unable to find the words to convey his feelings, and not trusting his voice to deliver them even if he could.
"That bad, huh?" Antonio asked, "and you were so happy yesterday, too," he said, sounding regretful.
"it's not bad," Lovino choked out finally, "it's stupid. I'm stupid." He corrected.
"Hey," the Spaniard protested, releasing his hold on the other boy's palm so he could grip the boy's shoulders, kneeling slightly so they were eye level. "Don't say that, Lovi." He said seriously, face stern but caring, "you're not stupid."
Lovino rolled his eyes and jerked away, "I know, I know," he placated, picking up his gait and motioning for Antonio to follow. "I'm just-I don't know," he finished, oxygen sucked so easily from his lungs, "I don't think I'm cut out to be an artist."
"Why do you say that?" Antonio asked as he caught up with the pacing boy and rested an arm across his shoulder.
Lovino didn't answer immediately, he studied the way the golden light filtered through red leaves, illuminating particles of dust and making the sidewalk glisten. He watched as Antonio's elongated shadow stretched past his own, spaghetti limbs matching the movement of their creator. It made him smile despite himself, remembering a time when his mother used to take him and his brother on walks. She told him that his shadow was an extension of himself, and so he had to keep it in check, not allow it to sneak into yards or climb privacy fences. They would always start off so strict, arms at their sides, bodies faced forward on their path, but ridiculousness would always set in eventually, and they'd have contests, seeing whose shadow could reach the highest branch or mar a stranger's front door.
"Hey, a swing set!" Antonio called excitedly, pulling Lovino from his memories.
"Yeah, so what?" Lovino pouted but didn't protest when he was pulled towards the rusted yet sturdy looking playground equipment.
"Sit down and I'll push you," Antonio encouraged, eyes so bright with excitement that Lovino didn't argue.
"Don't push too hard, bastard, I don't want this thing crumbling."
Antonio laughed knowingly and leaned gently into the small of the Italian's back sending him pivoting a few feet into the air. Lovino pumped his legs in response, mounting his escape higher and higher into the air. Eventually the Spaniard pulled away and sat in the swing next to him, kicking his legs hard to match the other's pace. A contagious giggle spread between the pair, elation at feeling so weightless lessening the impact of the world's many grievances.
"I have no idea what to make art about," Lovino admitted after a while, the tender lull of wind against his slight body abating his embarrassment enough to confess it.
"Oh no?" Antonio asked, letting the heel of his foot trail the mulch floor to slow his ascent. "That's surprising."
"Why?" Lovino demanded, voice not as forceful as he would've liked, but feeling too content to correct it.
Antonio tilted his head towards the close-eyed Italian, "because, you're always thinking. Too much, actually," he admitted, "I wish you would let me in more."
Lovino inhaled sharply and knitted his eyebrows, "I don't," he argued, the weight of the lie resting heavily between the two. "And if I did," he started up again, aware that the answer was unsatisfactory, "it's because some things are-well, too hard to talk about."
The Spaniard nodded knowingly, "so make art about them."
"It's not that easy," Lovino snapped, eyes opening instantly so he could glare at the older boy.
Antonio planted his feet on the ground to still his projection and Lovino followed suit, biting the inside of his cheek against the words that weighted heavily on his tongue. "I'm sorry I guess I-I don't understand why it's not-" Antonio started in when the Italian stared at him expectantly.
"They expect you to talk about it," Lovino interrupted, letting his head fall against the cold metal chain of the swing and rocking himself gently with his toes. "If you make something you have to explain what it means."
"So you have ideas, they're just too painful to confront." Antonio supplied, his insight infuriating the smaller Italian.
"Who asked you?" Lovino demanded, turning his head from the boy and folding his chin into his collar.
Antonio snorted half-heartedly and pulled himself from his seat, padding his way behind the Italian and grasping the chains in his palms, leaning his weight against the Italian's back. "Don't worry about other people, Lovi, make an explanation up if you have to," he said thoughtfully, undulating his body weight forward and backward against the leveraged seat. "But I wouldn't let it stop you from making the art you need to make."
Lovino looked up at the hovering Spaniard, heart pounding heavily in his head. The words were easy to say, he had repeated them to himself many times, but they were harder to act upon. It scared him to be so vulnerable, he had fought against it his whole life, building up the walls around him in fear of being recognized for the waste of space he feared himself to be. It seemed so self-serving to make diaristic art, he couldn't imagine how it could ever mean anything to anyone, and it made him cringe to imagine articulating the meaning, carefully undressing every piece of dirty laundry he possessed. Why would he go through such a painful process, only to have his professors think him fickle and egotistic, pumping up his individual problems to such a uselessly inflated status?
"I'm gonna drop out of the show," he said after a while, sighing at the revelation.
"What, no," Antonio argued, drooping his body till his arms were able to wrap around the Italian's neck and leaning his warm cheek against Lovino's.
A shiver traced the entirety of the Italian's spine at the touch and he fixed his mouth into a grimace, "I have to, I'd be letting everyone down if I didn't."
"Lovi, please," Antonio pleaded simply, the following words of encouragement dying on his lips.
"Why do you care, you're not even allowed to go," Lovino returned bitterly, disgusted by his own moping.
"It's important to you," Antonio replied, "and I know it's hard, but it's time you did something just for yourself."
Lovino didn't know what the Spaniard meant, but he didn't question it. He felt he had lived his life solely for himself, manipulating the people and circumstances around him to fit his every need, and now, as if that wasn't enough, he was considering making art that served only as therapy for his own needlessly tortured existence. It made him feel sick with self-loathing, but in a last ditch effort to please someone other than himself, he nodded. "Fine," he said, cringing at the way the word echoed pitifully in his ears, "I'll do it."