hey friends! wanted to put a quick author's note because lovely xXRaspberryCheesecakeXx asked that I provide translations of the non-English languages.

So, I've tried that in the past, and I ended up changing it because it completely disrupts the flow of the narrative. A lot of times if you read novels with foreign language components, the author will either expect you to look it up or just deduce from context. Some of the stuff I put can be determined through context, but some can't. I would recommend literally copy and pasting into google translate because it generally gives pretty good translations, and I don't include any long-winded Spanish monologues that it would have trouble with.

As for the Sicilian, google translate doesn't actually translate to Sicilian. Couldn't tell you why.

So I think what I'll do is go back through and include the translations at the end of every chapter (I put author notes anyway so it's not a big deal). If you'd like to go back and check them out, you can do that. That might make it easier to deduce mistakes, too. So thank you xXRaspberryCheesecakeXx for pointing that out!

enjoy this chapter xoxo

22

My Heart Is Still Yours, 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.

In an unexpected twist, Romano fell asleep on the train ride back to the university, while Toni could not keep his mind from racing for more than a few fleeting moments. It should have been the other way around—after all, Romano could hardly fall asleep in his bed, let alone in a public place like this. He was leaning his head against the window, hands as a makeshift pillow, temple pressed to the glass with eyes closed and lips slightly parted. Toni shifted his gaze from the landscape to Romano's tranquil features, overcome with emotion and overwhelming affection. He was so vulnerable, sleeping like that. Was so beautiful and frighteningly fragile. Though Toni knew Romano would have been angry if he were awake, he reached up and brushed the hair from Romano's face, felt the sleepy warmth of his rosy cheeks on the backs of his fingers. Te quiero, Toni thought. Te quiero en serio. And that frightened him.

They had done it. They had escaped from the fray together, even if only for four days. They had had nothing in their thoughts but each other and the breathtakingly vast Welsh landscape that had welcomed them with generous, open arms. They had danced together into the middle of the night. They had sung for each other on the edge of a cliff overlooking an abandoned lighthouse, bathed in the echoes of a haunting flamenco. They had gotten high and cooked together. They had met new people and seen new places together. They had, inevitably, fought with each other. But they had, also inevitably, come back to each other, because there was nothing else they could do but that. Toni had loved Romano with so much intensity that he was exhausted.

In fact, he felt drained.

And he knew that Romano felt drained, too. Perhaps more so, for different reasons. But of one thing Toni was absolutely certain.

This was taking everything they had.

Not that Toni minded giving everything and anything for Romano. He would have done it gladly if it helped. If Romano would gain something from it. But Toni was convinced that that wasn't the case. He was afraid for the future of their relationship, a facet he was positive Romano had either not considered or pushed from his mind altogether. Toni wanted, more than anything, to be the one to save him.

But that was selfish, wasn't it?

It was, and Toni was starting to worry that he didn't have what Romano needed. He wasn't even sure what that was, and if he didn't know, how could he provide it to Romano? Was his love enough, he wondered? Was he loving Romano in the way that he needed to be loved?

His own doubts were terrifying him. The scenes kept replaying in his head. When he had seen Romano walking on his tightrope ledge so long ago. When he had broken down into tears of self-hatred on the cliffside and said to Toni, I don't deserve you, and meant it. When, high but fully aware of his words, he had told Toni where his scars came from and still refused to believe that the nightmares and storms inside his head had anything to do with them. When he had told Toni to leave, he didn't want to see him (and all the other times Romano had lashed out at him), only to cry in his arms upon his return. After smoking a pack of cigarettes and pouring half a bottle of wine down the drain. The memories of Romano holding him and loving him were blurred with the memories of Romano spouting insults and screaming at him. Toni wanted to be what Romano needed, so desperately, but he wasn't sure if that was possible. If he had the ability.

There was the issue of his marriage, of course, and the issue of his being a professor where Romano was his student. Those facts were getting more and more difficult to overlook. This couldn't be an affair, he reasoned. Having an affair in the traditional sense didn't usually involve falling this far in love, did it?

As he watched Romano's tired, sleeping face, he knew without a doubt that they were both being sucked dry. This love was worth it, surely. The sleepless nights and the useless fights and the headaches and the tears and the repetitive apologies. The moments of bliss were worth it. The mornings that Toni could wake up and see Romano's face were worth it. The nights that he could hold Romano in his arms and feel that he was protecting him, shielding him, pouring all of his love into him, were so utterly worth it.

But they were tired.

As Toni's mind raced, he noticed a woman sitting across from them, watching them with a vacant expression. He paused, then withdrew his hand from Romano's hair and stared out the window. The woman, blinking from her trance, smiled at him and looked out the window, as well.

"Long weekend?" she asked. Her accent was British—Manchester, perhaps? Though, there were so many different accents in the United Kingdom that Toni could never be sure.

"Yes," he replied. She nodded toward Romano.

"He seems exhausted."

"He is. Usually he would never sleep on a train," Toni said.

"What were you doing up in Wales, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Just...taking a break. So I suppose it is strange for him to be so tired."

"Not at all," she said. "Taking a break from something can often times require as much effort as participating in something. It's all about where your mind is. I tend to believe it has very little to do with our physicality."

"Yes, you're right," he smiled. "What were you doing in Wales?"

"Visiting family. Also extremely exhausting," she chuckled. She looked to Romano again. "Are you two family, then?"

"Ah..." Toni paused, wondering how to navigate this situation. She blinked at him, awaiting his response, as his mind fried in his skull. Since when had he felt this way about his relationship with Romano? Throughout the trip, until this moment, he had not even hesitated. "No, not quite."

She understood, and smiled.

"Well, I hope you both got the break that you were looking for," she said.

"I certainly did. I can't speak for Roma, though," he shrugged.

"I'd say from the look on his face that he did, too."

"Really?"

"Of course. Look how soundly he's sleeping. Well, I suppose I don't know very much about him, but you can tell a lot about a person from the way they sleep."

"You think so, too?"

"I do."

"Well...I'm glad, then," he grinned. Romano shifted his position and, as if he were fully awake, grasped onto Toni's arm and rested his head against his shoulder.

"And he's evidently very affectionate toward you," she winked. Toni released himself to the warmth of Romano's cheek against his shoulder and placed a kiss to his temple. Wrapped in his bittersweet cloth of pain and bliss, pricked by its thorns but replenished by its nectar. Loving Romano with everything that he had.

They fell back into their patterns of secrecy and clandestine meetings. They gave each other curt hellos when they passed on campus, though they deliberately began to take paths where they knew they would cross. In class, Toni treated Romano as he treated every other student—with warmth, but with a certain distance that ceased to exist when they were alone together. Some days, of course, Romano did not even come to class. The same days that he would come to Toni's office, withdrawn, and sit at the window without a word. Or sometimes with many, vulgar words. Things went back to the way they were.

Except that things were totally and completely different. At least for Toni.

That thread that held them together had become stronger, tighter, more impenetrable. Toni felt both lighter and heavier around Romano, felt both that he could breathe more easily and that he was suffocating. If he were feeling so conflicted, so frustrated, so exalted and so drained, he couldn't imagine what Romano was feeling. And yet he kept coming back.

One week after their trip, they were in Toni's office. Romano was at the window, writing in his notebook, while Toni put his feet up and read through essays. Winter was starting to spread over the land, so the sunlight wasn't quite as strong as he would've liked. It was days like this, gray and heavy, that he looked back and wondered what had convinced him to move to a place like England. But, sneaking a glance at Romano over his glasses, he couldn't regret it at all.

"What are you staring at?" Romano snapped. Toni smiled.

"You wouldn't believe it, but there's an awfully beautiful person in my office that I can't seem to stop looking at," he teased. Romano clicked his tongue and continued to write, but he couldn't hide the smile pulling at his lips and the red in his cheeks.

"Oi, Spaniard."

"Dime."

"What are you making for dinner this weekend?"

"Well—" Toni began, but he cut himself off. And his heart sank. "Joder, I forget to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"Ah...bueno...my wife..."

"Oh," Romano said. He turned back to his notebook but, instead of writing, tapped his pen against the pages over and over and over. "Right. Your wife is coming."

Toni didn't bother apologizing, because he knew it wouldn't even come close to expressing the sadness and remorse he was feeling in his heart. He could see Romano withdrawing into himself. By now, he knew his moods all too well. He was feeling like a burden right now.

"Roma."

He didn't respond. He just kept tapping the pen against the notebook. Toni could practically read his thoughts. He felt that he was making things difficult for Toni.

"Roma, neno, mírame."

Romano finally looked up, and Toni wasn't surprised to see the tears on his eyes. He reached his arm up and wiggled his fingers, throwing the papers onto the desk.

"Ven aquí."

For a few silent moments, Romano just stared at him. But Toni held his gaze. Would not dare look away. Probably would not have been able to even if he'd tried. Finally, Romano stood up and stepped toward him. He fell into his arms, curled up in his lap, pressed his cheek to Toni's chest. Toni held him and rocked him and stroked his hair and hummed to him the way that he liked. The same lullaby that calmed him down and reminded him of his mother. The air filled with silent promises of love and reassurances of affection transmitted through the touch of Toni's lips to Romano's feverish temple.

"Is your heart still mine?" Romano murmured.

"My heart is still yours, querido."

The night before María flew into London, Toni went out with François and Gilbert. They sat on the patio of a pub, drinking beers. François was smoking a cigarette. Toni was feeling awful, and his heart was so openly on his sleeve that this unusual mood was immediately clear to both his German and French friends. He was leaning his cheek on his hand, staring at the ashtray as François tapped his cigarette against it. Do all Frenchmen look so graceful when they smoke, he mused?

"What's the matter, mon chéri?" François asked. "Something on your mind?"

"Hmm?"

"I've never seen you so...boring," Gilbert added. He finished the rest of his drink and took it upon himself to take Toni's. "It's not already time for your midlife crisis, is it?!"

"Madre mía, no," Toni laughed. "Not a midlife crisis."

"Another writer's block, perhaps?"

"No, not that, either."

"But there is something wrong."

"Bueno..."

"Do we have to get you drunk for you to tell us?" Gilbert said with a raise of his eyebrows. Toni laughed despite himself, and asked François for a cigarette.

"Can I ask you a question?" he said after a long, toxic drag. François leaned back in his chair and Gilbert leaned forward in his. "Have you ever been in a love that totally drains you?"

"Ah, je vois. I should've known this was about matters of the heart," François chuckled.

"Have you?"

"Bien sûr."

"Not really," Gilbert shrugged. "Not the kind that drains you, the way you talk about."

"I...well, I have a bad feeling about it, but I can't imagine being without it."

"That is quite the dilemma," François mused. As if he were thinking out loud. He put a hand to his blonde locks and brushed them from his forehead, staring upward at the stars. Though, there were very few to see behind the clouds.

"Oh, that's right. Your wife is coming tomorrow, ja?" Gilbert asked. Toni responded with a nod of his head. He didn't have the voice to say much else.

"Ah, I can imagine your relationship to be difficult. She travels a lot, no?"

"Sí."

"Any love that is true and pure—a love that makes you feel better than anything has made you feel before—is going to involve pain. C'est inévitable."

"Wait, wait. Doesn't that defeat the purpose of love?" Gilbert interrupted. François lowered his head, blinking at him. He brought the cigarette to his lips and shrugged his shoulders.

"Comment?"

"Isn't the point of love to be...ich meine...easy? Simple? It's supposed to make you feel happy and warm and awesome."

"Um..."

"If you're working too hard, it's probably not a healthy love."

"I don't think that's always true, Gilbert," François sighed. "A love can be healthy but involve a lot of strife. Right, Toni?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

"Well...he's French. Of course his ideas of love are dramatic," Gilbert teased, taking another gulp of beer. François chuckled.

"Mais oui...l'amour est un oiseau rebelle."

Toni laughed, as they fell into their rhythm of multilingual banter and gradual drunkenness. Their ideas bouncing around in his fuzzy head now. Gilbert and François, evidently, had completely different ideas of love. One was romantic, epic, passionate—the other pragmatic, reasonable, simple. Was it really unhealthy, Toni thought, if the relationship required struggle? Was complicated and confusing and draining? Or did that mean it was the purest and most true kind of love?

"Speaking of love, I heard the most terrible rumor," Gilbert said, a crooked smile on his beer-stained lips.

"Oh?" François and Toni both looked at him.

"I heard that the president was involved with a student."

"C'est des conneries," François instantly snapped. Hardly giving Toni the time to feel the burning guilt. "I don't believe you for a second."

"Like I said, a terrible rumor."

"Non. I've known Arthur for years. He would never."

Toni was silent, one handing gripping the cigarette and the other incessantly smoothing his eyebrows that didn't need smoothing.

"I don't want to talk about this. It is an insult to his character to even entertain the ridiculous idea," François said firmly. "The president of the university? With a student? C'est vraiment des conneries."

They changed subjects, but not before leaving Toni feeling sick to his stomach. And each time he recalled the fact that his wife was arriving in London tomorrow, the feeling grew tenfold.

He picked María up from Heathrow airport and she threw her arms around him, and she felt warm, and he hated himself for every moment that he held her. She was as ambitious and as beautiful as ever with her big brown eyes and her thick, southern Spanish accent, reminding him with every passing moment why he married her. And at the same time reminding him with every passing moment that he didn't love her. His heart was elsewhere. Its pieces were scattered along the Sicilian streets.

"How long will you be able to stay?"

"Two weeks. Then I have to fly back out to Greece."

"Vale. We'll make the two weeks count."

Every word that left his lips tasted bitter. He closed his eyes and he saw Romano and he wondered if she could tell. When he held her, he was thinking about Romano. When they made love that night, and she held him close and whispered his name in his ear—undoubtedly thinking that he was just as desperate for her as she was for him—he heard Romano's voice. As she slept in their bed, in the same side that Romano usually slept in, Toni was wide-awake. Unable to keep his eyes closed for even a second. He was drowning in his guilt, his hypocritical two-facedness. He was being unfair to his wife. He was being so terribly unfair to her. He had to imagine that it was Romano in front of him when he said, te quiero, simply because she had said it first. Did she really mean it?

That didn't really matter, Toni decided. The fact was that she was wearing on her finger a ring that he had bought for her was what mattered. A ring that he had proposed with on the beaches of Cadiz on her 24th birthday. When she had fallen asleep, he went to the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee and put on Carlos Gardel and sent a long, dramatic message to Romano's phone. He received no response. He had expected as much. And sending it, as much as he'd hoped it would help, only made the burden on his shoulders heavier.

Lo siento, María.

Lo siento, Romano.

Translations:

te quiero en serio=I seriously love you

mírame=look at me

ven aquí=come here

madre mía=my mother (an exclamatory phrase kind of like 'my god!' in Spanish)

je vois (French)=I see

C'est inévitable=It's inevitable

Comment?=huh?

ich meine (German)=I mean...

Mais oui (French)=but of course

l'amour est un oiseau rebelle=love is a rebellious bird (the title of the famous aria from Carmen, by Geroge Bizet)

C'est des conneries=that's bullshit

C'est vraiment des conneries=that's seriously bullshit