3

Write for Me, Querido

Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero.

No te dejaré nunca.

Te prometo.

Por eso...por favor...

No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida.

Toni was having a very terrible writer's block, and he couldn't quite figure out why. It befell him on the day Lovino—Romano—didn't come to class. He had felt a strange sense of disappointment because that was one less chance for him to take this fledgling writer, this Sicilian capsule of potential, and grow it into that masterpiece it was meant to be. Not only that, but Romano's absence meant that Toni wouldn't be able to read another of his strange poems. So Toni thought as he wandered the cobblestone paths of this campus, chewing on a toothpick and scratching his head with a pencil. He was carrying a notebook, but the page was blank. It was making him so frustrated. Few things, and very rarely, were able to frustrate Toni to the point that his mood was fouled, but writer's block was one of these things.

It couldn't be because of that kid, he told himself. It couldn't be from how piercing his eyes were. How harsh his facial expressions were. How deep his scowl was. How smooth his skin looked. How messy and suggestive his hair was. How low and angry his voice sounded. How deep and dark everything about him seemed. There was no way it was that. Having only truly met someone once was not enough to warrant such an intense and mind-boggling writer's block. Toni bit down a little bit harder on the toothpick and stared up at the sky in exasperation.

"Por favor, Dios," he sighed. "Give me something. Anything. Even a poem would do at this point."

(Toni very much enjoyed reading poetry, particularly that of Central and South American writers, but he almost never wrote it himself—prose came so much more naturally to him.)

He heard footsteps and muffled voices, growing louder. He lowered his head and saw two figures walking in his direction. Their positions, though, were interesting. And as they grew closer, Toni was able to make out a man walking with his back straight and his chest out, dragging a student behind him by his ear. The student was wearing glasses, slipping steadily down his nose, had sandy blonde hair, and an expression scrunched in pain. Toni didn't recognize him, but he immediately recognized the man who was dragging him.

"Hola, President Kirkland."

"Ah, Antonio. How good to see you." The university's president stopped, giving Toni a good-natured smile.

He was wearing what looked like a military uniform—the only thing that Toni had ever seen him wear. Very polished, very elegant, very refined, even in the way that he pulled on the student's ear.

"I do hope our campus has been treating you well thus far," President Kirkland continued. "Ah, beg pardon my rudeness. Alfred, say hello and introduce yourself to Professor Fernández."

"Sup," the boy said with a nod of his head. Most definitely an American.

"Alfred." With that smile still plastered to his face, President Kirkland pulled harshly on the student's ear.

"Ow, ow, OOW!"

"Properly now, Alfred."

"Hey, Prof," he said, looking up at Toni with his blue eyes. "I'm Alfred."

"There's a good lad. Manners aren't so hard, then, are they?"

"Sure, yeah, whatever. Wouldja let go of my ear, Prez?"

"Very well. But if you try to run I shall have your head served to me on a silver platter."

"Yeah, yeah."

President Kirkland released young Alfred's ear, and he straightened up and began rubbing it. Toni was rather fixated by the whole situation, wondering what this clueless American could have possibly done to find himself there.

"Antonio. You look a little bit troubled. Anything with which I can be of assistance?" President Kirkland said, clasping his hands behind his back. Toni sighed and scratched his head again with the pencil. "I hope it's not anything to do with your accommodations..."

"No, no, nothing like that," Toni insisted. "Just a writer's block, that's all."

"Hmm. I'm afraid I don't have much experience in that regard. Though I might try suggesting a change of scenery?"

"How 'bout a muse?" Alfred interjected, still rubbing his red ear.

"¿Cómo?" Toni replied.

"Y'know, like a sexy lady to write about. A muse. That's what it's called, right? Something that inspires you?"

"Ah, vale..."

"As dimwitted as Alfred is, he might be onto something," President Kirkland smiled. "Though perhaps not necessarily the 'sexy lady' to whom he was referring. There's a number of inspiring people and locations at this university. Take a break from the writing, and put some time into getting to know the place. That's my advice, anyway."

"Yes...thank you..." Toni said. The creative gears in his mind were beginning to turn again. "Thank you very much. Both of you."

"I'm glad to be of assistance. Now come, Alfred. To my office."

"Again, Prez?"

"Yes, again, until you learn to hold yourself to the high standards of my institution. Come now."

"Aw, damn it."

"Have a good day, Antonio. Don't hesitate to call upon me should you be in need of anything else in the future," President Kirkland nodded, with a slight raise of his thick eyebrows, and continued walking down the path. Alfred young and haughty on his heels.

"See ya, Prof. I hope you find your muse!"

"Hasta luego, Alfred."

"ALFRED!"

"Jesus, I'm COMING, ya damn old man..."

Alfred hurried along, throwing Toni one last grandiose smile. A charming lad, Toni concluded. He was chuckling now as he continued walking, and he immediately heeded the words of the esteemed president and put away his notebook. A break from writing would perhaps do him good. Writing, he sometimes found, was something that just came to him. Ideas that were desperate to be put onto paper appeared in his mind and he had no choice but to write them down. There was no point in trying to write down ideas that had not yet come to him. Some writers could do that—sit and think very hard until they were able to write. Toni was not one of these writers, and it would be pointless for him to keep trying.

Get to know the place, he repeated in his head. Take a break. Get to know it. Then write. Toni smiled to himself and whistled as he walked and paid special attention to every single detail that this campus gave to him.

Everyone was present for his creative writing seminar on Thursday, including Romano Vargas. Toni had assigned a short story for them to read—by one of his favorite authors, Gabriel García Marquez—and had them lead a discussion about it. He sat at the head of the table, tapping occasionally on the table with his pen, listening to their ideas floating around the room. They were all very bright with differing opinions and styles. Their eyes shined when they spoke, and there was intellectual light that completely filled the room. Well, almost completely. There was a single spot of darkness, a heavy cloud casting its shadows, at the corner of the table where Romano Vargas sat. At first Toni wondered if he were even listening, because he hardly looked up from his notebook. Had he even read the story, Toni wondered?

If Toni wanted to take this fledgling writer under his wing, he would have to push him, even if it meant calling to him while he was sulking in the shadows of his cloud.

"Romano. I want to hear your opinions of the story," Toni said at one point. Everyone was silent, turning to face Romano. He brought his head up rapidly with a wide-eyed expression, his lips tight together and his teeth clenched. He froze, and Toni couldn't tell if he were staring mutely into space or straight at him. "You did read the story, sí?"

"O-of course I read the story," Romano huffed, finding his words. He slouched down in his chair and crossed his arms, directing his gaze toward the ground. Even from across the table Toni could see the red that had risen to his cheeks. He smiled.

"What did you think?"

"You can't just ask a question like that," he spat. A few of the students gaped at him—how could he talk like that to a professor? "You have to be more specific. There are a lot of aspects to the story. The plot, the writing style, the imagery, the metaphors...asking me what I thought is just too broad."

Toni raised his eyebrows, satisfied.

"All right, I'll be more specific then. What did you think of the writing style?"

Romano clicked his tongue before speaking again. "It flows nicely. Marquez is a good storyteller. You're at once in the story, but viewing it from the outside. It's the kind of writing that fits very well the magical realism genre, with matter-of-fact diction that makes it blend seamlessly into mundane events."

He paused, and finally looked up at Toni. His gaze was electrifying—like Toni was seeing him for the first time. Arms crossed, slouched in his chair, mumbling very insightful words about Marquez's writing style, surrounded by a dark, intense, passionate aura that was more attractive to Toni than any light could have ever been.

"Is that good enough for you, Señor Fernández?" he said.

"Toni, por favor," he smiled. "And yes, that is good enough."

Toni held his gaze for a moment longer, and felt, dare he say it, relief when Romano did not look away. They grabbed each other's eyes and squeezed until there was nothing left to gain and Romano turned away, curling back over his notebook. Toni continued the discussion with the other students and wondered why he couldn't grab their eyes and squeeze, too.

He decided not to keep Romano after class that day, as much as he wanted to speak to him. His mood seemed sour and his body seemed tired, so Toni let him be. But he was even more determined now to open up Romano's soul and encourage all the passions and desires and ideas and beautiful, beautiful words to flow out. For he knew they were there. He could see them dancing beneath his skin. But they were concealed, either within his heart or within the secretive pages of that little black notebook. Toni had seen talent before—of course he had seen talent. In fact, this situation was not abnormal in the slightest. Almost each time he taught, he found himself fixated to a student, a particularly talented young writer, whom he would attempt to cultivate to the finest of artists.

But none had been encased in such darkness, as Romano was.

Toni tried to determine just what about Romano Vargas intrigued him so. He had only spoken with him two or three times, only once in private, knew little to nothing about him...and the few times they had spoken, Romano had been bitter, indignant, borderline rude. He was just angry. Very angry at someone or something that had burrowed into his brain and was now infecting every part. So why was Toni so drawn to him, a sulky, childish boy who desperately distanced himself from others and about whom Toni knew close to nothing?

It was a bit like writing, Toni reasoned. Sometimes you can't control it—ideas come to you, and the only thing you can do is transfer them to paper, while they control your every muscle and thought until the full story has been dictated and transposed.

Toni didn't think about Romano very much over the weekend. He decided on getting to know this city better, getting to know its people and its sights and its smells better, and in the process it just happened that Romano didn't enter his thoughts often. On Friday he decided to take a siesta at 5:00pm, before dinner, and didn't wake up until 5:00am the next morning, at which point he decided to go for a run across campus.

That evening, he went out to a pub (recommended by President Kirkland himself) with François. He was introduced to a loud, self-assured German history professor named Gilbert who enjoyed hearing himself talk and was confident to a fault. But he seemed to attract fun with every step he took and he very quickly accepted Toni into he and François's longstanding friendship. They drank and talked until they were the loudest people in the pub, François being the first to get drunk and Gilbert being the last. Then they went home and Toni woke up with a vicious hangover, something he hadn't experienced in a while, and decided to eat tomato paste for lunch and go for another run. He wasn't worried about what to write. Running across campus and taking siestas and getting drunk with new friends in academia and admiring the beauty of this gray, rainy country was bound to result in inspiration soon enough. He had time.

Tuesday came before he realized it and he woke up with Romano's face behind his eyelids. Perhaps his brain was now unconsciously associating Tuesdays and Thursdays with Romano Vargas. He felt strange, laying in bed and staring at the ceiling, seeing Romano's face projected there. Was that how it had always been with his students, he wondered? Certainly he had felt this way before about particularly talented writers that had wandered into his classrooms. Certainly he had woken up, excited to teach them and bring out their passions. Certainly, he told himself, certainly.

Romano was in class that evening, and his complexion was brighter than usual. The pout on his lips was not so pronounced, his huffs and his puffs not so exaggerated. He still stayed curled over his notebook for the majority of class, avoiding eye contact with the others (especially Toni). But there was something different in him, in his movements, in the flutter of his eyelashes when he blinked and looked around the room when he was thinking about what to write next. A phrase, a word, that Toni wanted so badly to read.

He decided to keep Romano after class again.

"Romano, I want to talk to you. Do you have a few minutes?"

Silently and begrudgingly, Romano let his bag fall back onto the table as the room emptied and the two were once again left alone. Toni didn't bother telling him to sit.

"I want to ask you—what are you always writing in that mysterious notebook of yours?" Toni asked, with a shrewd smile and swiveling in his chair slightly. "I'm very curious."

"None of your business."

"Quick with the tongue, I see," he laughed. Romano looked startled for a moment, as if he were just at that moment coming to the realization that he might've said something rude, and his lips curled in. "Don't worry, I'm not easy to offend."

Romano sighed and put his hands into his pockets, and Toni wished that he would just look him in the eye and speak to him.

"Is it a diary?"

"I don't have to tell you," he mumbled.

"Vale, you don't have to tell me. But can I tell you something, Romano?"

"Well, nobody's stopping you."

With another soft chuckle, Toni continued.

"I still think about your poem all the time. The one from the first day of class," he said. "This might seem strange to ask since it's the only real writing sample I've seen from you, but...have you ever considered publishing?"

Romano paused. Toni wasn't sure if it was a deliberate silence, or if his student simply had no words to say. His expression, with the furrowed brow and the wide eyes and the tight lips, indicated a combination of surprise and confusion.

"I...That's not why I write," he finally blurted.

"Claro. That's not why any true writer writes. But if you have a talent for it, shouldn't you take advantage? You write to write, of course—because it helps lighten the burden on your shoulders, whatever that may be. But publishing your writing does not diminish your passion for it, and does not diminish the sincerity of the writing. ¿Me entiendes, hijo?"

"Sí," Romano said. Though he didn't sound completely convinced.

"Publishing your writing does not make you a fraud. Ah, what is the word in English...the one the Americans use so often..."

"Sell-out."

Toni snapped his fingers. "That's right! Sell-out. Publishing your writing does not make you a sell-out. Your writing is still for you, but why not let others read it? Especially when it is so beautiful?"

"I don't even know what you're talking about, old man," Romano spat, resuming his characteristically indignant demeanor. "It's not beautiful. It's just rambles."

"Would you be so opposed to letting others read it?" Toni raised his eyebrows and gestured loosely to Romano's bag. Within it lay the little black notebook.

"Of course!" he cried. He took a step closer to the bag, as if to protect it. "O-of course I'm opposed to letting others read it."

"Then how about this. Will you write something especially for me?" Toni asked, putting a hand to his chest.

"I'm not a commissioned writer, you know," Romano mumbled.

"No, but I think you have so much potential. And if you're willing to work with me and be more open with your writing, I think you could be truly amazing, querido."

Romano opened his mouth, then closed it again, and averted his gaze to the ground. He brought a thumb up to his lips and began to nibble at the nail there. Toni suspected that he had hit a nerve.

"Let me ask you something," he said. "Are you passionate about writing?"

"...I don't know," Romano replied, his voice brittle. "I don't know. I just do it."

"Why do you do it?"

Romano hugged himself gently and leaned against the table, though he still wouldn't sit down—out of pride or stubbornness or arrogance, Toni had no idea. He said something then, but it was so quiet that Toni couldn't hear.

"One more time? I didn't quite catch that."

"I write because it helps me breathe," he said softly. That was not an answer that Toni had ever heard before, nor one that he had been expecting in the slightest. He blinked, suddenly unsure of how to respond to this young man, whose voice was at once loud and rude and quick, yet soft and fragile and shaky.

"If I give you a prompt, will you write something for me? It can be anything you want. Just like that first time," Toni continued, easing his tone.

"...Maybe."

"Estupendo." Toni sat up straighter in his seat and leaned forward, closer to Romano, and put his elbow on the table. His movements seemed to turn a switch in Romano's brain. He blinked and stopped hugging himself and instead crossed his arms, glared down at him, and pursed his lips. "Write about happiness."

"Happiness?"

"Happiness."

"What kind of shitty prompt is 'happiness'?"

"It gives you freedom." Toni smiled more widely, ignoring Romano's dirty little slip of the tongue. "Do whatever you would like with that single concept. Write anything. And come see me tomorrow—I'll be in my office all afternoon. Just stop by."

"Happiness..." Romano repeated again. "Whatever. Maybe I'll come, maybe I won't."

"Whatever you want, Romano. Whatever helps you breathe."

Toni smiled again and tried to put his heart in his voice when he spoke so that Romano could see it, could hear it, could feel it.

Romano was struck silent again, frozen in place, before he turned and grabbed his bag and hurried from the room. And Toni was left somehow breathless. Somehow exhilarated. Somehow knowing that, regardless of what he had said, Romano would come tomorrow.

Translations:

Por favor, Dios (Spanish)=please, God

Cómo?=What/huh?

Hasta luego=See you later

Vale=in Spain, it means 'okay' or 'all right.' they use it all the time

Claro=clearly/of course

Me entiendes, hijo?=do you understand, son?

querido=darling

estupendo=stupendous