5

Your Writing Is Dark, 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 did not sleep that night because he was thinking unrelentingly about Romano's mother. He was thinking about how he'd written about her, how the words had swum before his eyes. He had never read anything like that. There wasn't anything particularly stunning about the way he described this woman, or the use of vocabulary or the diction—he was talented, yes, but there was something else. It might have been in the way he had been sitting right there, eyes on the ground, lips tight and brow distorted in wrinkles. It had all come together to create an image, and when Romano had said the words, "It's my mother," Toni had been afraid that he was about to burst into tears. Now he stared at the ceiling with those words floating in his mind, his heart eager to read the words that were to come from that dark boy's mind next. Words about love.

The next day, just as François was leaving his office after a short coffee break, a short and decisive knock came at Toni's door. He was at his desk this time, twirling a strand of hair and staring once again at Romano's poem. In his moments of idleness, his moments of silence, those moments in which the mind of a writer begins to twist and turn and writhe and cave in on itself, he always found himself returning to this poem in a futile attempt to understand it. To work out each word, give it a meaning of its own and put it into orbit with the others. Planets, stars, in a galaxy born of Romano's shaded thoughts.

"Come in," he said, taking his glasses off and placing them next to his coffee-stained mug. The door gingerly opened and Romano took a step inside. Seeing him, with red bags beneath his eyes, a scowl, chapped lips as dry as a desert, disheveled and coarse hair, Toni realized that from one day to the next, this boy could be a different person. Yesterday he had looked much better—not as thin, perhaps, or not quite as melancholy. Toni could admit to himself that he had never been very good at reading people, but he could not even decide what type of person Romano was.

"Ah, good. You're here." Toni adjusted his chair and gestured for Romano to sit with an eager smile on his lips. Romano silently took his seat. "Are you all right, mi hijo? You look very tired."

"I'm fine."

Romano, very evidently not fine, took out his notebook and turned to one of the pages and handed it to Toni. He leaned forward and looked more closely at Romano's face. He was pale, his eyes bloodshot, his breathing ragged.

"Are you sick? Or maybe you are not sleeping well?"

"I told you I'm fine." Romano blinked at him, their faces now inches apart, before turning away with a slight pout on those desert lips.

"All right, if you say so. Vale, did you do the assignment?"

Romano nodded, and Toni smiled again, even though he knew that Romano wouldn't see it. He might feel it, Toni mused, if he smiled in just the right way.

"Let's take a look then. Another poem! Beautiful." Toni put his glasses back on (his eyesight wasn't terrible, but the glasses were helpful and made him feel much more like a professor) and began reading through the poem. Out loud, of course, because poetry was always meant to be read out loud. The poem was in English. He had hoped, for some strange reason, that it would be in Italian, though he couldn't completely understand Italian.

"Set me on fire, soulmate.

Chew me up and spit me out.

Choke me with hands that hold my heart and squeeze.

Put your boot against my upturned face,

Watch it fall,

And push harder.

Put your lips to my ear and whisper the words.

Words of hatred and anguish.

Words you know I want to hear.

I give everything I have to you.

Everything is nothing.

But nothing is enough to save me.

Let me sit in the palm of your hand,

Crying against your fingertips.

Watch me fall to my knees and beg for your gaze.

That's all.

Your gaze.

Nothing else.

Burn me. Burn me.

Burn me with your gaze."

Toni stared at the final period for what seemed an eternity before scanning through the poem once more. The words were harsh and crude, callous and filled to the brim with desolation, but they were written so delicately. As if Romano had been afraid of ripping the page with the tip of his black-inked pen. Finally, he looked back up at Romano, his mouth slightly open, wondering what he could possibly say to this skinny, so oddly small boy about the terrors hidden within this poem. But he was shocked into silence when he saw tears, not dissimilar to yesterday's, streaming down Romano's face. Streaming in rivulets. But he didn't seem to notice. He was staring at the notebook in Toni's lap with unflinching concentration and was biting his lower lip. His hands curled into fists so tight that his knuckles were losing their color.

"Romano...?"

Hearing his name must have brought him back to reality. He blinked and looked up into Toni's eager eyes and began desperately wiping the tears with the back of his sleeve. In a haze, Toni reached for a small tissue box he kept on his desk and handed it to Romano, who took it with trembling fingers and blew his running nose. The Spaniard had absolutely no idea what to say. Yesterday, too, Romano had shown signs of distress. But not like this. So he sat in silence and stared at the poem while Romano blew his nose and avoided eye contact. He wished that he could find the courage to say something that might have alleviated the stress, but Toni's lack of tact when it came to human interactions made that absolutely impossible. The only thing he could do was wallow in this tense atmosphere, berating himself for idleness, watching tears that shimmered with something—innocence? or maybe remorse?—roll down Romano's gaunt cheeks.

Until, finally, Romano took a few deep breaths and swallowed. Only then did Toni venture to speak.

"Lo siento," he found himself saying softly. "I didn't mean to upset you."

Romano said nothing. Did nothing. Toni had been expecting a sharp reply, a witty insult, a defense of pride—anything but this heavy silence that weighed down on him like a pile of bricks. Romano might have shaken his head, but it was equally as likely, Toni reasoned, that he had not shaken his head.

"Is this...truly how you see love?"

Romano shrugged. At the very least, a sign of life. Toni sighed.

"It is strange, I will say that," he continued with a smile. "But it captures well the desperation we sometimes feel in love, sí?"

"If you think so," he mumbled.

"What inspired this, if I may ask?"

And Toni was met, yet again, with a silent shrug. Another obstacle set in his path to discovering the secret of Romano's talent, his inspiration, the cogs that made him work. Yet it made his determination stronger. He had never wanted so badly to discover the inner workings of another person. To shine light upon their darkness and have himself be swallowed by it. Driven by a dark and twisted masochism.

"Your writing is...how should I say it...dark, querido," Toni said. "I am sure you know what I mean. Dark in the way that attracts readers."

Romano nodded. His brow had scrunched up again, but he could no longer fool Toni with appearances of indignation. At least, not right now.

"If you wish, write something else for me. Anything. My recommendation is to practice every day. That is how a writer improves. But, Romano..." Toni's voice trailed off for a moment, when Romano finally met his eyes. And he saw in them a pain he could never understand. "If this is hard for you, or if you want to stop...or even if you want to talk, you can come to me."

"I'm fine. I'll write your stupid assignments."

This response was a call to help. At least, that was how Toni decided to interpret it. It was a hand reaching out from the darkness of Lovino Vargas saying, help me be the writer I know I can be. Help bring me back out into the light of creativity and artistic intuition. Toni reached forward and grabbed that hand, responded to that call to help, as intensely as he could.

"Vale. Now go get some sleep—something to get that nasty look from your eyes."

Toni smiled and handed Romano the notebook but, despite his inclinations, did not touch him. Without a word Romano stuffed his notebook into his bag and was out of the room in mere seconds, and only after he'd gone did Toni realize that there were goosebumps covering every inch of his bronzed skin.

Toni stayed late at his office that evening, staring with blurry eyes at the poem Romano had given him—the one from the first day of class. Pouring, as he always did, over every single word. But now he was thinking of Romano's new poem, as well. His twisted perspective of love and the claws with which it dragged its victims to the depths of hell. He was thinking of Romano's mother, who he now felt a strange desire to meet. If only from his dramatic and beautiful description of her in the pages of his notebook.

Romano hadn't been in class that evening, which struck Toni as curious because he had willingly come to his office outside of class hours. So why, he wondered, hadn't he shown up for class? Something came up, surely, that prevented him from being able to make it. An emergency, or a sudden illness. Or perhaps the common habits of youth—particularly of college students—had overcome him and he had decided, against his better judgment, to just skip class for no real reason at all. Still, Toni was disappointed. So he sat staring at Romano's handwriting and thinking about his writing and the way the tears had looked sliding down his skin. A student had approached Toni after class asking if she might have him look over some of her writing and offer advice, and he had accepted with less enthusiasm than he would expect even from himself. His mind had been elsewhere.

Now here he sat. In his office, watching the words swimming and hearing the distant ticking of the clock. It was approaching midnight. He decided, with an uncharacteristic huff and puff, that it was time to go to sleep. Tomorrow, surely, was another day of discovery. Of pulling Romano from his shell and showing the world the beautiful writer within. Another day of figuring out just who this young man was.

Toni was visited in his office the next day not by Romano, but by François and Gilbert. They invaded like an army, cups of coffee in hand and not looking at all like academic professors with published work who taught at one of the most prestigious universities in the world. It happened while he was asleep, taking a short siesta at the window. Gilbert threw the door open and strolled in, François at his heels wearing an amused and confident smile on his wry lips. Toni blinked his eyes, coming face to face with the blurry silhouettes of his friends, completely disoriented.

"Good morning, new friend!" Gilbert cried. Before Toni could even move, he moved to the window and threw the shades open, forcing bright light onto him.

"Ai!" Toni flinched and covered his eyes, curling into himself.

"You know it's not morning, oui?" François chuckled.

"It's all the same," Gilbert said with a flick of his wrist. "Either way, time to wake up!"

"Hola," Toni mumbled, forcing himself to sit up. "Come inside, I suppose."

"You Spaniards, always sleeping," Gilbert sighed. He took a seat in Toni's swiveling chair and propped his feet up on the desk. If Toni had been any different than he was, he would have been irritated. But he couldn't convince himself to care, and instead rubbed his eyes and smiled. "In Deutschland, sleep is for the weak!"

"I find that hard to believe," François said. Then he strode over and offered Toni, yawning and stretching his arms, a cup of coffee.

"Ah, muchas gracias, you are an angel."

"So I've heard." He leaned against the wall and took a sip of his coffee. Café au lait, his favorite, Toni had quickly learned. He himself preferred Americano, and though he wasn't sure what Gilbert's preference was, he wouldn't have been surprised if it was, in fact, alcohol. "Gilbert wants to go on a trip to London this afternoon. Would you like to join us?"

"A trip to London sounds fantastic," Toni said. His relief came out more evident in his heavy voice than he'd anticipated. Something about the school's campus was...suffocating. He wanted to explore it, learn its secrets and run his hands along its every curve and find the inspiration within its gardens and its ivy-covered brick buildings, but there was something in the air today. He wanted to leave.

"We catch the 4 pm train!" Gilbert announced. Toni began to laugh, and Gilbert threw him a wink.

When they were sitting in an English pub that evening, buying each other rounds and eating kidney pie, Toni decided that he was getting impatient. So he took a risk, and after a swig of his mug of ale, turned to Gilbert and François.

"Oi, I have a question for you two," he said. They looked over at him, drinking, eyes shimmering with anticipation. "Do either of you know a student named Vargas?"

"Vargas...Spanish?" François asked.

"Italian."

"Ah!" Gilbert snapped his fingers, staring up at the ceiling as if a divine epiphany had descended him from the old, rickety scaffolds of this pub. "I have heard that name. Roderich has him in class."

"Roderich?"

"Roderich Edelstein, in the music department," François said with a provocative raise of his eyebrow. "A brilliant musician from Austria. Some call him the gem of the school. He once performed in concert halls, mais maintenant he teaches. His career could have continued—"

"But he got into an accident and hurt his wrist, and that was that," Gilbert finished. His voice didn't sound nearly as sad, nearly as tragic, as Toni might have wished (for dramatic effect). He was to learn later that Gilbert and Roderich were in fact very good friends. Or, at least, Gilbert seemed to think so.

"Que coño," he murmured.

"Eh, he's okay. He has his crazy collection of pianos and prodigy students to make him happy." Gilbert shrugged and chugged the rest of his drink. "Anyway, he was talking about a student named Vargas in his performance class. Said he was an amazing performer."

"Romano? ¿En serio?"

"Romano?"

"Ah, I mean Lovino."

"Mm, that's not it either," Gilbert said, knitting his brow. Toni just blinked at him. "What was his name...Felix? Frank? Something like that."

"Those don't sound like Italian names," François laughed.

"Feliciano! That's it!"

"Feliciano Vargas? But his name is Lovino."

"A relative, perhaps? Or just a coincidence?" François asked.

"Perhaps..."

"Whatever. All I know is that Roderich is completely taken with him."

"Ah, Feliciano Vargas," François said. "Oui, I know that name as well. He is an exchange student from Rome. He stood out."

"Well then they are certainly not the same. Romano is from Sicily."

"We were surprised to receive Feliciano's application, to be honest," François continued. Toni recalled that, along with his job as a linguistics professor, François was a member of the board of admissions and therefore saw every application. "The boy had already been accepted at an extremely prestigious art school in Vienna. But he decided to come here instead."

"Hmm." Toni found this all to be very intriguing and absolutely refused to believe that it was a coincidence. "You don't know why?"

"Well, he does have a brother here."

They all paused and let that information sink in.

"So Feliciano and Lovino are brothers," Toni said.

"Not quite. They are half-brothers. From what I could tell, at least. Same father." François's cheeks were now flushed from the alcohol, his ears red and his smile incessant. "Though I will say this: Feliciano Vargas is undeniably talented. In almost everything."

"Everything?"

"Music, art, history..."

"Roderich says he's a very charming boy. Always smiling!"

"A Renaissance man if there ever was one."

They proceeded to buy another round and get drunk, but Toni couldn't stop wondering why Feliciano Vargas, who had supposedly been accepted at one of the best art schools in the world, had decided to transfer to his brother's school instead. He couldn't rid himself of the feeling that this was significant somehow. He wanted to meet Feliciano. This was his last thought before Gilbert got onto the table, pulling his friends up with him, and they danced until they were kicked out and somehow made their way back to campus.

Translations:

que coño (Spanish)=what the hell (although the word 'coño' directly translates to something much more vulgar that i'm not going to write out)