The brittle morning light shone cautiously through slatted blinds, imposing itself against the delicate eyelids of the sleeping Italian. Lovino groaned and turned his face to the mattress, he wanted to roll over, to face away from the early morning illumination, but something was at his back, too heavy to budge with tired limbs.
"Feli, get out of my bed," he moaned, voice muffled from the mattress. When the body didn't move, he swatted at it haphazardly, hand wobbling at the end of his wrist. "C'mon, I'm cramped," he persisted, lifting a cold foot and nudging it against the others legs.
Finally the body next to him stirred and sat up with a sharp breath, "wh-what?" The disoriented voice sounded.
Lovino managed to pry his eyes open at the deeper than normal tone, he let his neck flop to the side and peered up at the bed's occupant. Soft dark curls, supple tan skin, gentle olive eyes, "Antonio?" He asked no one in particular, clearing his throat when his words escaped raw and strained.
Antonio rubbed the heel of his palm into his eyes, messing his eyebrows and sending his hair splayed carelessly in all directions, before turning to Lovino and giving a small, concerned smile. "How are you feeling?" He asked, scooting away when he realized how closely he had positioned himself next to the Italian.
Lovino took the opportunity to turn his body over, pulling his arms around his pillow as the events of the day before settled into his weary brain. How did he feel, he wondered. Numb, confused, guilty, angry, he felt so many things, too many to address. What he didn't feel was better. Though, he hadn't expected to. It would take time for these all-consuming emotions to fade, if he ever allowed them to, and even then, the smallest things: the smell of coffee, the sound of a shrill scream, a reproduction of that same print, could potentially send him back to that day, questioning all the things he should have done, could have done, if he had only known. The thought made him exhausted, he had at such a young age set a precedence for weakness, allowing himself to wallow in pain. His mother had possessed the strength to die, yet he hadn't been able to muster the courage to live.
"Tired," he said finally, the most truthful answer he could formulate.
Antonio settled back onto the mattress and turned towards the Italian, softly combing the sleep-matted hair from his forehead. "I bet," he agreed, "do you have to work much today?"
Lovino scooted closer to Antonio, enjoying the body heat the close proximity afforded, and sighed, "yeah, I still have two pieces to get done by Thursday. Not to mention frames."
"You got a print done in one night, do you really need four days to finish?" Antonio pressed, greedy for more time with the younger boy.
Lovino kicked the Spaniard's legs softly and a smirk quirked in the corner of his mouth, "I don't need your help procrastinating, bastard. And besides," he continued, faint heat in his cheeks, "I just want to get this done with."
He had been intentionally vague, but Antonio wrapped him in a warm embrace nonetheless, seeming to realize the unspoken truth behind his words. He was beginning to vaguely understand the real reason he had so vehemently insisted upon not making work about his mother. Some uncharted area of his brain had told him: "why bother, why suffer?" It was painful, but somehow easier, to believe that everyone hated him, that he was unlovable, because then there was no reason to scream her name, to insist upon every syllable for help.
"Can I make you breakfast at least, before you go?" Antonio spoke into his hair, tousling his tendrils with the strength of his words.
"Yeah, fine," Lovino consented. He tried to sound like it was a favor to the older boy, but in fact he was so grateful to prolong his exposure to the Spaniard, to put off facing reality a little longer. Truly, he would always be a coward.
Despite the agreement, neither boy made a move to get up, too intoxicated by weariness, by the hypnotic presence of each others scent, to separate. Finally, regretfully, Lovino pulled away, shivering from the lack of warmth at his side. He looked down at his rumpled shirt and slacks, he had fallen asleep in his clothes, too deadened with emotion to imagine exerting the effort to change.
"You want to shower while I cook?" Antonio asked, arms quaking as he stretched with a yawn before lifting himself from the bed.
Lovino considered it, his eyes were gummy from crying and a warm shower sounded tempting, but he wasn't ready to be alone yet, afraid of where his brain might take him. "Nah, I'll get grimy from printing anyway," he shrugged.
Antonio nodded and padded towards the kitchen, lifting his chin and motioning Lovino to follow. "What do you want to eat?" He asked, clicking the stove top to high before pulling his apron out of a drawer and tying it around his waist.
Lovino shrugged and slunk into a bar stool, leaning an elbow against the counter and letting his head fall into his hand. "Something edible," he muttered, sleepily watching the Spaniard rifle through his cabinets.
"Pancakes it is," Antonio nodded, flicking on his kitchen radio and humming as he pulled a carton of eggs from the fridge. Lovino tried to hide a smile as he watched the older boy walk around the small kitchen, swaying his hips to the beat as he collected ingredients. He deposited bags of flour and sugar on the counter top and looked up at the Italian, "want to be my sous chef?"
Lovino considered claiming not to know what he meant, just to be obstinate, but instead he relented, pushing himself from his stool and padding to the other side of the bar. "You'd probably just burn them anyway."
Antonio dropped a large bowl in front of the boy and pinched his side playfully, "you know you love my cooking," he winked.
"Cocky bastard," Lovino growled after him, picking up an egg and cracking it on the side of the bowl, expertly pulling the two sides apart in his palm.
Antonio cocked an eyebrow in faint surprise, "do you cook often?" He asked, slipping a whisk into the Italian's other hand.
Lovino shrugged and cracked another egg, "I used to," he mumbled, embarrassed of the attention.
Antonio looked up from chopping a peach and popped a piece into his mouth, "we'll have to do this more often, then," he smiled, walking a slice over to the Italian.
Lovino dropped the shells into the sink and reached his palm out for the fruit, only to have the Spaniard shake his head, "your hand's dirty, open up.'
"Perverted bastard," the younger boy scowled, but he relented, opening his mouth and letting Antonio deposit the tangy peach on his tongue. He shivered from the sweetness and vaguely wondered how the Spaniard had managed to procure what must be the last ripe peach of the season. "It's good," he said, syrupy juice still heavy on his tongue, rich with the taste of late summer.
Antonio nodded and slipped a griddle onto the stove, "there's a great fruit stand close by, they let me pick my own produce." He replied, dripping water onto the pan to test the heat, "I'll bring you there next summer, if you'd like."
"Sure," Lovino agreed before he could reconsider. He stared fixated on his work of folding ingredients, trying not to think about the implication in the statement, the suggestion that, a year from now, they would still be spending time together.
"How's that coming?" Antonio asked, peering over the Italian's shoulder, chest pressed against his back. The younger boy opened his mouth to answer but the shrill sound of his ringtone interrupted him. He pushed the Spaniard away, running to his knapsack and slipping in his socks as he dug through the pockets for his phone. He cursed when the last tone petered off before he recovered it, and felt a pang of guilt when he realized the missed call had been from Feliciano.
"Shit," he growled when Antonio padded into the hall to check on him, "it's Feliciano, I need to go," he explained, regret barely perceptible in his voice.
Antonio understood immediately, "okay, just let me turn off the stove and I'll drive you over," he nodded, disappearing momentarily while Lovino pulled on his shoes. "You gonna call him back?" The Spaniard asked as he made his way back, grabbing his keys from the counter and pocketing them while he slipped on his loafers.
"No, it's okay, I'd rather talk to him in person," Lovino returned as he followed Antonio out the door to his car. He had a feeling Feliciano would be wondering where he was, and he needed time to decide how to answer the question. He could always tell him he had been in the studio that night, it wouldn't be a total lie, he just wouldn't mention the part about Antonio, or the crying.
The car ride seemed to end too quickly, the comfortable silence cast back under the spotlight of anxiety when Lovino realized he had to part ways with Antonio, to wish him goodbye. It seemed silly to bother with niceties now that the Spaniard had seen him so emotionally exposed, and he scoured his memory banks, desperately searching for what a proper friend would do. It was a useless hunt though, Lovino had never had friends, had never before met anyone that cared enough to see past his rough exterior.
"Am I going to get to see you this week?" Antonio asked, finally breaking the silence.
Lovino shrugged and turned his face to the window, cheeks inflamed, "it's not like I'd turn you away if you wanted to bring food or something," he mumbled. Antonio didn't reply but the Italian knew he understood, the stupid grin plastered on his face informed him of that fact.
Lovino clawed for the door handle, wrenching it open with a garbled, "well, bye."
Antonio grabbed his elbow, pulling him gently back into his seat. "Thanks for letting me in, Lovi," he said to the boy's back.
"Y-yeah, whatever," the Italian replied, face on fire. "Th-thanks for being there or whatever," he stammered back, heart hammering in his chest.
Antonio's smile widened and he pulled the Italian further in, planting a soft kiss on his cheek before letting him go, "any time, I'm always here." He whispered into the boy's ear, soft breath igniting a blossom of goosebumps on the boy's neck.
Lovino opened his mouth to reply but no words came out, so instead he nodded, pulling himself out of the car on wobbling knees and closing the door behind him, desperately trying to catch his breath as he waved lightly at the retreating vehicle. He stood there for a while, eyes glazed over as he waited for the feeling to return to his legs, but a sudden buzzing in his pants pocket anchored him back to reality, reminding him of the purpose of his arrival and sending him in a determined walk towards his residence hall.
When Lovino finally made it to his dorm building, scanned his ID and bounded up the stairs, he expected to find Feliciano sitting at his desk working or maybe even taking a mid-morning siesta. But the sound of sniffing reached his ears as soon as he turned the latch, his heart flipped uneasily in his chest as he pushed the door forward and saw his brother illuminated so forebodingly against the window, tears running down his cheeks. "Feli, what happened?" He demanded immediately, a million different scenarios running through his head, most containing the taller blonde.
"We were robbed again," the boy whined, voice sounding so much younger than the years he possessed.
"What?" Lovino barked, throwing his head around as he searched the room, "how? What did they take?"
"My pictures," Feliciano answered pitifully, eyes turning to the empty spaces on his desk.
Oh. "Oh," Lovino breathed, shaking his head as walked towards the younger Italian, kneeling down to brush a tear from his cheek, "I took those."
Feliciano didn't look relieved, instead, he looked terrified, eyes widening and shoulders tensing, "you didn't." He breathed, disbelief in his features. "You wouldn't."
"What? No," Lovino shook his head, fighting off the urge to laugh at his brother's face, "no, they're fine, they're in the studio, I just needed to make copies."
"Copies for what?" Feliciano's voice lightened considerably, eyes shining behind drenched eyelashes.
"For art, obviously," The older boy scoffed, tucking his brother's hair behind his ear before rolling his eyes to the ceiling.
"Art about what?"
Lovino felt his body weaken slightly as he tried to conceptualize the words, tried to force them from his mouth. "Mom," he managed finally, Feliciano didn't look surprised, he had just wanted to watch his brother say it.
"But what about her?"
Lovino shrugged, he wasn't ready to have this conversation, he never would be. "I don't know, just stories." He evaded the question with the ease, "anyway, I'll bring them back as soon as I'm done, okay?"
Feliciano nodded and rubbed his nose, sniffling away the last of his tears. The older brother stood and turned to exit the dorm, but a gentle tug on his sleeve stopped him. "Ve~ Lovi, do you think I could go with you?"
Lovino shuddered at the sound of the familiar tic, it was a good sign, it meant he had been forgiven, that Feliciano was returning to his cheerful self. He could recall the first time he heard that nonsensical chime from his brother's mouth. When Feliciano was only just learning how to speak, he struggled with his brother's name: the delicate "l" and swooping "o" were too much for his clumsy tongue. And so, in a desperate plea to communicate, to capture his brother's attention, Feli had begun to call him "ve." It had amazed Lovino when he realized that the moniker belonged to him, that it was his sound. He loved the child immediately, this being that couldn't walk nor properly speak, but wanted so badly to convey to his older brother that he acknowledged his existence, that he cared. Over time the sound lost it's meaning, Feliciano learned control of his diction and conquered the tricky sounds behind even the most difficult words, but the tic remained, encouraged by his mother who found it endearing. Lovino thought it was irresponsible to encourage what was clearly a verbal shortcoming, but Feliciano's agreeable personality had thankfully alleviated him from ever being the brunt of ridicule, and so the sound remained, peppered haphazardly throughout his speech, no longer noticed by its possessor.
"Sure, okay," Lovino relented hesitantly. He knew what he was agreeing to, knew that Feliciano would stay while he worked. The boy had always been desperate to know more about their mother, even if he never explicitly stated it. He didn't know how much his brother remembered of that time, he hadn't thought to ask, always assuming it would be better not to remember. He'd hated his own recollections, had purposefully avoided all relics of that time, desperate to forget. It seemed so silly to him, that he was still so moved by his past. How many tragedies had the world suffered while he sat by the edge of his memories, desperately scouring the stagnant waters for something new, something not yet examined? Yet, he was fortunate to have those memories, to have a well to draw from. Feliciano had to rely on his unyielding, brooding older brother for stories, and so the pictures were his lifeline, the one thing he could truly possess.
"You know Feli," he recalled as they walked slowly together, shoulders brushing. "I was so mad when you were born."
"But why?" The younger Italian whined, a hint of a laugh in his voice as he wrapped his arms around his brother's elbow.
"There it was, my birthday. Mom was in the hospital and I was sitting with Nonno in the waiting room, pouting because I hadn't had a chance to open my presents." He recounted, wrenching the door open for the pair as they made their way into the art building.
"It was such a cold day, too, uncharacteristically cold for March. We were having a blizzard and Dad couldn't make it to the hospital," Lovino paused, wondering if it was true, if it really was the blizzard that had stopped him, but he shook it off, if his memory was faulty to protect him, he would accept it. "They had bundled you up so much against the cold, you had this tiny knit cap on that was still way too big for you, and with your pale skin and dark eyes, I told Mom you looked like a baby snowman."
Feliciano laughed at that, overjoyed at being told the story, hanging on his every word. "Mom was so in love with you, I could see it immediately," Lovino continued, falling into a chair once they entered the print room. "She was rubbing her nose against yours, and every time she pulled away you let out these little breaths, like sighs of contentment. Mom, was thrilled, she was over the moon."
The younger Italian smiled lightly as he thought of it, "she loved you, too, Lovi," he breathed finally, breaking himself from his trance. The older boy sighed and shrugged lightly, he didn't need to be reminded. He could see that day so clearly: he was standing stiff in the doorway, silently watching his mother whom he had once known so well, but had somehow inexplicably changed in the few short hours he had been separated from her in the waiting room. She belonged to someone else now, and it made him feel odd and out of place, but she had always been perceptive to him and his tendency towards silent suffering. She recognized his trepidation immediately, leaving Feliciano cradled in his Nonno's arms while she enfolded herself around her oldest son and allowed him to feel her face in silent rediscovery. Yes, this was his mother.
"I miss her," Feliciano admitted, tapping idly on the table.
Lovino wondered if it disgusted his brother to admit that, too. If he also felt a sick knot of embarrassment in his stomach at conveying an emotion so true. If he did, the older Italian imagined, it would be for completely different reasons. He remembered the well meaning strangers, the people that had called his parents friends, cautiously approaching him and his brother at the funeral: tender, sad smiles by some, regretful whispers, hesitant pats to the shoulder by others. "You'll see boys, you'll get used to this. You can get used to anything." "What a shame to see such gloomy faces, never forget to smile." At the time, Lovino had found it so cruel, it had made him contemptuous of people and their fickle nature, but Feliciano had been so young, too young. He still thought adults held all the answers, and so he did what they said. He smiled, he busied himself with others, buried his perceptiveness behind his naturally kind and earnest spirit. Where Lovino had tried to protect himself from pain by keeping love out of his life, he felt Feliciano had taken the opposite approach, coveting love and friendship, using it to fill a gap he may not even realize he possessed.
"Yeah, I know," Lovino agreed, eyes drawn to the floor, neck burning at the sound of his brother sniffing back tears. All of these things made sense to him, and yet they didn't. He could locate the problem but it still slipped from his grasp, some part of it still so inaccessible, impossible to surmount.
"Please don't leave me, Lovi," Feliciano whined quietly, earnestly, "I'm glad you have big brother Antonio, but-"
"I don't 'have' him, Antonio means nothing to me," Lovino cut in immediately, unable to bite his tongue at the topic of the Spaniard. "And how can you say that to me? You're the one always trying to leave."
Feliciano knotted his eyebrows and clasped both hands around his brother's closest palm. "I'd never-"
"But you have though," Lovino fought back, pulling his hand away and cringing when his voice cracked and he felt hot tears stinging the corner of his eyes. "You're always going off with other people, forgetting about me, your family." He wondered if Feliciano would pick up the implication behind the words, the suggestion that, by abandoning his older brother, he was turning his back on his mother as well.
"You love big brother Antonio, why won't you just admit that?" Feliciano asked, tone light and tender, but exhibiting an inner awareness that he so rarely allowed to show.
"Who says I love him?" Lovino fought obstinately, it was a blatant lie but his brother baited him with his easy confidence.
"Ve~ I know you better than anybody," the younger boy said simply. It was true, of course, neither boy would ever contest their intimate understanding of the others character.
"Well you're wrong about this," Lovino told him sternly, tears drying instantly as he stood from the table and busied himself with loading a new stone onto the lithograph press.
Feliciano watched quietly, shoulder held tense in a question as he mentally worked something out. "Momma wouldn't want this," he decided after a while, earning a sarcastic scoff from his brother.
"How would you know?" Lovino replied bitterly, instantly regretting the unimaginably cruel words as soon as they stumbled from his lips.
To his surprise Feliciano didn't descend into sobs, he was hardened to his brother's fits of rage, knew he didn't always mean what he said. "Maybe I don't remember her as well as you do, but at least I don't hide behind her." The boy replied accusingly.
"No, you just run around with a bunch of stupid friends, flirting with every cute guy you meet: 've~ save me from my mean brother, ~ve,'" Lovino imitated, throwing his hands in the air and swaying his hips around in a ridiculous display. "At least I actually care, at least I think about her."
"I live my life," Feliciano shrugged, unforgiving.
"You don't care about her," Lovino roared back, silence descending heavily as soon as the words petered off, the air almost trembling from the intensity of his tone.
Feliciano sighed and frowned slightly, an odd expression on his normally happy face. "So you think she'd want you to be miserable, Lovi? Do you really think that's why she did it?"
Lovino didn't respond, he couldn't. Obviously he knew she hadn't allowed for them to live solely so they could spend their time basking in her memory, tortured by her absence. Even so, he was weak and he was afraid, afraid of the pain that happiness allowed, afraid of forgetting her.
"I don't remember her well," Feliciano continued when his brother didn't reply, his voice regretful. "but I know that she loved me, even if I don't have specific memories to back that up, I just know it." The boy said fervently, as if he were forcing himself to believe it.
Lovino felt a distant pain of guilt for not being more forthcoming to his brother, for being naive enough to think he could shoulder all the pain for them. "She did," he confirmed easily, anger forgotten at seeing the younger Italian look so vulnerable.
"I know," Feliciano nodded, blinking heavily when a stray tear traced his cheek. "And I think, I've decided that the best way to remember her is to let others love me like she did."
There was a question in his voice, he seemed almost self-conscious about the declaration, but Lovino was stunned by his perceptiveness. He felt that the air had been knocked out of him as he stumbled to where his brother sat and wrapped his arms around him tightly, burying his head into his shoulder. "I love you, Feli," he reminded desperately, "I love you and so did she."
Feliciano sniffed heavily and pulled his brother closer, "I know, I love you, too." In that moment Lovino felt so grateful to his mother, she had given him life and she had given him a best friend, and when he finally pulled away from the embrace, when he allowed his body to support itself once again, it was too soon.
"Can I stay in here while you work?" Feliciano asked, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.
"Please," Lovino nodded, laughing softly at the desperation in his voice, "please."