"How's this one?" Antonio asked, closing one eye to inspect a long plank before handing the wood over to the small Italian.
Lovino looked it up and down, running a careful finger over the silken surface before nodding slightly and leaning it against his accumulating pile. "You're getting better at this," he mumbled, eyes averted to make sure the Spaniard didn't take the compliment too seriously.
"Ah, thanks," Antonio smiled, pulling another plank from the rack and peering down the end for any imperfections. "I'll be a master frame maker before you know it!" He teased, laughing lightly when Lovino scoffed.
"It takes more than being able to choose wood, you know."
Antonio glanced up at the Italian and placed a board in the overgrown reject pile, "it must take you forever to do this alone," he acknowledged, "there's like one good piece to every ten bad ones."
Lovino shrugged and diligently continued his work, "it's faster the more you've done it," he said, walking around the older boy to let three more malformed boards clack into the racks. He pulled a scrap of paper from his back pocket and studied the scribbled measurements, "I need two more pieces," he reminded.
Antonio nodded and handed him a plank, "check this one," he offered, waiting patiently for the Italian to slip his note away again. Lovino took the offered wood, checking it meticulously before agreeing it was satisfactory and amending the needed pieces to one. "So are you going to make these today?" Antonio asked, not looking up from his task.
Lovino shrugged and leaned his back against the rack, allowing the Spaniard to finish his inspection. "Yeah, I hate doing it, so better to just get it over with."
Antonio hummed in agreement and handed him a plank. "Yeah, makes sense," he nodded as the Italian studied the wood, "but-"
"But what?" Lovino demanded immediately, head snapping up from his work to glare at the older boy.
Antonio smiled apologetically and started to deposit the reject pieces back in the shelf, "well, you haven't, you know," he alluded, shrugging one shoulder, "made the prints yet, right?"
Lovino pinched the inside of his lip between his teeth, cheeks flushing madly in a combination of shame and anger, "what's it to you?" He demanded, deciding it was better to be vague in a bid to skirt the issue.
Antonio didn't move, his olive eyes peered into Lovi, easily undressing him and his anger. "I'm just," he paused, measuring the words and their possible consequence, "worried."
Lovino scoffed and turned his eyes to the ceiling, folding his arms defensively across his chest. He knew he should be mad, and he was, but more than that he felt disgusted at himself, embarrassed that his trepidation had been so transparent. He had tried to make the work, as soon as he parted with Antonio that Thursday evening, he had lingered in the doorway to the print room, willing his feet to enter; but something held him back, some untold force planted itself between him and his art, and he felt at a loss to bypass it.
"I've got things planned, I just wanted to get the frames done first," he lied, the action leaving an oddly bitter taste in his mouth.
"Oh, I see," Antonio acquiesced too easily, placating tone making Lovino grit his teeth in irritation. "But, if you ever want to talk about it-"
"I don't." Lovino interrupted immediately, thoroughly done with the conversation and the havoc it was wreaking on his already depleted confidence. He glanced down at the shallow nail marks marring the wood in his hands and roughly threw the plank into the heap of approved pieces. "We can go," he grumbled, desperately struggling to fit his arms around the mass of boards and putting up little fight when Antonio came over to help.
"Are you going to have time to eat lunch with me today?" The older boy asked as he carefully fitted the planks under his armpits, hoping the small Italian wouldn't notice that he had taken the heavier load.
Lovino readjusted the wood under his arms and started in a brisk walk toward the register, "what is it, Saturday?" He asked, already mentally ticking off the days and the tasks he needed to complete before Antonio had a chance to nod in reply. "Yeah, I guess that's okay."
Antonio slid a gentle hand on the smaller boy's shoulder, squeezing lightly to ease him into a slower walk. "I'm glad to hear that," he smiled warmly, "I packed a picnic just in case."
"A picnic?" Lovino demanded, holding a barcode out to the cashier when they reached the register and cocking a hip in silence as she scanned. "It's autumn, it's too cold for that, bastard." He growled, shooting the Spaniard an angry glare before easing his face into a pleasant expression when the cashier coughed and gave him his total.
"Have a nice day, dear," he called politely when he had collected his change, pulling a few planks back into his arms and gesturing a stunned Antonio to follow. "What's up with you?" He snapped once they had reached the parking lot.
The older boy laughed once and cocked an eyebrow, "I just don't think I've seen you act so polite," he admitted, glad when the Italian didn't become immediately enraged.
Lovino leaned his boards against the side of Antonio's car and waited for him to unlock the trunk. "Girls are different," he said simply, eyes lidding slightly when a cool autumn wind ruffled his soft hair.
"Why's that? Because you're not attracted to them?" Antonio inquired, pausing from his work of lowering the back seat.
Lovino felt goose pimples bloom across his exposed forearms and shivered slightly, "no." He snapped back quickly, cringing mentally from the promptness of his response.
Antonio finished lowering the seat and crossed around the car to slide each board into the trunk, "oh, so you are attracted to them." His tone was bored, as if he already knew the answer, and it both infuriated and embarrassed the younger boy.
"N-no," Lovino replied slower this time, idly tapping his short nails against the car's chipping paint in a bid to ignore the heat throbbing in his face.
The Spaniard lowered the trunk and wiped his palms together, removing any stray splinters, "so what's the difference then, Lovi?"
The Italian folded his hands into his armpits and leaned his chin into his collar, "unlock the car, bastard, it's cold out here."
Antonio laughed and pulled the passenger door open for the younger boy, "it's been unlocked, but thanks for staying out with me," he teased, chuckling when his reply was met with a string of muttered curses.
The older boy pulled his seat belt across his lap and revved the engine, downshifting into reverse before pausing and peering at Lovino through the slats in the planks, "so, to the studio to drop these off and then lunch?" He prompted, immediately beginning to back out when he was met with a nod.
Lovino leaned his head on the cold window and let his eyes glaze over, watching curiously as the departing parking lot transformed from a row of cars to a looping brook of color. "I still can't believe you packed a picnic, you bastard." He grumbled, making a show of pointing the vents further towards him to emphasize his point.
"You never dress warmly enough," Antonio scolded lightly, eyes remaining on the road as he fiddled with the knobs to turn up the heat.
"Well if my laptop hadn't been stolen, maybe I'd be able to check the weather." Lovino snapped back bitterly, unconsciously pressing himself closer to the chilled window. He cringed when Antonio coughed and apologized. "Whatever, forget it," he amended, pinching the fabric of his slacks between his thumb and forefinger. It was true that he had lost his means to checking the forecast, but it wasn't the complete reason for his under dressing. On days that he wasn't meeting with the Spaniard, he dressed ridiculously, inevitably having to shed multiple layers as soon as he entered the over-heated halls of the art building. But with Antonio it was different, his already highly attuned fashion sense went into overdrive, he found all his coats obnoxious, hitting his body in all the wrong ways, bulging awkwardly and making him look a mess. Eventually he decided, better to look good than feel good, and if some tiny part of his traitorous mind imagined a scenario in which Antonio took off his own jacket and offered it to him, well, that was something else entirely.
"You can grab a coat while I take in the wood," Antonio offered helpfully, flicking on his turning signal and easing his foot onto the brake.
"Nah, I don't want to go all the way up there," Lovino replied, pushing his body from the window and crossing his legs, "I have a sweater in the studio, I'll just get that."
Antonio nodded and eased the car next to the curb. "Bring these to the wood shop, right?" He asked, shifting into park and pulling the key from the ignition.
"Yep, just lean them against the wall," Lovino confirmed, unbuckling his seat belt and climbing from the car, shivering when a brisk wind pushed past his lithe body. He started towards the nearest door, "I'll be right back," he called over his shoulder, breaking into a muted jog as soon as he entered the building. He tromped up the stairs, scaling them two at a time until he reached the second floor landing and slowed his pace to a purposeful walk. He pushed his newly perspiring hands into his pockets and tried not to concentrate on the hollow click of his loafers against the scuffed linoleum floors. Every step was measured through foreboding beats, the rhythm of his descent isolated and emphasized as if he were being made privy to the sound of the nails driven into his own coffin.
He paused in the doorway of the studio, mind numb with apprehension, before scoffing at himself and padding in, eyes pointed purposefully toward the apron rack. He untangled his marled olive sweater from the pile and held it firmly to his chest, turning on his heel and breathing heavily as if some monstrous beast would be looming behind him, ready to pounce. Instead of a malicious phantom, however, he spotted his three freshly grained stones, sitting where he had left them yesterday, edges dark with gum arabic and precisely sharpened litho crayons resting on the borders. Soon he was running a wistful finger across the protected smooth surface, mentally willing the ancient rocks to transmit their knowledge into him, to inject him with the creativity of the individuals that had previously marred their limestone faces.
"Lovi?" A voice interrupted his silent concentration, the familiarity of the warm timbre the only thing that prevented him from jumping in surprise.
Lovino snapped his head up and scowled, covertly maneuvering his body to hide the blank stones from view, "what?"
Antonio took a few hesitant steps into the darkened studio and paused, craning his neck slightly to see over the Italian's shoulder, "are you ready to go?"
"Y-yeah," Lovino agreed, stomping forward and grabbing the Spaniard by the hand, pulling him into the hallway before he had a chance to see how unproductive he had truly been. "That was fast," he added absentmindedly.
Antonio glanced back at the retreating doorway, eyebrows knit in both confusion and worry, before shrugging it off and laughing, "I guess, I just took them all in at once."
"Bastard, don't be so reckless," Lovino chastised, heated palm unconsciously strengthening it's hold.
"Aw, I'm fine, but it's sweet of you to worry," Antonio cooed, winking when Lovino glanced up at him, disgust tracing his features.
"I'm not," He argued, yanking his hand away when his brain finally registered it's position.
"Oh no?" Antonio teased, holding the stairwell door open for the pair to pass through.
"No," Lovino answered immediately, "I was worried about you denting the planks."
The older boy smiled knowingly, "oh, I see. Well, they're fine."
"Good." Lovino growled, voice muffled as he pulled his sweater over his head. He walked up to the car and yanked the door open, falling ungracefully into the seat and buckling his seat belt. "Where are we going, anyway?" He asked when Antonio joined him in the vehicle.
"There's a park really close to here," the Spaniard explained as he revved the engine and eased the car forward.
"Oh great, so a bunch of moms can freak out thinking we're scoping out their kids," Lovino groaned, rolling his eyes to the window.
Antonio laughed and risked a glance to the slumping boy, "well, it's pretty cold, like you said, maybe there won't be any out there."
Lovino scoffed and pulled his legs up to his chest, rubbing his fingertips absentmindedly on the stitching of his slacks. "I don't understand why we couldn't just have a quick lunch like normal people."
The Spaniard eased on his brake and gently took a turn, navigating the back roads calmly and carefully, as if he were transporting the most precious of cargo. "If you need to get work done, we can go back." He offered, tone unassuming.
"No," the younger boy answered immediately, desperate to keep his anxiety at bay for at least a few more hours. "No, it's okay. We've already made it this far."
Antonio issued a quiet hum in affirmation, not bothering to mention the fact that they were only a few miles from the school. "I just thought it would be nice, something different," the Spaniard explained simply.
Lovino didn't respond, he didn't need to. It surprised him how easy it had been to become comfortable with someone, he wondered if it was true of everyone, or if it was a trait specific to Antonio. The boy seemed so audaciously perceptive to him, he coveted his every gesture, his every word, and that attention made their communication feel effortless.
The short drive seemed both to stretch and enfold upon itself as the Italian worked to excavate the common ground between the deeply buried relics of before and the palpable reality of now. He knew this feeling that was encasing his body, it was distant but not forgotten, and his throat burned from the memory.
He shifted awkwardly when Antonio pulled into a gravel parking lot, yanking the door open before the car had completely stopped, the cold autumn air a welcome respite from the stifling emotions that threatened to surface. The older boy was blissfully unobtrusive, easily recognizing the look of apprehension marring his companion's handsome features. He pulled his satchel onto his back and silently handed the Italian a well-worn blanket, sliding an arm across his shoulders before directing their bodies to a well-worn trail. Lovino leaned into the touch, enjoying the way Antonio's tender breath tousled his stray hairs.
"This looks like a good spot," Antonio said after a while, regretfully breaking the spell of comfortable silence.
Lovino pulled back, immediately missing the heat the Spaniard's strong body afforded. He pulled the musty blanket to his chest and gave a noncommittal nod, "sure, it's fine." He unfolded the quilt, grasping two corners in his hands before flapping the fabric outward, settling it to the ground as soon as all the wrinkles had been released. He walked to the border and fell to his knees, cringing at the brittle branches that snapped beneath his weight.
"You have to admit, it's a beautiful spot for a picnic," Antonio chimed happily, pulling his knapsack from his back and lowering it to the floor, busying himself with pulling containers from its contents.
Lovino blinked and turned his head, mind finally processing the gentle sloping hills of his surroundings. He stared rapt at the thick trunks of the mostly bare trees, watching as a vagrant gust upset the carpet of red and yellow leaves, pulling the debris away in a colorful cyclone. He turned back to Antonio, staring silently as the boy uncovered each dish, the strong and flavorful scents adding life to the muted fall afternoon. He took in the Spaniard's large hands, marred with the occasional scar, and his soft face, barely perceptible wrinkles from years of smiling pressed into the tan skin. The patterns of time were beautiful, he decided, and it made him regret that he had only just realized it.
"It's nice," he said finally, "but it's still too damn cold."
Antonio laughed and offered a fork to the boy, "I thought you liked Autumn."
Lovino shrugged and pressed the cold tines against his bottom lip as he measured his answer, "I do, or at least, I like the way it looks," he explained. "But I like the feeling of warm weather better."
The Spaniard nodded and took a bite of the nearest dish, chewing silently before responding. "You should come home to Spain with me some time then, you'd love it."
Lovino knit his eyebrows and scoffed, "no way, you're bad enough, I can't imagine having to meet your family."
Antonio laughed awkwardly and coughed, quickly averting his eyes before recovering with a shrug, "well, that won't be a problem."
The Italian stared mystified at the older boy, forcing a large mouthful of food down his throat before speaking. "What do you mean, you have pictures of them all over your house. I thought-"
"I just-" Antonio interrupted, but then paused, unsure of how to continue. "I guess you could say that they, well, disowned me."
Lovino's eyes widened and he dropped his fork, shock injecting ice into his limbs, freezing both his movements and thoughts. He didn't know how to react, he had always assumed Antonio's life was perfect, and he was happy knowing it. Now his mind drowned in a sick mixture of guilt, anger, confusion and sympathy, and he felt at a loss to navigate the tumultuous current.
"It's okay," Antonio amended immediately, ducking his head in slight embarrassment, "you don't have to worry, Lovi. It's been this way for years now, I'm used to it."
"But," the Italian tried to argue, fighting around his leaden tongue, "but why?"
Antonio exhaled loudly and gave a sideways grin, "because I'm gay." He said simply.
Lovino bit the inside of his cheek and chewed it viciously until his taste buds were tainted with the coppery taste of blood. He felt the ground shift beneath him, displacing his perspective of his life along with it. Never before had he felt so grateful for his life in Austria, for Roderich, for Elizabeta. He wondered if his mind had conjured all its problems, desperate for stimulation in his otherwise highly sheltered life.
"I-but-" he searched for words, for something to comfort the older boy in retribution for the many times he had done it for him, but his thoughts were blank. "Do you hate them?" He asked finally, cringing as soon as the words left his mouth.
Antonio snorted and shook his head, "no, God no, but sometimes I wish I did." He confessed, "it would make it easier."
"Make what easier?" Lovino pressed, heart beating madly inside his chest.
The older boy sighed and slumped, "well," he began, pausing to take another bite of food as he sorted his thoughts. "I wouldn't be at school, for one."
"But you like school," Lovino interrupted, tone uncertain.
Antonio nodded readily, "yes, yes I do, school's fine, and I'm grateful for being here now that I've met you," he agreed, smiling slightly when the Italian's cheeks reddened. "But before coming here, I had a job I liked, well, loved actually." He continued, eyes turning to the dim gray sky as memories returned, "I was working at a restaurant, it was small but comfortable, the regulars were nice, my boss was great," he petered off, "I think I would've been happy to have worked there forever, to settle down and live a low-key life."
Lovino waited patiently for the Spaniard to continue his story, eyes and ears rapt with attention."So why didn't you?" He prompted eventually, unable to fight his ravenous need for knowledge of the older boy's life.
Antonio blinked and knitted his eyebrows expectantly, as if the churning white clouds would supply his answer. "I ask myself that a lot," he admitted, "and the answer changes all the time. Lately, I've been telling myself destiny made me do it, so I could meet you."
Lovino shivered and tucked his hair behind his ear, unconsciously scooting closer to Antonio's side. "I wish that was the truth, I really do," the Spaniard laughed sadly, sliding a hand across his face in shame, "but I think the real reason I did it, was to make them proud." The Italian didn't respond, he couldn't, and Antonio understood. "I thought, if I go to school, if I start my own restaurant, they'll have to love me then." He leaned his head onto Lovino's shoulder, his soft curls tickling the Italian's nose, but the younger boy dared not move. "The worst part is," Antonio continued, voice more sombre than the Italian had ever remembered it being, "I still believe it. I think I always will."
Lovino breathed heavily, chest vibrating with pleasantries, the calculated consolations and easily afforded mercies, were absent from the older boy, and what was left was so beautiful, so wonderfully whole in all its imperfection, that it made his heart bloom in his chest, rocking his body with the rhythm of its beating. He lowered his head to Antonio's and pressed a kiss against his eyebrow, the salty taste of skin melting sweetly across his tongue. He let his slender fingers comb through the Spaniard's soft waves, easing the man's head up just enough to press his heated lips against Antonio's. His teeth nipped lightly at the older boy's plump bottom lip, wiling him to open his mouth, to invite him into his warmth. The Spaniard complied without argument this time, pushing aggressively into the kiss, greedily taking in the Italian's alluring taste.
Lovino pulled closer to the older boy, leg's straddling the others thigh as his fingers gripped his shirt, knuckles white from the effort. He wanted to be closer, to be enveloped by the white heat that permeated Antonio's existence, and as hard as he searched, as far as he reached, the cold in his head remained, frozen solid from years of neglect. He dipped a hand to Antonio's hip, regretfully pulling his mouth away and trailing soft kisses down his neck as his fingers searched blindly for the button on his slacks.
"N-no," Antonio argued halfheartedly, breathless.
Lovino ignored him and softly nipped his collar bone, letting his fingers trail Antonio's waistband, gentle touches to his lower stomach making the older boy shiver with pleasure. "Lovi, wait," Antonio started again, voice strained from fighting.
"No one's around, it's okay," Lovino argued, voice heavy.
"No, it's not that." Antonio willed his arm forward and touched Lovino's shoulder, pushing the younger boy back until they were eye to eye. They addressed each other wearily, panting heavily as the gravity of reality descended back into their bodies.
"What's wrong?" Lovino demanded, dizzy from want.
"I'm not going to do this, not until you agree to be my boyfriend."
Lovino fell back onto his heels, licking his inflamed lips as he measured logic against desire. "Fuck," he moaned finally, letting his body slump over and burying his head into the scratchy folds of the blanket. "Why does it matter, bastard, it's just sex."
Antonio sighed and refastened his button, "it matters," he said simply, not pushing the issue. He knew the Italian loved him, it was blatant in the way he interacted, the way he allowed Antonio to be privy to his perceived weaknesses, and it was unfair to both of them to pretend the affection was solely physical in nature, even if it meant finally satisfying a deeply aching need.
Antonio settled back into a sitting position and picked up his fork, watching Lovino's still body as he ate. Finally, after a few muted moments, the Italian stirred, pushing himself up and reaching for his own fork, quietly joining the Spaniard in his meal.
"Tell me about your parents," Antonio said after a while, hoping to abate any unease that settled in the newly stifling air.
Lovino scoffed around a forkful of food and swallowed, "they're dead." He said simply. "Or at least my Mom is, I never knew my Dad that well."
Antonio nodded knowingly and put his fork down, "but tell me about them."
Lovino knit his eyebrows and wondered how he could explain the difference between his Mother dead and his Mother alive, how the realities didn't intersect, how they were impossible to link. At this moment he knew his Mother dead, splayed across the sidewalk, body twisted as if participating in a dance, skirt bunched across knees once so soft and round, now knotted and grotesque. He didn't know how to describe the split his existence made that day, the current that had been coursing forward split suddenly, forcing him to start a new life in which he did not witness his Mother's death, in which the relationships, the conversations, the laughter that had been representative of his life before, had been displaced, as if part of a distant double life.
He didn't know how to explain it, and so instead he said what he did know. "I hate her."
Antonio frowned slightly, an odd look on his normally kind face, "your Mom?"
Lovino only nodded, words dead in his throat.
Antonio didn't demand an explanation, instead he silently examined the younger boy, trying to decipher the complex emotions that marred his soft features. "You ready to go?" He said finally when the Italian shivered.
Lovino nodded and immediately started gathering empty containers, stuffing them into Antonio's arms so he could begin to fold the blanket. "I need to get back and make those frames," he said quickly, watching while the Spaniard zipped up his satchel and slung it over his shoulder.
Antonio raised to his feet and tugged the Italian's sleeve, gesturing the boy to follow next to him down the rocky trail. "Have you started your prints yet?" He asked finally, visibly swaying from the weight of the burdensome question.
Lovino fought the anger and shame that swelled in his chest, desperately reminding himself that the boy with which he was brushing shoulders was one of the few supporters he possessed. "No, bastard," he seethed, unable to stop himself from delivering the cruel nickname.
"Why not?" Antonio asked, timbre dressed with tender compassion.
The Italian rolled his shoulders and sighed, confession weighing heavily in his mind, "because I don't know what to make it about, alright?"
The Spaniard hummed in acknowledgment, vaguely glad that that was still the problem, rather than a new trepidation in the already taxed Italian's life. "Have you ever thought about making art about your Mom?"
Lovino snapped his eyes up and scowled, "no, why would I?" He demanded, confused why Antonio would even bring it up.
The older boy shrugged and turned his eyes to the sky, "you just," he paused as he considered his words, "seem bothered. I mean, I understand," he diffused quickly when his companion tensed. "It took me a long time to admit my problems with my family."
"I'm not going to do that," Lovino cut in, thoroughly done with the topic, "I can't."
Antonio's eyes lidded in appreciation of his apprehension, "Right, I know, and that's why I think it might help if you figured it out in your art. I just know that cooking helped me a lot, so-"
"No, fucking listen, I said I won't. I hate her, I don't want to think about her." Lovino growled, voice climbing in range.
"You can't or you won't, which one is it?" Antonio challenged, not at all bothered by the Italian's anger.
Lovino's mouth gaped with surprise, "I-I won't." He stammered, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt.
Antonio smirked and sighed, digging his keys from his pocket as his car came into view. "Just a suggestion," he reminded, diffusing the argument before it had a chance to bloom.
"A bad one," Lovino bit back, pulling the dirty blanket into his chest and breathing heavily into it's musty folds.