13

Why Don't You Scream at Me, Signor?

There is one boy.

Alone.

Not physically. He is surrounded by other people. He is in a small, expensive private boarding school in Granada, a beautiful city that has managed to burrow its way into his heart. It is breathtaking and the people are exciting and alluring and he hears so many languages. For in the past few years, wrapped in his loneliness and with so little else to do, he has taken solace in teaching himself the art of language. One hobby that doesn't need any talent that he lacks. He merely has to sit and learn—he needs no skills. He has no skills, after all. And here in this place there are so many languages to speak and so many exciting places to go.

But he very often does not leave his room because his stomach hurts and he feels nauseated, and he is going insane with the desire to see his younger brother.

He has been in this city for two years now, and has not seen his brother once. He tries to write letters to him, but he receives none in return. Of no fault of his brother, he is sure. He wants his brother to play piano for him again, or paint him something again (the paintings he does have he has hanging in his room), so that he can say, Bellissimo. Kiss him on the forehead. He is starting to forget what his younger brother smells like and what his younger brother sounds like and what his younger brother's smile looks like, what it feels like. He must be much bigger now—he is 14 now, and the older brother wants to see him all grown up. He misses his Nonno, as well. Misses his scent and his old, raspy voice when he told stories and assured him, eyes glistening with age and wisdom, that he was loved.

For a moment, he had almost believed him.

He thinks about his mother very often now, too. Since he cannot sleep, he has taken it upon himself to dig through the labyrinth of his memory and attempt to dig up the lost treasures there. He cannot remember much of her, but his life in Sicily has helped him remember at least a little bit. He has images of her, brushing his hair from his face and whispering in his ear and singing Spanish lullabies to him. Lovely Spanish lullabies, but he can't remember their lyrics. He tries desperately to remember them. He has searched for them. But they must come from a very specific place, shrouded in mystery and ancient wonders, so he cannot find the lullabies. But he writes down everything that he can remember in fear that he might forget again. He makes a habit of keeping a journal, of writing when the voices in his head spring up and when he needs someone to talk to but there is nobody to listen.

Ink listens. Paper listens. His pen listens.

He sits in his room because he is not allowed to leave. He has gotten into trouble again. Another child said something, about Sicilians, and the boy hit him. Relentlessly, without hesitation, in the middle of the classroom. And he yelled at the teacher when he tried to break them apart. Now he is sitting in his room with a band aid on his bruised head and he knows that they think he is crazy.

He thinks he is crazy, too.

They are forcing him to see someone. Someone who is supposed to help him and give him medication to calm him down.

He doesn't want to, because he's become content with speaking with the voices in his head. If they leave, he's worried that he won't have anybody else to talk to at all. He talks to his brother sometimes, wondering if he can hear him all the way in Rome. Ti amo, he tells him, forcing himself back into his Roman accent. Ti amo molto, fratellino.

Sometimes he even pretends that he can hear his brother respond.

Ti amo, fratellone.

When Romano wasn't at Toni's office, he was in his room. When he wasn't in his room, he was in his secret haven. He went to his secret haven and lay in the grass and stared up at the sky when he didn't want Feliciano to find him. Feliciano knew where it was, but he also knew not to follow Romano when he came here. Sometimes being around Feliciano was too much for his heart to handle. He found himself feeling very frightened that if he spent too much time with him, Feli would soon grow tired of his antics and throw him away, just as everyone else had. He was afraid that even his own brother would abandon him if he stayed too close, so he forced some distance between them. Feliciano often protested to the point of tears—I'm here to help you, don't push me away like this, please, Lovi. And then Romano would feel guilty but at a complete loss as to how to rectify the situation. So he would sit alone beneath the tree, even in the chilly autumn air when the grass was wet and the sky was gray, and hate himself for leaving his brother by himself.

But he's not by himself.

He has other friends.

Other people who love him.

He doesn't really need me, in the end.

He doesn't need me at all.

But still, Romano was comforted when Feliciano was with him. Smiled at him and teased him and pinched his cheeks.

Feli painted for him.

And sometimes he would drag Romano to the piano rooms with him, so that he could sit and listen. He still had an entire binder full of sheet music that he used to play when he was younger—pieces that even Romano remembered him playing. So he would go listen to Feliciano practice and inevitably fall into a fit of hysterics, forcing Feliciano to stop his playing and rush to his side.

What a terrible brother I am.

Romano trusted his brother and felt comforted in his presence, but he still couldn't bring himself to tell Feli of his relationship with Toni. He couldn't tell anyone. This relationship put more at stake than just his sanity. At times, when he thought about it, he would accuse his heart and his mind of playing tricks on him—there's no way this can be true, he said to himself. There's no way that somebody likes me enough to keep me around as much as he does, likes me enough to tell me I'm beautiful and play with my hair, likes me enough to cook dinner for me and kiss me and buy me cherry tomatoes.

Why does he keep me around?

I'm terrible to him.

I'm terrible to him.

I'm really, really terrible to him.

Romano pulled out his notebook and tried to write. Tried to write anything. The voices were loud and he needed a way to silence them, but when he put his pen against the page, there was nothing there to write. He felt empty and hollow, like the things inside of him that inspired his writing had run away. Off to a distant abyss in his mind that he couldn't reach just yet. His hand was shaking. He tried to write in Italian—then in Spanish—then in English—then in Arabic. But he couldn't write more than a single sentence in any language. He gripped the pen so hard that it left an indent in his sweaty palm. Suddenly overcome with frustration, unable to do the one thing that was his and his alone, unable to do the one thing that would calm his beating heart, he threw his notebook as far as he could and grasped at his hair.

I can't do anything right.

"Hey, you're Kiku's roommate...right?"

He heard a voice behind him and whirled around to see a young man, his own age, walking across the path with his hands in his pockets and a curious look on his face.

"You..."

"Hey, it is you! Sup, brah."

On his list of people that he did not want to see, Alfred Jones was very high. He reached his hand out for a fist bump, but Romano ignored it.

"What do you want?" he grumbled.

"Nothin'. Was just passin' through. I like this place, it's real nice. It helps clear my thoughts. Betcha feel the same way," Alfred smiled.

Romano knew that Alfred wasn't dumb enough to not notice Romano's hostility—Alfred was not as oblivious and tactless as he would have had people believe. He was at this school, after all. And more than that, everyone knew that he was at the top of the class. But it seemed he didn't care. Hands still in his pockets, he walked over and stood beside Romano. Romano hugged his knees to his chest and stared forward. He didn't like Alfred, and he certainly did not want him here at this moment when his thoughts were so jumbled he couldn't separate them, his heart beating so quickly he felt he was going to burst, the voices in his head so loud he might have gone deaf.

"Oh, that yours?"

Alfred walked over to where Romano had thrown his notebook, bent down, and picked it up. Perhaps in another state of mind Romano would have jumped at him, stolen the book back, told Alfred to get lost. But he didn't have the energy just then, so he watched heavily.

"Nice notebook, dude. Ooh, made in Sicily. Never been, but I've heard it's great."

Alfred, notebook still in hand, took a seat beside Romano and stretched his legs out.

"What do ya write in here?" he asked.

"Lots of bullshit," Romano said under his breath.

"Sounds cool. Mind if I take a look?"

"Do whatever the fuck you want."

"Sweet."

He opened the notebook and fell silent. Flipped through the pages while Romano questioned his own sanity, wondering how on earth he was letting Alfred Jones look through the notebook that he wouldn't even let his own brother read. Perhaps it was because of his nonchalance, his starry eyes, the earnestness in his loud American voice. Romano did not like Alfred in the slightest.

"Damn," he breathed. Turned a page. Romano watched him from the corner of his eye and heard his heart thump in his ears. "You're good. This is some Hemingway level shit."

"You understand Italian?" Romano suddenly asked. Most of his writing was either in Italian or Spanish. He wrote in English when he was feeling particularly angry or upset, and in Arabic when nothing else worked.

"Sure. It wasn't so hard to learn after Spanish," Alfred grinned. What a typical American, Romano thought with distaste. "Oh, but I don't know Arabic. That shit's hard, dude. So why'd ya write all this?"

"I don't know."

"It's really good."

"Whatever."

Alfred paused, stared at the notebook for a few moments, then handed it back to Romano and leaned back on the grass. He closed his eyes, took off his glasses, and let his lips turn into a soft smile. Romano watched him silently.

"Nice place to relax, huh?" he said. "Betcha have a lot on your mind."

"Why do you say that?"

"Just the fact that you're here. The only reason people would sit here and stare at nothin' is cuz they're tryin' real hard to think about something. Know what I mean?"

"Does that mean you have a lot on your mind? Because that seems hard to believe."

Alfred opened one eye and grinned, very aware of the quiet insult he had just been given.

"For your information, yes, I do have a lot on my mind," he said. "I am in some fucked up situations, Romano, my friend."

"I suppose that's one thing we have in common."

"Hey, lemme ask you somethin'. Have you ever wanted to do anything that you know is really stupid, and just a terrible idea, but you do it anyway?"

"That seems like more of an American thing to do, to be honest."

"Oh, don't be like that!" Alfred laughed. "You know what I mean. Like, you know it would be bad and lead to lots of shitty things happening, but you really don't know what else to do?"

Romano was frightened then that Alfred might be able to read minds, too. Americans were very scary.

"Anyway, guess I'm just ramblin' now." Alfred turned and looked straight at Romano. "Know what I mean?"

Romano nodded and hugged his knees tighter.

"Ya know what else? I think it's okay to do things like that," Alfred shrugged.

"Probably another American thing. You all do what you want without thinking about the consequences."

"Yeah, you're probably right. But still..." He was quiet for a few moments. "I think it's okay to make bad decisions. Even if you know they're bad. Like, when your brain says one thing and your heart says another? I think it's okay to listen to your heart."

"Why are you telling me these things?" Romano hissed.

"Just shootin' the breeze, man. Usually I talk to that tree over there. She's a great listener. But you happen to be here, so you get to hear my ramblin'." Alfred smiled then, showing his very white and very perfect teeth. Sickeningly perfect. "You're a pretty good listener, too. So, got any advice for me?"

"Huh?"

"You know. The tree can't give me advice. Maybe you can give me advice. What do ya think? Is it okay to make bad decisions?"

"Only if you're insane," he murmured. "Hearts are stinking, lying bastards, so it's always a bad idea to listen to them. But if you're insane then you have an excuse."

"Hmm. Guess I'm insane, then." Alfred checked his wristwatch, then jumped up and ruffled Romano's hair. "Anyway, thanks for listening, dude. Sorry for interrupting your alone time with the tree. Catch ya later. Good luck with whatever you're thinkin' about."

And then Alfred was gone and Romano was very confused, amazed that there was someone who actually believed that following the heart was a good idea.

When Romano knocked on Toni's door that Friday evening, the tears were already threatening to spill from his eyes, and he could hardly believe that he was about to break so soon. He was filled with inexplicable frustration and he wasn't sure why he was even there. He would have much preferred to stay in bed, staring in anger and useless rage at the walls. Yet here he was, waiting for the door to open. To be hit with the smell of cooking that always seemed to permeate Toni's house, to be washed by waves of guitar music, to see the Spanish flag and the photographs and the piles and piles of books.

Toni opened the door with a smile and an apron. There was tomato sauce on his cheek and his hair was pinned back with a slim headband. It was the way he always did his hair when he cooked because he was loathe to allow even a single speck of dust to soil his dishes.

"Ah, querido, perfect timing. Dinner is almost ready."

Toni leaned forward to place kisses on Romano's cheeks in greeting but, despite himself, Romano cringed and turned his face away. Toni froze where he was, then withdrew with a smile.

Why does he always smile at me like that?

It's irritating.

Romano went inside and sat on the sofa without a word while Toni retreated to the kitchen to finish the dinner preparations. (On better days, Romano would go into the kitchen and pester him and lick the spoons.) Romano again asked himself why he was there in the first place. Wouldn't it have been better to be upset alone, instead of dragging his harsh mood and cloudy skies into Toni's house? Forcing him to deal with this anguished, desolate boy that clung to him like a bear cub to its mother? Of course, this wasn't the first time Romano had done this. Perhaps Toni was just used to it.

But why does he put up with it at all?

When they sat down to dinner, Romano ate in silence. Toni talked. He talked about his week, about his writing, about the people he'd met, about Professor Bonnefoy and Professor Beilschmidt, about new sights he'd seen. He told Romano stories from his home in Madrid. While Romano chewed, swallowed, occasionally met his eyes. It would have been evident to even the most oblivious person that he was trying very hard not to cry, and Toni knew it as well—but Toni had become very good at ignoring that fact because he knew that Romano didn't like him pointing it out.

After dinner was finished, Romano went into the bedroom and sat down on the floor, leaning back against the bed. Toni followed him inside with his notebook and his glasses on top of his head, and he sat down on the bed. Romano buried his face against his legs so that Toni wouldn't be able to see the tears. Tears that, if asked, he wouldn't be able to explain.

"Will you let me write about you, my beautiful little muse?"

"I already told you to do what you want, bastard."

Toni did not touch him, as he sometimes did when Romano was not in his moods. If he had tried, Romano would have swatted his hand anyway and burst into a tantrum of insults and obscenities.

Why does he let me come to his house, take up his space, like this?

I don't even talk to him.

I just eat his food and sit on his floor.

Why does he allow it?

Romano couldn't understand Toni in the slightest. Couldn't understand why he subjected himself to the torrents of pain and degradation that Romano threw at him—could not control. Certainly the times when Romano was kind and spoke to him and touched him were not pleasurable enough to warrant this pain.

I don't understand you, Toni.

I don't understand you one bit.

Suddenly Romano was crying. He had been trying to resist, but it was futile now. The tears were flowing and he was hugging himself and trembling as he tried to hold his voice down. He heard shuffling on the bed and, after a few moments, felt a hand touch his shoulder. A terrible wave of fear and pain crashed into him.

"Get off! Get off me!" he heard himself scream. "Làssami jiri!"

The hand withdrew.

"Romano," Toni whispered. The sound of his name made him cry harder. "Pobrecito..."

"Don't touch me," Romano said, his voice muffled. "Don't touch me, stupid Spaniard."

"I won't touch you," Toni said. His voice was still soft and tender and Romano hated that. "Lo que quieras."

Why does he always say that?

Why does he always put up with me?

Why doesn't he yell at me and scream at me and get upset like a normal person?

Why don't you scream at me?

¿Por qué no me gritas, Toni?

"I won't touch you. But will you let me sing to you?" Toni asked. Romano paused for a moment. It was the first time Toni had asked him that. "Singing helps calm me down. Perhaps it will help you, cariño."

Romano was silent. Granting Toni permission.

Toni came up to the edge of the bed, behind the spot where Romano was sitting. The house was silent but for his sniffles and heavy breaths. His body was close, and Romano could sense its warmth, but Toni did not touch him. As he'd asked. Then, the silence was broken by a low, smooth voice beginning to sing. Milky, clouded Spanish filled Romano's mind. A soft melody, a tune that took him into its embrace. He closed his eyes and felt his muscles beginning to relax. His teeth stopped their clenching, his fists released, his breathing gradually returned to normal. Toni's voice spread throughout his bones as he sang. It was a lullaby, rocking him to sleep—or at least, some semblance of sanity. Some semblance of tranquility.

Romano recognized the lullaby. He had heard it before.

He stopped crying, but the tears did not stop flowing.

With the familiarity of the lullaby came a numb sweetness, akin to a naïve happiness, wrapping its arms around him. He felt calm. He felt such overflowing compassion and affection that he couldn't recognize it at first. Couldn't identify the strong feelings building up within him as he focused so completely on the sound of Toni's voice. The way it rocked him, held him, warmed the very marrow of his limbs.

Before Romano could understand what he himself was doing, he had turned around. He was on his knees, reaching desperately for Toni's waist. Toni held him, put his fingers in his hair, ran his hand along his back while Romano's tears soaked his shirt. He continued to sing while Romano clenched at him, buried his face as deeply as he could against him. To smell him, breathe him in, get so close that he could neither feel nor see anything else. He felt Toni put his lips to his head and he hugged him more tightly.

"No te detengas," Romano begged. "Por favor."

"Lo que quieras. Mi querido, mi tesoro, Romano."

Translations:

làssimi jiri (Sicilian)=leave me alone

pobrecito (Spanish)=poor child (diminutive)

no te detengas = don't stop