hello all!

so I decided that I didn't want to phonetically write out the accents so I changed that in the first chapter

anyway

here's chapter 2 (:

enjoy!

2

Will There Be Tomatoes, Signor?

There are two young boys sitting in a nursery.

The nursery is large and extravagant and bright, painted with light blues and greens, with windows around the walls to let the sun pour in. It sits nestled in the richest part of Rome. Toys are scattered all around, reorganized at the end of every day by the maids who know exactly how the little boys like their toys to be arranged. There is a rocking horse in one corner, a dollhouse (bought in case one of them had been a girl, and kept because the younger of the two so enjoyed playing with it) in another. Stuffed animals and toy soldiers and books filled with colorful images. Anything a child would want, all gathered here in this beautiful nursery with the two beautiful boys.

The boys are brothers, though they share only one bloodline. They are half-brothers, but they look so similar they could be twins—they both have inherited the looks of their father. But the older brother is darker, in both appearance and demeanor, than his younger brother. His olive skin and dark hair he inherited from his mother. He is reading a book, flipping diligently through the pages with wrinkles in his brow and a slight pout, while his brother picks up the crayons and begins to draw with a content, oblivious smile. After getting a spanking, he has stopped drawing on the walls. The younger brother looks up at his older brother and smiles, asking him if he would like to draw as well. The older brother, though he doesn't smile, shakes his head and begrudgingly thanks his younger brother. He continues to read his book, reminding himself to ask his father for more advanced ones when he comes home (whenever that might be).

When the younger brother has finished drawing, he stands up on his tiny legs and wobbles over to where his older brother sits. He plops down beside him and thrusts the picture into his face, a smile stretching out his small face and brightening the room even more than the sunlight. The older brother feels himself blushing, overwhelmed by the sheer happiness of his brother.

"For you! For my big brother! Mi fratellone!" the younger brother says. The older brother takes the picture and finally, unable to stop himself anymore, begins to smile as well. It is a drawing of two little boys holding hands, grinning. Perhaps dancing. He can't really tell. Even so young, the older brother can recognize the talent that resides in his brother.

"Bellissimo, fratellino," he says. His younger brother throws his little arms around him and he feels very warm, very happy. In an uncharacteristic, impulsive moment, the older brother squeezes his brother tightly and plants an affectionate, sloppy kiss on his forehead. A simple means of telling him that he loves him without having to say the words. His younger brother, on the other hand, has no qualms about saying it.

"Ti amo, fratellone!"

...why can't you be more like your brother...?

...what an unsightly boy...!

...if only you had such talent...

...un bambino spregevole...a worthless child...

Romano—he wouldn't even call himself Lovino, not if he could help it—was lying on the ground, curled on his side to feel the grass on his cheek. In a place where nobody could find him. It was a small garden with a balcony overlooking the university's green, over-the-top landscape, and the only way to get to it was by climbing up a twisted stone staircase that was so out of the way most students didn't know it existed. But ever since he was little, Romano had excelled at finding secret places to hide. Places where he could curl up on the ground like this.

Here, in his secret haven, nobody would call him by his name. Nobody would look into his eyes and speak to him. Nobody would touch him, nobody would look at him, nobody would even know that he existed.

Not that they did anyway.

He picked at a strand of grass, pulling it straight up from the ground. He liked to imagine that he could hear the roots of the plants moving with his ear pressed to the ground, could hear the very earth moving slowly around and around its axis. He pulled at a few more strands, until his fingers were stained green with their blood. His hair was falling in his face, his eyelids blinking slowly in apparent exhaustion, and his lips were shut tightly. He wished, laying there, that he could blend into the earth. Let his useless body become one with its replenishing soils, allow himself to be stepped on and ripped up—at least if he were part of the earth, he would be fulfilling his purpose in doing so. Being stepped on and crushed and torn apart would be surviving a higher purpose.

I want someone to write a poem about me, he mused to himself. Silently. Always silently. At first he considered a love poem, but then decided that that was much too extravagant and not like him at all. What was he going to do with a love poem? Perhaps an epic, then, he thought. But no. He was not heroic enough; his spirit could never be deemed worthy for the dramatic twists and turns of an epic. He settled upon a sad, tragic little poem. An untitled one, like the ones Emily Dickinson used to write in the confines of her home in a town in America whose name Romano could not remember. That kind of poem would have been perfect.

A soft breeze whistled by, and he could feel it just in the movement of the grass. With a rush of exhaustion, of raw and hollow sadness, he hugged himself and buried his face in the grass. Curled his knees in more tightly toward his chest, like a child. Frightened, lonely. But Romano wondered if it could be defined as still loneliness if it was, deliberately and knowingly, inflicted upon oneself. Or was loneliness by definition wanting to be surrounded by people and not being able to? Because if that was loneliness, Romano surely wasn't lonely.

I want someone to write a song about me, too. One of those sad, slow ballads that you can only listen to when you're feeling very depressed. Romano silently laughed at himself as he imagined the melody of that song, the lyrics describing a dark and dismal young man curled up in a field of grass so that nobody could find him, wishing he could just become the earth. Wishing he could do anything but be in this place, in this body, in this world.

For a moment, Romano closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep in that spot. But he knew he wouldn't be able to after only a few moments. He couldn't even remember the last time he had truly slept.

I want it to start raining.

And then I'll get wet, and it'll be easier to melt into the earth.

But it'll also get more humid—or maybe more cold?

Do I really want it to rain?

Why do I want to be wet again?

The voices in his head were acting up again. He shut his eyes more tightly and just listened to them. He had tried too many times to block them out, but he had learned to accept them. Listen to them with a bit of exasperation (sometimes with mere indifference). He pulled at the strands of grass. His entire body was starting to feel very heavy. He knew that, in a few minutes, he would begin to cry. Which was all right, because there was nobody here to see it.

The bell in the clock tower in the center of campus—unwittingly close to where he lay—began to ring. The first three made him jump, hug himself more tightly, curl into the grass. It was noon. Most students were going to have lunch now, flowing from their classrooms with hungry smiles on their faces. Not Romano, of course. He hadn't eaten in twelve hours, and yet couldn't feel the slightest pang of hunger.

I should eat.

But I don't wanna eat.

I'm going to end up inadvertently starving myself.

But I'll throw up if I try to eat.

Romano lay very still as the voices argued and his stomach churned, listening to the bell call out for him. Wondering how it would feel to leap from the very top and hear the ring resound above him.

It was Tuesday, but Romano decided not to go to his writing seminar. He always felt that his writing was better when he was alone.

Everything is better when I'm alone.

So he found himself, as he so often did, alone in his room, sprawled on the floor, scribbling in his notebook. His black one. His favorite one. With his special pen—the one he kept behind his ear when he went out. He was writing words. Just words. Like he'd done in class last week.

Except that they weren't just words.

His strange, smiling, overbearingly Spanish professor who asked his students to call him Toni had been right. Nothing Romano ever wrote was just words. Never. Even the mess he had written in class that day carried more meaning than that Spanish writer would ever be able to understand. But what frustrated Romano the most, what confused him to no end, was that the Spanish writer had noticed. Had known. Hadn't understood the words (nobody could), but had understood that he hadn't understood. Could never have possibly understood. Somehow, even as Romano had made his bullshit claims, that smiling Spanish professor had known that the words weren't just words. That they were so much more than 'just words.'

Romano found himself becoming inexplicably and unnecessarily aggravated by the recollection. He didn't want to remember that smiling face, the bright green eyes piercing straight through him, seeing past every frustrated lie that came out of his lips. He wished he had never written that stupid little poem, because then he might have remained in the shadows the seminar, perhaps even nonexistent to Professor Fern...to Toni. It made his writing turn sloppy and hasty and irritated.

He preferred writing in the dark, so all of the lights were off except for a few candles in some bowls he had brought with him from home. Having candles in the room technically wasn't allowed (a fire hazard), but Romano had them anyway. His roommate—a quiet Japanese fellow who had taken to calling him Romano-kun rather quickly—often wasn't in the room, and he knew he wouldn't mind the candles anyway. He was a little bit like Romano. Reserved, tended to keep to himself. But he studied a ridiculous amount of the time and was not temperamental or prone to dramatic mood swings, like Romano was. A hard-worker. A kind person.

Nothing like me, actually.

He had lost track of his scribbles about an hour and a half ago. Now he was letting his mind wander and his hands put to paper the thoughts nestled in his unconscious. He would read over it afterward, when it was the middle of the night and he had to find a way to silence his sobs so as not to wake Kiku. Kiku took his sleep very seriously. For a moment Romano wondered what time it was, but then realized that it made no difference. He wouldn't be leaving his room any time soon—unless Kiku's loud, obnoxious American friend were to stop by, as he occasionally did. In which case Romano would act very deliberately angry and make a scene and leave. Somewhere he could be alone with his notebook and his voices.

At one point, Romano stood from the bed and opened his refrigerator and grabbed a tomato. A large, juicy, ripe tomato. Then he returned to his place and, now nibbling on his tomato, continued to write. And his thoughts inevitably drifted back to his Spanish professor because the best tomatoes in the world were from Spain. He had learned that at a young age. The very tomato he was eating was imported from Spain. A gift from his great aunt, who spent her days roaming the streets of Almería and collecting tomatoes for her strange (but so handsome!) Italian nephew. He wondered whether Toni liked tomatoes. Surely he did. How could he have gazpacho otherwise?

Perhaps I'll ask him next time I see him.

Though I'm not particularly keen on speaking with him...

He seems the type to hold dinner parties, doesn't he?

If he ever invited me to one, well then I'd have to ask:

Will there be tomatoes?

¿Habrá tomates, Señor Toni?

Porque, sabe, a mí me encantan los tomates.

Romano glanced at his notes and realized that he had written, over and over, ¡Quiero sus tomates, Señor! It made him laugh at himself a little bit. Would Toni have trouble finding the meaning of that? Huh?

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Not Kiku's soft, cautious, I'm-coming-in-so-don't-be-naked knock. And Alfred never even bothered knocking, so it couldn't be him. It was loud, swift rapping that drilled into his mind. Tap tap tap tap TAP! He had no idea who it could be.

"Oi, calm down, I'm coming!" he screamed.

The person knocking did not calm down. In fact, their knocks became more vigorous. They became little melodies, tap TAP tap, tappity tap tap. After a few moments they began to tap with both fists, tappity tappity tap tap tappity. It was making Romano absolutely furious. He heard a muffled voice among the taps as he dragged himself out of bed and moved to begrudgingly open the door. Who it could've been he had no clue. Not even the slightest idea.

"Just who the fuck do you think you—?" he began, opening the door, but his voice disappeared when he saw the person awaiting him. Almost...almost...like looking in a very bright mirror.

"Fratellone! It really is you! They told me you were here but I almost didn't believe them!"

Without even giving Romano the chance to blink, his younger brother threw his arms around him, holding him as tightly as he could. Romano was completely surprised and utterly caught off-guard and could hardly react at all.

"F...Feliciano..."

"Lovi, Lovi, Lovi!" Feliciano cried. He started jumping, arms still encasing Romano. "Lovi, it's been too long! Too, too long! I don't even know how long, I lost track, even though at first I marked every single minute that we were apart—oh, Lovi! I'm so happy to see you!"

Feliciano was, as always, speaking at the speed of light, the Italian rushing quickly and naturally from his smiling lips. His accent was familiar, though different from Romano's own heavy Sicilian dialect. Still completely confused, Romano hugged his brother back, wondering if maybe he had magically fallen asleep and was now dreaming. It was the most realistic way to explain how his brother, supposedly at school in Vienna, had appeared at his door in this middle-of-nowhere university of the United Kingdom.

Though, Feliciano was right. It had been terribly long. Six years—since Romano started boarding school in Spain before coming to this university. Six years since he had even laid eyes on his brother. And in those six years, Romano realized suddenly, the warmth of Feliciano's embrace hadn't lessened even a little bit. It was still a little bit like sunlight, the way it pressed warmly against your skin and then spread throughout your body and made you feel light, airy, indescribably content.

You're so much taller.

Not so much stronger, though.

That's okay, neither am I.

Your hugs still make me really happy, fratellino.

Still talking (though Romano had kind of tuned out), Feliciano pulled away, holding Romano at arm's length and looking into his eyes. He was taller than Romano was now. And he had always been lighter in complexion and eye-color and hair. A washed out version of himself that he had always believed to be much more attractive. Always smiling, always laughing.

We may be brothers—but we're not very similar.

Well, I guess we're not full brothers. Just half-brothers.

But we both have that one strand of hair that never seems to behave.

And we both like pasta.

"Say something, Lovi!" Feliciano laughed. "Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Ah, um, y-yeah," Romano began. Stumbling over his words, still unsure of how to properly speak in the face of such a genuine smile. "I am, but, Feliciano...what are you doing here?"

"I go to school here, silly!"

"You what?"

"You're being so rude," Feliciano pouted. "I thought you'd be happy to see me, and all you can do is ask boring questions. Stupid fratellone."

"N-no, I am happy to see you!" Romano found himself saying. He hadn't really meant to say it. He lifted his hands and put them around Feliciano's wrists, still on his shoulders. He squeezed ever so slightly. "This is just a lot to take in...I never expected to see you here, of all places, after all these years."

"But it has been long, hasn't it?"

"Yeah. Really fucking long, actually."

"I missed you, Lovi! Oh, how I missed you. You know I used to cry every night after you left?"

"Shh, Feliciano, stop that—"

"Did you miss me? Huh? Did you cry yourself to sleep, too?" Feliciano teased.

"Of course I missed you," Romano grumbled. Though he would never admit to Feliciano that he had indeed cried himself to sleep. Nearly every night. "I missed you a lot."

They were silent then, taking in the presence of each other. Romano felt the heat in his face and imagined the bright red complexion that must have taken over his cheeks. His heart was beating fast and hard like a drum in his hollow chest, his skin was tingling, he felt that he was about to burst. He wasn't sure if he would describe this feeling as happiness—he wasn't sure if he even remembered what that feeling was like—but it was an intense feeling rising up inside of him. A unique, nostalgic and cathartic feeling inspired by his younger brother's ever-lasting smile and warm touch and constant contagious excitement for life. Romano stood like that, hardly able to make eye contact, while Feliciano stood across from him with a beaming smile and bright amber eyes. He hadn't changed at all.

Feliciano hugged him again. A real, deep hug, carrying in it the weight of six years' worth of emotions. Romano felt tears on the edges of his eyes as he hugged his brother back. Relieved and shocked and happy and terribly sad all at once.

You've gotten so big, Feliciano.

"Ahem."

Only then did Romano realize that there was another person standing at his door. A very tall, muscular, slightly intimidating young man with slick blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. He stood with his back pin-straight and his arms crossed. There was no way he could be Italian, Romano realized, so he probably couldn't understand a single word they were saying. And Romano immediately disliked him, if only for the fact that he was standing over Feliciano like a prison warden. Much too close.

"Oh, how rude of me! Yes, yes, of course. Lovi, this is my friend and roommate, Ludwig. Ludwig, my amazing big brother, Lovino," Feliciano said in English, pulling away and clasping his hands behind his back.

"Pleasure to meet you." Ludwig stretched his hand out in a very prim and proper way and Romano instantly recognized his accent as German. He stared at his outstretched hand for a few moments, felt his upper lip curl, and ignored it. Ludwig furrowed his brow.

"Lovino, don't be rude," Feliciano pouted, still in English. "Shake his hand!"

"I don't want to," Romano responded in Italian.

"Loooviiiiiiii, per favore!"

"This is your bruder?" Ludwig grumbled.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Romano said, switching almost automatically to English. "Who do you think are, anyway? Showing up at my door like this? Eh?"

"Lovi, please don't do this," Feliciano said. His voice more serious now. "Just shake his hand and introduce yourself."

"I told you, I don't want to. I don't like Germans."

He didn't bother switching to Italian.

Ludwig clenched his teeth and withdrew his hand, now in a fist. But the look of frustration crossed his features for only a moment before he retained his calm composure. He turned to Feliciano.

"I have work to do. I'll be taking my leave now."

"Oh, wait, we're coming with you," Feliciano gushed, grabbing onto Ludwig's sleeve. That sight sent Romano's stomach into tumbles. Made it rise up in a storm of jealousy. "Come on, Lovi! We have so much to catch up on. I want to hear everything about España and everything about Britain and everything about everything!"

"I'm not leaving my room." Romano hadn't even stepped out of his doorway. With a sigh, Ludwig began moving down the hall.

"I'm sorry, I don't have time for this," he said.

"W-wait!" Feliciano cried. Obviously torn.

And Romano hated that.

Is it so hard to choose your brother, whom you haven't seen in six years, over some giant German blockhead?

"Let's have lunch tomorrow then, Lovi," Feliciano said, a slightly defeated smile on his lips. He reached out and grabbed Romano's hands. He was speaking in Italian again, though his voice was much more subdued. "I'll explain everything then. And you can explain everything, too. Like I said. I want to hear everything. Okay? You will, won't you? You'll spend time with your poor fratellino?"

Romano wanted to be angry with him for no reason at all, just as he was angry with the whole world for no reason at all, but he couldn't. He sighed and let his hands fall into Feliciano's. Let them be squeezed.

"D'accordo."

"You are the best, Lovi. Truly." Feliciano smiled that giant smile, squeezed Romano's hands, leaned forward, and planted a kiss on his cheek. It felt very nice.

I used to kiss you like that, didn't I?

Shouldn't our roles be switched?

I'm the older brother, after all...

"I really am so happy to see you again," he continued. And Romano realized that there were tears in his younger brother's eyes. "So, so happy. I love you, Lovi."

"Me, too."

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

"I'm really happy to see you too, Feliciano."

I can cry when he leaves.

Just don't cry right now.

Not until the door is closed.

Okay, he's gone.

Close the door...

I can cry now.

Ti amo, fratellino.

Ti amo molto.

Translations:

ti amo, fratellone (Italian)=I love you, big brother

Porque, sabe, a mí me encantan los tomates (Spanish)=because, you know, I really love tomatoes

fratellone (Italian)=endearing term for big brother

fratellino (Italian)=endearing term for little brother

per favore=please

D'accordo=okay

ti amo molto=I love you so much