"I guess I should go," Antonio lamented when the bitter night air had finally stiffened his limbs to aching.
Lovino pulled himself from the dewy grass and nodded numbly, "Yeah, I should probably be getting to bed."
The Spaniard stood and wiped the soil from his jeans before offering a hand to the younger boy and lifting him to his feet. Lovino didn't fight when his body was pulled into Antonio's, he pressed his cold nose into the folds of the other's shirt and let the weight of his rich scent settle into his lungs. The pair stood in silence for a while, bodies still as photographs, holding one another in silent reverence and daring the world to continue in its rotation.
The silence was a gift, words of affection wouldn't come to Lovino, he was still too doubtful of them, worried of the implications they might carry. Even when they coursed through his traitorous mind, he faltered. He loved Antonio, his brain had told him so often enough, the thought had become commonplace, like the sound of his blood roaring in his ears, but he didn't know what that meant for his present, for his future, or even in the context of his past. He didn't exactly know why he loved Antonio, and he especially didn't know why the older boy loved him, though he supposed it was obvious enough that he did. Some part of him knew it was pointless to be so demanding of feelings that were by their very nature inexplicable, but he felt himself unable to cease rehashing the same narcissistic questions. Because really, why him? It was painful to dwell upon those things, though, and so the silence was better. If it was cowardice to allow his body to act on its own, to concede to the affection it so desperately desired, then he was a coward. He didn't care, he already knew he was one.
"What's your day looking like tomorrow?" Antonio asked, tracing the shell of Lovino's chilled ear before squeezing the boy's shoulder and motioning him towards the dorm building.
The Italian shrugged, shivering against the bitter wind as he tried to remember how to conjure words from his chapped lips. "I guess I'll just be finishing up on frames, and then helping to hang the show."
"Can I help?" Antonio asked, bending his head slightly to watch the smaller boy from the corner of his eye.
Lovino considered it for a minute, "don't you have work to get done?"
The Spaniard gave a short laugh, "how nice of you to worry about me, Lovi," he teased.
The Italian scoffed immediately and shot his eyes to the floor, concentrating on the new sound of asphalt cracking underfoot. "I'm not worried, bastard." He spat, desperately trying to cover his obvious lie, "I just don't want you crying to me when you get kicked out of school."
"Oooh," Antonio replied sarcastically, completely unconvinced. "I see," he nodded. "Well, you don't have to worry about that, I'm doing fine."
Lovino bit his lip and glanced up at the older boy, he was doubtful, worried even. It was odd to feel this way over anyone other than himself or Feliciano, he was a protective person by nature, but never before did he remember it being extended to anyone other than a blood relative. "Toni," he reprimanded, the words escaping his tongue before he could stop them, "do you promise?"
The Spaniard ceased his pace and blinked, "what did you say?"
Lovino paused and knit his eyebrows in confusion, "wow, thanks for listening-" he started, voice heavy with sarcasm.
"No," Antonio laughed, shaking his head, "you called me 'Toni.'"
The younger boy opened his mouth to argue, "ah, n-no I didn't," he contested lamely, "get your ears checked, bastard."
"You did so!" The Spaniard persisted, lips pressed in a confident grin.
"I-I didn't," Lovino folded his arms into his chest, mouth turning in a faint pout. "And stop trying to change the subject, I'm on to you and your tricks."
Antonio forced back a shiver of contentment at viewing the smaller boy's stupidly adorable bashful attitude. "No tricks here, I'm being serious, you don't have to worry about me."
The Italian lifted his eyes, carefully taking in the others countenance before releasing a breath in resignation. "Well, if you promise, I guess it's okay for you to help."
"I promise," Antonio confirmed immediately, drawing the boy into a tight hug and kissing the top of his head. "Thanks for caring, though," he whispered into his soft hair.
"Yeah, yeah," Lovino muttered, tucking his chin into his collar when his cheeks filled with heat. "Can you meet me in the studio at 4?" The Italian asked when he was released.
"Yup, 4 it is," Antonio agreed easily.
Lovino leaned into his heels and nodded absently, "okay, well, cool. So, I guess I'll see you then." He spat awkwardly, internally berating himself for his tendency towards atrocious departures.
"Yeah, okay."
The Italian chewed his lips, waiting with baited breath for Antonio to expand upon the reply, but when the Spaniard made no move to continue, he lifted his hand in a half wave, muttering a short 'bye' before turning.
"Hey, Lovi," Antonio cut in immediately, "you can stay with me tonight, you know. If you want to."
Lovino froze, heart pounding audibly as he weighed his options. The idea of spending the night with the Spaniard was admittedly tempting, beyond just the need for sexual gratification, there was something about being with the older boy that was soothing, like visiting a home that no longer existed. He found himself wishing things could stay like this forever, he didn't understand why Antonio found it so important to complicate their situation with titles that enforced certain impractical obligations. It was selfish, sure; the older boy didn't ask much of him, but this simple request, to put a title to their relationship, was diametrically opposed to everything Lovino had spent years coercing himself into believing.
"I thought-" Lovino started, swallowing heavily against his intentions, "that-well, you said, not until I agree..." He trailed off, embarrassed of his incoherence, of his adolescent inability to handle the uncomfortable topic.
Antonio tilted his head slightly and shrugged a shoulder, "well?" He prompted, the question so oft repeated that he didn't bother to finish vocalizing it.
The Spaniard sighed before Lovino had a chance to reply, he could see from his body language, his wilted shoulders and downcast eyes, that he would be refused. "I'm sorry," the boy said finally, voice shrouded in regret, "I just can't. I'm sorry." He repeated, sick with guilt. He wanted to tell Antonio that he wasn't ready, but that implied that at some point he would be, and he wasn't yet convinced it was true.
"It's okay," The older boy smiled sadly, "I'm not mad."
Lovino wasn't sure if he should believe him, but he was too afraid to argue, worried of what might be said, that Antonio might finally realize he wasn't worth the wait. "See you at 4?" He asked, mentally cringing at his own desperate attempt for reassurance that this newest rejection wouldn't be the last, that the Spaniard was still willing to put up with him.
"Hey, I mean it," Antonio reiterated, cupping one of the boy's soft cheeks in his palm. "I know it's been a tough week, okay? I'm not trying to make you do anything you don't want."
But it wasn't that he didn't want it, Lovino thought, head churning. Rather, he was scared, scared of what it might mean to become accustomed to comfort, scared of what might happen should that comfort then be seized. Because no matter how many times Antonio reassured him that he wouldn't leave, even he could make no promises against death, and the weight of that truth laid heavy against the younger boy's shoulder blades.
"Whatever, stop being so fucking dramatic," Lovino recovered, half-heartedly slapping away the others tender touch.
Antonio laughed at the response, holding his palms open before his chest in surrender. "Okay, okay," he teased, "I'll see you at 4 tomorrow." He leaned in for a chaste peck before winking and waving goodbye.
"Yeah, see ya," Lovino mumbled after his retreating back. He stood still in the orange glow of the dormitory lobby, frozen in place, marveling over the impossibility of feeling so suddenly lonely, despite the fact that he could still see the Spaniard silhouetted against the purple evening sky. Finally, he shrugged himself from his stupor and plodded gracelessly towards the door as the weight of the world descended back into his body.
Lovino's eyelids drooped in lethargy as he trudged up the stairs, once he entered the hall he surrendered his fight, giving his burning eyes a brief respite as he allowed his muscle memory to guide him to his room. He fumbled with the lock momentarily before finally gaining access, peaking through heavy lids when the air temperature shifted, and tumbling towards his bed, ready to collapse into the uncomfortable mattress.
"Ve~you're not going to sleep in your clothes, are you?" A soft voice sounded, dragging the older Italian harshly back from the perimeters of slumber.
Lovino jerked his head, sniffing sharply in reply, "N-no, of course not," he replied groggily, shuffling over to his dresser to change. "I didn't expect you to come back tonight," he admitted as he unbuttoned his top.
Feliciano shrugged and cuddled further into his shroud of blankets, "I told Luddy it didn't matter, but he insisted on bringing me back. Ve~isn't he such a gentleman?"
The older Italian snorted and tossed his crumpled shirt and slacks into his hamper before stumbling back to his bed, deciding he lacked the energy to brush his teeth. "He's a bastard," he snarled back to Feliciano, clicking off his bedside lamp before his brother had a chance to argue.
"Aw, I know you don't mean that," the younger boy argued, anger absent from his voice. "He said he has time to help us hang your pieces tomorrow."
"Oh goody," Lovino replied sarcastically, but he was pleased, and Feliciano knew it. "Antonio's helping, too."
"Great, it should take no time then," Feliciano chirped back before falling into silence, only the sound of his ruffling covers interrupting the muted air. Lovino stared into the unyielding void of darkness, eyelids finally drooping as he was lulled into sleep, only to be yanked cruelly back when a hand furled his shoulder and shook him lightly. "Scoot over," Feliciano whispered, already hoisting a knee into the mattress, not bothering to wait for permission.
Lovino mumbled incoherently and scooted his body towards the cold plaster wall, he was too tired to fight, and anyway, the warmth his brother's presence provided was comforting, slowly defrosting the overbearing iciness of loneliness that insisted on freezing in his chest. "You're getting too old for this," the older boy chastised, out of obligation more than genuine irritation.
"Just this one last time," Feliciano appealed, curling himself into his brother's chest. It wouldn't be the last time, they both knew it, but neither was bothered by the lie. "Hey, Lovi?" The younger boy asked after a while, uncertain if his brother was still awake.
Lovino only hummed in reply, limbs turning to jelly the more pressing his need for sleep became. "Tell me a story," Feliciano pleaded. He didn't specify what kind of story, he didn't need to, he knew his brother would know instantly to what he referred.
Lovino didn't reply for a long time, and finally Feliciano clamped his eyes shut, pulling his fists into his chest as he willed himself to sleep. "Do you remember Mom's cooking?" The older boy asked suddenly, voice groggy but thick with nostalgia.
"Not really," Feliciano replied, mentally scouring the shallow surface of his memories but coming up empty.
"Well, consider yourself lucky," a faint laughter tinged the words, making the younger boy's lips quirk upwards in joy. "She was horrible at it, Dad used to always say: 'boys, when you meet the girl you want to marry, make sure she can cook before you put a ring on that finger.'" Feliciano giggled at the thought, burying his widening smile into his knuckles. "And then Mom would slap him," Lovino continued, unable to keep a few unbidden chuckles from escaping his own chest. "She was always a little violent, but in a funny way."
"Is that where you get it from?" Feliciano teased, smiling knowingly at the curses of dispute that escaped his brother's mouth.
"Anyway," Lovino continued, pinching his brother's side in punishment for his comment, "one day we were supposed to go camping, but we ended up having to cancel because it was raining, or Dad had to go to work, or something," the Italian trailed off, trying to properly excavate the buried memory, to convey it as correctly as possible. "I was upset about it and maybe being a little bratty," Lovino paused to give his brother time to snicker into his pillow, "yeah, shocking I know," the boy finished dryly. "And you wouldn't stop crying, I guess we all just had a bit of cabin fever or something. So for some reason Mom got it in her head that the three of us should make cannoli."
"Cannoli?" Feliciano asked, vaguely wondering if his affection for the dessert had stemmed from his mother.
Lovino hummed in affirmation, "yeah, she loved the stuff, but Nonno always made it for her. As far as I know she didn't have a recipe, I'm sure she thought she could figure it out herself though, she was optimistic like that." He smiled at the memory, his mother floating around the kitchen, asking a young Lovino, 'flour, right?' and waiting for him to squeal a happy 'yes' in reply before moving onto the next guessed ingredient. "And to tell you the truth, I don't even know how the damn stuff tasted, because she didn't even make it that far."
"What?" Feliciano prompted, tone laden with amusement.
"Yeah, she put the damn flour in the blender," Lovino shook his head in disbelief, "it was like winter in our kitchen, everything was coated white."
"No way," the younger boy giggled, struggling to catch his breath against the rumbling of laughter in his chest.
Lovino nodded happily, "Dad came home like right after it happened, you'd think he'd be mad right?" The older boy paused for effect, waiting for his brother to quirk his eyebrows in a silent plea to continue. "Well, he stood in the doorway a while, and then out of nowhere he scooped up a handful of flour and tossed it at Mom. It was a full out battle then, flour got everywhere, I can't imagine how long it took them to clean up, but it was one of the best fucking times I remember." Lovino stared wistfully at the ceiling, remembering the aching in his lungs from that intense laughter. He didn't recall what came of the kitchen, but he did know at one point they moved outside, squealing with renewed laughter as the soft summer rain cleansed them. They didn't return to the house until the clouds had cleared and the sky was ignited in a kaleidoscope of red and dotted yellow, and even then they stomped through each golden puddle on the way to the door, desperately grasping every last minute of daylight, regretful that the feeling of belonging should ever end.
"I like that story," Feliciano whispered after a while, "thanks for telling me."
Lovino sighed and smiled lightly, combing his fingers through his brother's light auburn hair. "I think we're going to be okay, Feli," he admitted, unsure of what he meant, but unable to suppress the sentiment. He remembered the heaviness in his chest that day, the overwhelming weight of being so loved, of being home. That same feeling, or at least a mutated version of it, had started to infect his senses at dinner, and he understood it now, the meaning behind it. The world hadn't always given him its best, but despite his best efforts to isolate himself from it, happiness had still managed to find its way in. "I love you," Lovino whispered, eyes pointed upwards and voice barely audible, before pulling his brother close and succumbing to sleep.
Lovino whisked the sweat from his brow with his sleeve and leaned his last framed print against the wall. He felt tired but accomplished as he eyed his work critically, finally deciding his frames were satisfactory and padding to the neighboring room to check the time. '3:40,' he registered, rolling his tense shoulders on his way to the sink. He turned on the faucet and palmed the cold water, splashing it on his face a few times before dipping his arms beneath the stream to clear the sweat-soaked sawdust. The day had been spent in a state of numb production, Lovino doubted if any worthwhile thought had managed to fumble its way through his abused mind. It was a needed respite, this emotional limbo. He was used to living in silent suffering, constantly rehashing the numerous injustices he had been subjected to in his comparatively short life, but he hadn't realized the memories that feelings of love, of companionship, could unearth. This new understanding left him conflicted, because certainly, he was glad to remember those times of pure and unadulterated joy, just knowing that he was indeed capable of such emotions was a relief; but the ache at knowing those times had passed, taking with it the individuals that had provoked such happiness, was devastating, and he had yet to decide if the benefits of rekindling such a close relationship outweighed the cost if it should end.
"Hey, Lovi," a bright voice sounded. Lovino jumped, the approaching footsteps muted by the basin water, and quickly turned off the faucet in an attempt to cover his surprise.
"You're early," He returned, pulling a few paper towels from the nearby table and wiping his dripping face.
Antonio glanced up at the clock and shrugged, "only by a few minutes, traffic wasn't bad."
Lovino hummed in reply and combed his hair from his forehead. "How was class?" He prompted, awkwardly trying to initiate small talk.
"It was fine," Antonio shrugged, "did you get your frames done?"
"Yeah," Lovino nodded, "want to see?" He walked to the other room without waiting for a reply, stepping back from the frames and tilting his head to size them up from the small distance.
"They look good," Antonio said earnestly, "it's nice to see them framed."
Lovino shrugged and slumped into the nearest seat, "yeah, they'll do anyway. I'm just relieved that it's done."
"Give yourself more credit," the Spaniard scolded playfully, "you're so talented, but no one would guess that from listening to you."
The younger boy bit his lip and dipped his chin, "I-I'm not bastard, every art student knows how to make a frame."
"I'm sure there are better chefs than me but that doesn't make me bad," Antonio insisted, "don't compare yourself to others, that's not how you judge talent."
Lovino didn't reply, it bothered him that the Spaniard made so much sense. He preferred believing he lacked something as vague and undefinable as talent, because then he didn't have to blame himself if he failed, he could believe it was something in his make-up, that he possessed a genetic predisposition to fall short.
"Should we start bringing these over?" Antonio asked, leaning his elbow on the table and dropping his head into his palm to study the Italian's face.
Lovino flushed under the attention and shrugged, "yeah, I was going to wait for Feli and that potato bastard, but I guess I can just text them to meet us."
"Oh, they're coming, too?" Antonio asked, rising from his seat and moving towards the prints.
"Yeah, it'll be faster that way, 'cause I have to help my professor with his stuff."
Antonio leaned a frame forward and slipped the wire over his fingers. "Oh yeah, I forgot about him, you don't talk about him much, is he nice?"
Lovino opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again as he considered his feelings. "Uh, no, not really," he laughed, "but I have to kiss his ass, he did let me in the show after all."
The Spaniard smiled and nodded knowingly, "yeah, that sucks, huh? We've all been there. I don't think any less of you." He winked.
The younger boy rolled his eyes to the ceiling and hoisted up two prints, padding into the hall as he continued the friendly banter. "Like I care what you think."
"You know you do," Antonio teased back, kneeing the door open and holding it for the Italian to pass through.
"Keep dreaming," he snarked back, mumbling a muted thanks when the Spaniard unlocked his car and carefully removed the framed pieces from his hands, positioning them in the trunk.
The gallery was surprisingly easy to find, between Sadiq's scribbled instructions and Lovino's fairly good sense of direction, they only managed to take one or two wrong turns before finding it. "I'd worry about Feli getting here but I bet Ludwig has this whole town mapped out," the Italian joked bitterly, lip quirking with disgust at the mention of the German.
Antonio laughed in reply and lifted himself out of his seat, "so he's a little type A, he loves your brother, that's what's important, right?"
Lovino knit his eyebrows and frowned, "stop being optimistic."
"Or what?" the older boy dared, lifting two prints from his trunk and handing one to Lovino.
"Or I'll kick you in the balls," Lovino replied immediately, smirking when the Spaniard paled at the thought.
"Not cute, not cute at all," Antonio lamented. "I'll just have to use your art to shield me."
"Bastard!" Lovino cried back with a laugh, light-hearted attitude dissipating the nearer he came to the gallery doors. When Antonio pushed the door open for him he glanced up as he passed through, concentrating on the older boy's soft compassionate face, his gentle mouth and kind eyes, and wondered how tortured with anxiety he would have been if he were forced to face this event alone.
"Vargas, that you?" His professor sounded as soon as his foot met the gallery floor.
"Yeah," Lovino replied back, relieved that his voice didn't reflect the uncertainty he was feeling. The older man walked over and wrenched the prints from his student's hand. "Who's that?" He asked, flicking his chin at the nearby Spaniard.
"Antonio, nice to meet you," the indicated boy smiled, abandoning the door to join the Italian's side.
"Sure, whatever," Sadiq replied absentmindedly, barely glancing at the boy as he removed the art from his grip.
Antonio knit his eyes in irritation, burning holes into the older man's back before letting his features slip back to peaceful neutrality when he turned back around. "You ready to help me?" Sadiq addressed Lovino.
"Uh yeah, of course," he nodded, glancing up uncertainly at Antonio. "Feli should be here soon if you want to wait outside, he can tell you what to do."
"Oh, that cute brother of yours coming, Vargas?" Sadiq called over his shoulder, lifting a notepad from the seat of a chair positioned in the center of the brick-walled room.
Lovino bit the inside of his cheek, grinding the soft flesh between his teeth till he tasted blood, "yeah, with his boyfriend."
"Aw, what a shame, he'd do so much better if he was single," his professor replied, not bothered by the biting stares aimed his way.
Antonio rested a palm on Lovino's shoulder and ducked to his ear, "I'm just going to stay in here," he whispered, soft breaths upsetting the Italian's hair and sending faint shivers down his back.
Lovino nodded in understanding, "thanks," he muttered back, barely moving his lips as he spoke. Antonio settled down in a couch near the back of the room and watched carefully from his seat as the Italian scrambled around, carefully following each of Sadiq's barked commands. He felt relief wash over him when Feliciano and Ludwig finally arrived, padding across waxed wooden floors to join him on the couch.
"How's everything going?" Feliciano asked when they reached the stressed Spaniard.
Antonio grimaced and laughed, "I'll tell you about it later," he explained, sliding a hand through his wavy tresses as he fought to assuage his boiling blood.
The younger Italian opened his mouth to question the vague response when a voice interrupted him. "Well look who it is, the school's newest little painting prodigy." Lovino turned from his tape measure to glare at Sadiq, catching eyes with Ludwig and quirking his eyebrows in warning. The German immediately took Feliciano's hand in his own and pulled the smaller boy protectively to his chest.
Sadiq appeared unimpressed by the display and folded his arms. "And who's this?" He asked, boredom already marring his voice.
"Ludwig," Feliciano chirped innocently, "he attends the school, don't you remember?"
The professor scrunched his eyes in thought, pressing a fist to his hip and staring imploringly to the sky in an exaggerated attempt to remember. "Ah yeah, sculpture, huh?" Ludwig gave a curt nod in response. "So you nabbed the whiz kid, huh? Good work, son," he laughed, slapping the German on the shoulder.
Ludwig shuddered slightly and flushed, "Feliciano," he turned his attention, coughing and clearing his throat before continuing, "let's get your brother's work up so we can get to dinner."
"Ve~okay," Feliciano agreed easily, distracted by the thoughts of an impending meal. "You want to help, big brother Toni?" The younger Italian asked, tilting his head curiously at the way Antonio's eyes followed the older professor around the room.
"S-sure," the Spaniard jumped from his seat, happy to have an excuse to expend the energy mounting in his limbs from aggravation.
Feliciano located the title cards for his brother's work and quickly explained the proper measurements for hanging pieces. Ludwig, being the most analytical of the group, handled the measuring, and with Antonio's patient hands and Feliciano's eye, the group managed to finish only shortly after Lovino and his professor had made their final adjustments.
Lovino walked hesitantly toward his work, heart jumping in his throat as he neared the brick wall. "I haven't seen these," Sadiq observed, following closely behind the Italian and slapping a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Are they new?"
Lovino jumped at the contact and nodded, "uh, y-yeah, I started them over the weekend." Anxiety buzzed distantly in the periphery of his thoughts, nervousness mounting with every second his professor carefully studied his work.
Sadiq released his shoulder and walked closer to the prints, peering expectantly towards them as he examined every minor detail. "Good job, Vargas," he said after a while, "you finally figured it out."
Lovino exhaled a breath he didn't realize he was holding and felt his shoulders wilt. "Thanks," he managed, knees weak with relief.
"I'll expect an artist statement on my desk tomorrow explaining them," he reminded, back still to the Italian. A dull chill descended upon the younger boy, and he felt the tension that had only just bid a momentary retreat resettle into the fuselage of his abused mind.
Antonio must have noticed his paling face, because he wrapped an arm around the Italian's back, shouldering the boy's stress and keeping him hoisted above the pit of despair he so often skirted. "He's worked so hard, can't he get that to you after the weekend?" The Spaniard reasoned.
Sadiq turned from the art and quirked an eyebrow curiously, "I'm sorry, I believe I was talking to my student."
Antonio straightened up to his full height, eyes uncharacteristically hard as he stared the older man down, "he's done everything you've asked, don't you think he deserves a break?"
Sadiq smirked at the Spaniard's display and let his eyes flit to the withering Italian. The boy had worked hard, he had to admit, his newest prints were excellent, far above most of the students his age, and though he was tough, he wasn't heartless. "Fine, you win," The professor acquiesced, stifling a laugh when the hardness immediately retreated Antonio's gentle features. "But I better see that statement Monday," he reminded, heading towards the door without bothering to say goodbye. "I mean it, Vargas," he yelled, throwing a hand over his head as he exited the gallery.
The group stood in silence as they each processed the scene. "He wasn't so bad," Antonio laughed sarcastically, yelping in surprise when Lovino threw his arms around his waist.
The Italian quickly pulled away, cheeks flaming, "that's for standing up for me." He explained before punching the Spaniard on the shoulder, "and that's for making me look like a wimp in front of my professor."
"Aw, but you looked so cute," Antonio teased, earning himself another punch to the shoulder.
"Ah," Ludwig interrupted, clearing his throat awkwardly, "should we get dinner?"
"Ve~yes, let's, I'm hungry," Feliciano agreed easily.
Antonio ruffled Lovino's hair lovingly and nodded, "there's a pizza place near her that's good, if everyone's cool with that."
The younger Italian cheered happily, "Lovi loves pizza," he added, making his brother blush from the attention.
"Well, it's settled then," Antonio smiled, leading the group to the parking lot. The restaurant was only a short drive away, and they were seated quickly, apparently beating the dinner rush. Lovino ran his rubber soles across the terracotta floor, allowing his brother and Antonio to fall into a comfortable conversation and only interrupting long enough to insult Ludwig every time he took a gulp of beer.
"I can't believe you like that cat piss," he grimaced for the fifth time that night.
"You should try it, Lovi, it's not bad," Feliciano piped up, giggling when his brother coughed into his wine glass.
"You've tried it?" The older brother demanded, mouth hanging open in disgust as he shot daggers at the German. "You, stop corrupting my brother!" He shouted, earning displeased faces from the surrounding patrons.
"Not everyone likes wine with their pizza," Antonio assuaged, patting the disgruntled Italian's thigh.
"You don't like beer, too, do you?" He demanded, eyebrows knit in surprised repulsion.
Antonio shrugged and sipped his wine, "it depends on the food, Lovi, beer's okay with some meals."
"Not you, too," Lovino wailed, throwing his hands over his face in an unintentionally dramatic display.
"No one's perfect," the Spaniard winked, making the table erupt into laughter that only ceased when their food arrived.
"Ve~this is so good," Feliciano mused, a chorus of agreeing hums echoing the sentiment.
Lovino felt his cheeks warm with pleasure as he chewed, allowing himself the chance to enjoy the moment, unburdened by the complicated feelings that interrupted his every interaction. When the dinner ended and the pairs stood in the parking lot, preparing to depart, he felt himself so full of contentment that it was almost uncomfortable. He told himself it was the wine, but he knew it wasn't, it was the feeling of companionship, of family.
"You're going with that potato bastard?" Lovino asked his brother, lip twitching in disapproval.
"Ve~is that okay?" Feliciano asked, hugging his brother and kissing his cheek before he could respond.
Lovino kissed his brother back and took a sharp breath, steeling his arms by his side as he walked up to the looming German. "Take care of him, you bastard, or I'll fucking kill you."
Ludwig's eyes sharpened in annoyance, but he nodded anyway and held a hand out to the younger boy, understanding this was close as he would get for permission to date the boy's brother. "I will," he said simply, grasping the Italian's hand tightly and giving it a firm shake.
"Good night," Feliciano cried happily as he and Ludwig climbed into the German's car.
Antonio and Lovino waved in reply, standing silently as they watched the vehicle retreat. "I'm so proud of you," Antonio said once the tail lights disappeared from view.
"Wha-" Lovino started, the words catching in his throat when he was enveloped by strong arms and the spicy scent of the Spaniard's skin.
Antonio pet his hair lovingly, enjoying the close contact, "I know that was hard for you," he whispered, his warm breath tracing the crown of the smaller boy's head.
Lovino only nodded when they separated and sniffed, pointing his eyes downward to hide the bright red in his cheeks. "Yeah, well, they were going to date whether I wanted it or not." He shrugged, grinding a toe into the rocky asphalt.
"I know you made Feli happy," Antonio continued, not bothered by the Italian's attempts to downplay his act. "It was a really selfless thing to do."
Lovino stuffed his pockets into his slacks, shivering against the solemnity that threatened to sneak back into his leaden limbs. He knew what selflessness was, he had witnessed it firsthand, and not even the blessed miasma of time had managed to mitigate the intensity of the gift. No, he wasn't selfless, he simply didn't see the point of pretending he was the sole possessor of something that had long ago escaped his grasp. There was nothing glorious about the way he lived his life.
"C'mon," Antonio prompted, recognizing the faraway look of distraught marring the Italian's handsome features. "It's late and you have a big day tomorrow."
Lovino nodded numbly in reply and followed the older boy to his car, willing his complicated emotions away so he could properly enjoy the last few moments with the Spaniard. "Are you nervous about the show?" Antonio asked as he downshifted into reverse and eased out of the parking lot.
The Italian folded his arms across his lap and shivered, "I don't know." Antonio threw him a meaningful glance as he shifted to drive and Lovino sunk into his seat and let his head fall back in resignation, "okay, maybe a little," he admitted.
Antonio smiled slightly at the confession, "you'll do fine," he encouraged. "Your work is great."
"Thanks," Lovino mumbled, glossed over eyes warily watching the golden illumination of the passing street lights.
"I mean it," the Spaniard continued sincerely.
"Yeah," Lovino grimaced, "I know, I guess I just-" he licked his chapped lips, working out his thoughts. "I don't know what to say to people if, you know, they ask-" The sentiment petered off, the words too uncomfortable to voice.
"That's a tough one," Antonio admitted, nodding as he thought. The Italian watched him expectantly, fighting back a grin when the older boy started to pinch his lower lip, a habit he seemed to unknowingly turn to when he was lost in thought. "Maybe instead of saying something specific, you can say it's about memories," the Spaniard started, "or loss or something." He stopped himself and laughed, running his hand through his unruly hair. "I'm not a good one to ask for advice on this stuff," he apologized, "it's not really my expertise."
"No," Lovino argued, pulling his arms closer to his chest, "no, that was really helpful."
"Ah, really?" Antonio asked, words curving up with happiness. "Good, I'm glad."
Lovino hummed a silent affirmation and let his head roll forward again, watching with regretful eyes as the silhouette of his dorm building loomed closer. "Shit, I'm tired," he yawned, balling his fingers into fists and raising them to the ceiling as he stretched.
"You better sleep in late tomorrow," Antonio reprimanded lightly, smiling affectionately when he let his vision slip momentarily to the younger boy.
"I will, I will," Lovino placated, unbuckling his seat belt when the Spaniard eased on his brake next to the curb. The Italian turned his head to the older boy, letting his eyes survey his tender features, before leaning toward him, nerves buzzing with longing.
"Wait," Antonio argued when Lovino's soft lips reached his own, warm breath only inches from his face.
"What?" The Italian demanded, frustrated.
"Am I allowed to go to the show tomorrow?"
Lovino blinked and fell back into his seat, eyebrows tensed at the unexpected question. He had forgotten his insistence that Antonio not intend, and he found himself pausing at the thought, trying to recall his reasons for not allowing him to come. He was surely trying to protect himself, but from what? Certainly not from pain, his life was consumed by it. And then he realized, the answer supplied as he stared into Antonio's earnest face: this was his last chance to save the older boy, to prove that he could be selfless like his mother had been. The Spaniard deserved someone so much better than him, someone that could contribute to his good humor, that could incite his happiness rather than whisk it away with every harsh word, every caustic memory.
Lovino steeled himself to answer, "I don't know," he gasped, before gulping against his discomfort and trying again, "no, no." He reiterated, clinging onto the bitter syllables, "you can't go." Antonio only blinked in reply, neutral reaction igniting bitter anger in the Italian's stomach. "Do you even care?" Lovino choked out, unable to stop himself, tongue loosened by the wine and his mounting frustration.
"Of course I do," the older boy replied calmly, voice hardened.
"Well you wouldn't know it looking at that same stupid face," Lovino bit back, desperately searching the Spaniard's features for some kind of reproach, some kind of sign that this was the right decision.
"Do you even like me?" Antonio asked finally, mercies dissipating from his timbre.
Lovino didn't respond, of course he did, he had never been so certain of anything. Every inch of him yearned for Antonio, he felt the sky above his head only remained so high because he existed in his world, that light was created only to reflect colors upon his face. Antonio was the most remarkable thing he had encountered, and probably ever would encounter, and yet when he smiled he did it so easily, as if it wasn't something precious, to be coveted.
He didn't say those things though, the good words never came to him in his time of need. "What do you care, you're only even talking to me because you wanted to be with my brother first. You're no different from anyone else, so stop acting like you're so Goddamn generous."
Antonio leaned forward and reached a hand out to cup the Italian's cheek. Lovino squirmed under the touch, scared of what was going to happen, terrified that he had worn through the Spaniard's last grace, that he had finally broken him. "Isn't it a little late for that?" Antonio asked, voice low and serious.
"For what?" Lovino demanded, fumbling for the door handle and wrenching it open.
"Trying to make me hate you," Antonio clarified.
An unintelligible noise worked it's way from Lovino's throat and he unfastened his seatbelt, stumbling into the blessedly cold night. He was drowning, he knew, the air was enfolding his body but it was too thick to inhale. "Fuck you," he managed, wishing Antonio would leave him alone, that he would let him go without a fight. "If I see you near that show I'll call the fucking police."
"Lovi-" Antonio started, watching the fragile Italian solemnly, unsure of how to react. "I'll be waiting for your apology," he decided finally.
"Oh, just fuck off," Lovino screeched, kicking the passenger door closed and turning his back to the retreating car. He bore a straight path forward, the desperation to be alone, away from the potential prying eyes of the dorm building, driving the mechanical motion of foot over foot. He wished he would trip, that he would stumble down a hidden ravine and transport himself into blissful unknowingness. He wished he had had more to drink at dinner. He wished that the dark smoke descending from distant fireplaces would carry him far away. He wished that he had never come to this school, that he had never met Antonio, that his parents had never died and left him trying to clumsily manage through life without their guidance. And when he was certain he was alone, back into the safe arms of isolation, he fell to his knees, letting the tears fall unbidden from his eyes, insisting upon the world these things, and hating himself for being so self-centered to think that anyone cared.