(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

9

Stay the Night, 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.

There are a few things about Antonio Fernández Carriedo that warrant clarification at this point.

The first is that he was, in no conceivable way, expecting or planning to engage in an affair with his student, Lovino Vargas. When the reality that this was the path he had taken was thrown into his lap and he realized that the affair had been the destination the entire time, he found that he was not prepared in the slightest. As if he had been walking blind, or worse, deceived. Looking at the ground as he walked rather than in front. Perhaps if he had been looking in the right direction, he could have seen it coming—could have turned right at the fork, could have retraced his steps, could have hitchhiked until he was safely moving toward a different destination. Anywhere that was not this. The worst part of it all, the part that was to keep him up at night for days and weeks and months and years to come, was the fact that he had not seen it until he was at the door. He had not realized.

When they had been sitting on opposite sides of the table and Romano had had a very faraway look in his eyes, staring up at the ceiling or down at his plate while Toni spoke to him. When he had been practically silent—he was not the talkative type, but he was quick to complain and even quicker to insult. But there was none of that tonight. When, with a strange flush to his cheeks and an unusual luster in his eyes he told Toni that the paella was delicious. Still Toni did not realize. He was still blinded, perhaps influenced by the more recent images of Romano that were replaying in his mind. Images of him crying, images of him walking dangerously along a ledge that could decide his life or death. Occasionally, the image of him sleeping at his windowsill. Silent and calm and almost eerily still in his slumber. Toni was distracted by himself.

Toni considered asking Romano about that incident. Considered asking him what he had been thinking, did he know how dangerous that was, why would he even do that. But he realized, as the questions ran through his mind, that there must have been something deeper. Something even darker than Toni had been anticipating, dwelling inside of Romano's heart. He saw a different darkness in him now, a darkness not brought on by himself but placed upon him without his desire. It was a darkness that was driving him to go out in the middle of the night without shoes on and walk as if on a tightrope, letting his life hang in the balance.

Toni couldn't get the courage to say anything, and he wasn't even sure if he would be helping Romano at all if he mentioned it. He had wanted to mention it earlier, as well. But when he had opened his mouth to say something—if you need anything, I'm always here—I'm all ears if you want to talk—is everything okay, querido—he had instead found himself inviting him over for dinner.

And, when Romano had agreed, Toni still had not realized.

When they sat on the couch after dinner, two goblets of champagne on the table, and Toni pulled out the books he had mentioned. Pulled out the business cards of those with whom he wanted to put the talented little Romano in contact. When he had spoken, the words flying off his tongue faster than he could control, about Romano's stories and poems and the ways he could change them to fit into a single collection. He hardly noticed that, the entire time, Romano was staring down at his hands, clasped and gently shaking in his lap. He hardly noticed the sweat on Romano's temple, the pout of his lip, the clenching of this teeth, the intensity and fear in his eyes. He hardly noticed that, with each passing moment, Romano was inching closer. Hands still clasped, sweat still beading, teeth still clenched.

Toni attributed the increase in temperature to a slight hiccup in the central heating system of the apartment building.

"Oi," Romano suddenly blurted. He had cut off Toni in the middle of a sentence.

"Eh? What is it?"

"I've written a shit-ton for you," he continued, eyes still averted to the ground, "and you haven't shown me any of your work. You're a writer, aren't you?"

"Ah, sí, pero—"

"Then you've got to have something." Romano bit his lower lip and wrung his hands together. "I want to see it."

"My writing? You want to see my writing?"

"Did I stutter?"

"Wow, Romano! I'm flattered," Toni said, unable to hold back his laughter. He stood and walked to his bookshelf. "You've never shown interest in reading my work before."

He pulled out a tiny book, a novella he had written, and sat back down on the couch. Romano was looking at him hesitantly, his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed and Toni only then noticed that Romano's tie was a little bit loose (why was he wearing a tie?). He handed the book to Romano. Romano began flipping through it, and Toni watched his eyes scanning the words on the page, from left to right, like marbles.

"It's in Spanish. One of the first works I had published," he explained.

Romano did not respond. Toni sat with his smile, hands in his lap, his leg shaking slightly to the music. It was Juanjo Dominguez, an Argentinean guitarist who had stolen his heart. His novella, in fact, was about a guitarist.

Just then, when Toni hadn't been paying attention, Romano said something. Very softly, so softly he hadn't heard over the music.

"¿Cómo? No te escuché," he said.

"I said, it's flowery." Romano raised his voice to an unnecessarily loud tone, and it made Toni chuckle.

"Yes, that is my style, I suppose." He leaned a little bit closer to follow along the page that Romano was reading. "I enjoy description, ¿sabes? I like to create an image in the reader's mind that they feel they can truly see."

Romano pointed to a specific spot on the page.

"Why did you even bother describing this? It seems pointless."

"Pointless? No, mi hijo, no!" And, involuntarily, Toni fell into an explanation about why he had included those sentences, those words, even those specific punctuation marks; he knew that if anyone were to understand, it was Romano. He could hear himself speaking but lost himself. He did not notice when Romano, still watching the pages of the book while Toni spoke, bent his leg just slightly, until it was brushing Toni's. Did not notice when Romano finally looked up from the book and straight into his eyes, his cheeks red and bright. Did not notice when Romano put the book down.

He still had not realized then.

Even then.

He gave the book to Romano, telling him that he could keep it if he'd like.

At the door, Romano had thanked Toni while his tongue dripped with what he assumed was bitterness (later he was to learn that it was merely nerves) and said that he would take his critiques into consideration and contact the people and see what he could do. Toni had been very happy and had, without thinking, lifted a hand to put on Romano's shoulder. But as soon as he had lifted it Romano had flinched and taken a step back, coming to a halt as he made contact with the door.

Toni had apologized and asked if he wanted anything else.

Dessert. Another glass of champagne. Some paella to take home.

He still had not realized.

A kiss, sudden and unapologetic, in the midst of the heat and the waning music and the smell of chicken and rice. Young, full lips pressing against his fresh with the taste of champagne. A pressure, warm and soft and heartwrenching, spreading from his lips through his mouth, down his throat and to his stomach. A slight grip, like a lost child's, on the sleeve of his shirt. Pulling ever so slightly, tightening with one moment and loosening with the next. Though the kiss was, itself, a fraction of a moment. But that moment was eternity itself, expanding and encasing them as the kiss crashed against him like waves and he was blinded, unaware of everything but the feeling of those lips. Every curve, every dent, every perfect little nuance. Toni did not close his eyes, but could see Romano closing his.

Then came the bumbling, the incoherent apologies, the scrambling for the doorknob. Standing motionless for a few seconds, drinking in the reality. Finally recognizing this place he had come to, been walking toward since the beginning, and there was no retreating now. Once Toni had realized where he was, he looked deep within him and said with a firm nod and a fire on his lips, This is what I want, and he opened the door and walked inside.

"Romano."

Another kiss. Hand to cheek. The heat had spread to every inch of his skin, every part of his body, every little corner of his soul. It was all on fire. He wondered if Romano felt this hot, if Romano felt this uncontrollable, if he too felt that he was being pulled along by the Fates to some unknown land where kisses like this were the fruit of salvation. The kiss was divine now. The feeling of trembling, earnest fingers reaching up to clench at the front of his shirt and pull him. His chest pressed against another's, feeling even through their clothes the beating of his heart. His tongue, surely more experienced and heavy with the weight of the Spanish it had spoken, begging entry through the nervous, tight-lipped gate. Warm, wet, sweet. With the potential to make him drunk. His hands moved of their own, sliding beneath the clothes to feel the skin that was there.

A slow tango played now.

Bareness. Skin against skin, being able to feel even the slightest tremors in his body. His tongue became a navigator, a mapmaker, traversing these mysterious but enchanting lands. Upper lip, lower lip, a sweet tongue awaiting its arrival, the edges of the world at his throat. The bumps and hill of his jaw, his vulnerable neck as he heaved a sigh so great it might have moved mountains. Feeling a tug on his hair as the fingers pulled, knotted, and the sighs became cavernous tremors that made his lips quake against the skin.

Legs around his waist, carrying toward the bed, but without pulling away for even a second—for fear that he would lose his place, for fear that he would come to his senses, for fear that he might forget the immense pleasure of tasting the salt of this skin on his tongue. He brought him gently onto the bed, kneeling, kissing stomach and undoing belt. While the breaths were a symphony in his ears and his fingers were burning in desire. Clambering onto the bed, tongues and lips intertwining desperately but tenderly as passion took corporeal form between them in sighs and moans and the guttural sounds of animals. Even more skin against skin now, and skin against bed-sheet, breath against breath. Arms wrapping around his neck and pulling him down, crushing him with lips plump and smooth with lust.

They forgot where they were, who they were, and they preferred it that way.

Hands on parts of his body that he forgot existed. Making him shake as if this heat were in fact cold, instead. Whispering the Spanish words that came to his mind into this red, red ear beneath him.

Bello...querido...más.

While he heard Sicilian words in his own ear, painting over his thoughts with a foggy haze that made him delirious.

He said in Spanish then that he wanted him very much, and was becoming impatient.

Gently, fingers first, to give some sense of comfort. But he realized quickly, watching the body beneath him move like a dancer's and feeling its very core, that this was not his first time. Which was fine, because this was not his first time, either.

Reaching over to the cupboard, pulling out a tube of cream.

Letting the heat overtake them, grasping at sheets and bare skin with clawed fingers, leaving scars and rips. Hearing pleas for more, for harder, please, even as he watched tears streaming down his face. He let the pleasure control him, drive him, until he felt that he would implode from the sensations. Leaning his head down and crying out into his ear while he moved, while he was moved, while languages from all corners of the world collided in a moment where there was nothing that could have been said and understood, for their minds were too misty and their senses too clogged.

Suddenly worried that the neighbors might hear.

Pushing the fear aside and rolling beneath the sheets until they were deafened by their own outcries of pleasure.

Toni lay in bed, struggling to catch his breath, while Romano groaned and sat up. Toni's vision was still blurry and he was still trying to come to terms with what had just happened, but Romano seemed in a very different place mentally. His expression was stoic, eyes still glistening but emotionless. Lips set in a straight line, light (inevitable) tearstains on his still-flushed cheeks. Toni stared at him unflinchingly now as he, still naked, stood from the bed and began to put on his scattered clothing. He wasn't sure what to say now, wasn't sure how to tell him exactly what he was thinking—wasn't even sure what he was thinking. What was he thinking? That, surely, this was not only his fault. This was a path trodden by two souls. Romano had asked for it, had he not?

He couldn't be in the wrong, could he? he asked himself.

But then why was there such a forlorn expression on Lovino Vargas's face? he asked himself.

"Romano, are you okay?" he said through his gasps.

"I'm fine," he replied, though he didn't sound fine at all.

"¿Seguro?"

"Sí, seguro." Romano slid his shirt over his head and began his futile attempts to straighten his hair. Toni smiled gently, charmed, leaning his head on his hand.

"I'm leaving. Thank you for dinner."

"What? You're leaving?" Toni heard himself say. "Why don't you stay the night, querido? It's late."

Somehow, querido sounded very different this time.

"No."

"It's dark, should I walk you—?"

"No, I'm fine. Good night."

Before Toni could give another protest, Romano was gone, leaving Toni utterly confused and remorseful in his wake while the guitar continued to play and his heart continued to reel.

The second thing that warrants clarification is the fact that Antonio Fernández Carriedo did, in fact, have a wife, but he never wore his wedding ring because it left his finger feeling uncomfortable.

He had never been fully convinced that he was in love with her, and he knew that she felt the same about him, but they had found in each other a compatibility that they were certain they would never find anywhere else. Their marriage was a covenant, an agreement to provide for one another and support one another and stand by one another. He had been married to her for five years. She was a doctor, intelligent and ambitious and beautiful, but her work required travel. It was for that reason that she had agreed they move to this area that one might have had a hard time locating on a map—she wouldn't be there very often, they knew. While she travelled they were in constant contact, and she would come home for weeks at a time.

Toni and his wife had been in the same university together and had started off as friends, and had then decided to take each other to bed. Unfortunately, their sexual relationship proved to be disappointing in comparison to their emotional relationship.

Both of them felt it was important to be open and honest with one another and, up until that point, it had kept their relationship going rather strongly. They provided well for each other, and balanced each other out; she was much more level-headed and observant than he was, and certainly more ambitious and focused. He was more relaxed, more gentle, and they were helpful for one another. An observer might have even said that their relationship was perfect. In fact, up until that very moment, Toni had never had an affair (though he wasn't sure about his wife).

Regardless of the fact that their sexual relationship was not strong, and regardless of the fact that they did not very often see each other...regardless of the fact that he was absolutely positive that he wasn't in love with her, Toni knew that if his wife were to find out that he were sleeping with someone else, especially a student, it would create an unmendable tear in their relationship.

But now he was there. He had arrived to this place, this inescapable fortress, and knew that there was no choice for him now. Now that he had felt the pleasure in his body and felt the pounding of his heart as he had watched Romano's face brighten and his body twist and turn beneath him, there was nothing more for him to question. He wanted more than to see Romano's potential as a writer blossom—wanted so very desperately to see him as more than a student. This passion was the same passion that he had never been able to feel with his wife and it was crippling. He wanted to hold Romano and whisper into his ear, wanted to feel him fit into his embrace. He wanted to hear the whispers of Romano's soul, wanted to open him and look inside and fix the damaged parts. He wanted to be the one wiping the tears. Was ready to risk it all—his job, his wife, his sanity if need be—if only he could have Romano just once more.

And yet.

He had left so quickly.

Toni wasn't sure what to think.

Translations:

no te escuché (Spanish)=I didn't hear you

sabes=you know?

más=more

Seguro?=are you sure?