23

Did You Know That I'm Fucking Your Husband, Signora?

There is a boy in a bathroom stall, getting fucked by another boy.

The other boy is Italian. He is from Florence, with a penchant for marinara sauce and Michelangelo. The boy cannot completely relate because he's only been to Florence once, and he can't say that he has very strong feelings about Michelangelo. But they can speak Italian to each other, even though the Italian boy teases the Sicilian boy for his Sicilian dialect. He doesn't mind. They speak in Italian and they understand each other, so there had been no misunderstandings when the Sicilian boy had said to the Italian boy, Would you like to fuck me?

As he holds in his whimpers, making sure that his shirt remains pulled down over his back, the boy's hatred for himself grows. He wonders what the Belgian therapist would think if she knew what he was doing right now, during school hours, in the boys' bathroom. He wonders what his brother would think—he can't even imagine the look on his brother's face. How big he must have grown. Surely he's as tall, if not taller, than his older brother. The younger has just turned 16 years old. The older now seventeen and well-versed in getting fucked by other boys. He's not proud of it, but he does not stop, either. There are only so many things that he can do to make himself feel wanted.

He still writes letters to his younger brother every week and sends them to Rome. Though, for all he knows, his brother no longer lives in that house. For all he knows, his brother is across the ocean, in America or Canada. For all he knows, his brother could be dead, though the mere thought of that makes him sick to his stomach and awfully dizzy. No, he is certain that his younger brother, with his musical fingertips and colorful imagination and oh-so-brilliant talent (it has always been undeniable) is alive and well. So he writes him letters, even if he can never read them. It helps the older brother feel at ease, knowing that if is ever to meet his brother in the future he can say, Brother, I wrote to you every week.

He has not heard from his father since he left for Sicily ten years ago.

He's not sure what he's meant to do next year, when he turns eighteen and graduates from this academy. Find a university that will take a child (yes, still a child) whose mind is as scrambled as his, he supposes. He is going to ask the Belgian therapist to help him apply to schools. All over the world. He's going to explore.

But he's not thinking of any of that right now.

No.

He's thinking about how terrible the Italian boy's breath smells on the back of his neck.

"You have to stay still, Lovi."

"Fine, fine, I'm sorry."

Feliciano smiled, peeking his head around the canvas.

"Va bene. Are you cold?"

"No."

"Good. We still have a long way to go."

Romano clicked his tongue, did not smile back, but wasn't terribly uncomfortable. They were outside, in his special place, the special haven guarded by the tree he so loved. Romano, for some strange reason, had agreed to sit as a model for a portrait Feliciano was painting. He was on the ledge, staring to the side with his hands in his laps. Whether it was for a class or for pleasure, Romano hadn't bothered asking.

"Why do you wanna paint me, anyway?"

"Because! Do I really need a reason?"

"Might as well just do a self-portrait."

"No, no, no—we may look alike, but I promise we are very different. Our differences come through in art, you know?"

It had snowed very lightly the night before, so the ground was sparkling with the thin white blanket and the air was chilled. Romano had warned Feli that it might snow again today, which would ruin his paints and his canvas, but Feliciano had always been a little bit too optimistic.

"Don't bother smiling," Feliciano had said upon beginning. "No offense, but you never really smile anyway. I want to capture you in the most natural way possible."

"Bite me."

Romano wished that he could see Feliciano's face while he painted. When they were children, Romano had always liked watching Feliciano paint. He was such a carefree, absentminded person, but when he painted or played piano or sang, his entire persona took on a completely different comportment. Serious and intense and passionate, but romantic and genuine. He would stick his tongue out and narrow his eyes and would not stop even to brush the hair that had fallen into his face. Romano wished that he could see it.

"You never told me how your trip to Wales was," Feliciano said, his voice floating over the canvas.

"It was nice. Boring as hell, though."

"Well, what were you expecting?"

"I found an abandoned lighthouse."

"How nice!"

"Yeah."

"Do you feel refreshed now?"

"No...not really."

He heard Feliciano sigh and regretted telling the truth.

I should've lied to him.

Should've just told him that I'm fine.

That my smile is genuine.

"Sorry," he said. As always, not really sure what he was apologizing for, but feeling that he had to.

"Guess what?"

"What."

"I went to see your Spanish professor the other day. Before your trip to Wales," Feliciano said. Romano snapped his head around, heart sinking, pulse speeding. For a moment he couldn't breathe.

"You wha—?"

"Stand still!" Feliciano cried, peering around the canvas. Romano did not return to his position. He just stared at Feliciano, brow furrowed. His fingers were balling into fists.

"Why did you go see him?" he insisted.

"I...Well, I know you two are close," Feliciano began. He averted his gaze to the frosty grass. The paintbrush in his one hand, his other tapping incessantly against his leg. "I want to do everything I can for you, and I thought he could help."

Everything you can for me?

That's not fair, Feliciano.

"He told me that you're a very talented writer. And that you have mood swings, and that...he can tell there's a storm inside you," Feli continued.

Romano pictured Feliciano sitting in Toni's office and he hated the image. His brother was always much more beautiful, much more bright, than he was. He made Toni's office look better. He opened his mouth, ready to hurl a terse and irritated response, but found the words caught in his throat.

"And he also told me that you've written about me," Feli smiled. There were tears in his eyes and his smile was shaking and it cut to the very center of Romano's shriveled heart.

That's not fair at all, Feliciano.

"You know what doesn't seem right to me, fratellone?"

Romano was afraid that if he spoke, the torrents in his eyes and on his lips would come spewing forth. So he remained silent.

"That we love each other so much, and we care about each other so much. But I believe you, and you don't believe me. Even when I tell you."

"Because everybody lies. Even if they don't mean to."

"I'm not lying to you, Lovi," Feliciano whispered. He stood from the canvas and walked, slowly, careful with every step, to where Romano sat. He bent down and grabbed both of Romano's hands in his and brought them to his lips and kissed them with his salty, tear-stained lips. Even in the warmth of Feliciano's embrace, Romano felt very cold. He could hardly feel Feliciano there. He stared at his hands vacantly. Feliciano knelt to the ground, ignoring the wetness of the grass. He rested his head in Romano's lap.

"Do you remember when we were little, and you used to sit at the window and read. And I used to paint little drawings for you, or play piano for you?"

Romano nodded his head.

"And then at night, when everybody thought we were asleep, we would sneak downstairs and Nonno would tell us stories?"

Romano nodded again, his mind and his heart now elsewhere.

"I think Nonno always favored you," Feliciano said, a combination of a sob and a laugh in his throat. "He always told the stories that you wanted."

"Feli..."

"And when you left, he had to tell only the stories that I wanted, so I tried to pick the story that you would've wanted to hear every night."

Feliciano was weeping now, his tears falling into Romano's legs.

"I used to have a little calendar in my room, and I would write in big pink letters on the days that Nonno and I went to visit you. And I would cross off the days leading up to it. It was always my favorite weekend of the month."

"Mi dispiace, Feli..."

"Do you remember how much fun we used to have in Sicily? After just a few months you knew the streets of Palermo so well. We would play hide and seek, but I was terrible at it. You could always find me. Like you could read my mind and knew exactly where I would hide."

"Mhmm. I remember."

"But even when I came to visit you, when we went to sleep at night, you were still crying. Just like you used to in Rome."

Romano bit his lower lip and closed his eyes tight, tight, tight.

"I didn't think you could hear me," he murmured. "I always thought you were asleep."

Feliciano began to vigorously shake his head.

"And when Nonno died all I wanted to do was go see you. I wanted Papá to let me see the letters that you wrote me, because I knew that he was hiding them from me. I wanted to know all about your life. I wanted to take care of you, just like Nonno asked me to."

"Just like...?" Romano's voice trailed off, and he felt Feliciano squeeze his fingers. It began to snow. Very lightly. They could hardly feel it.

"I let you down, I broke my promise to Nonno. I didn't take care of you. Even when I knew what was happening, I didn't protect you. I didn't do anything for you."

Stop this, Feliciano.

You're breaking my heart.

"You didn't think that I knew," Feliciano cried. "When we were just children—when you were so innocent. You didn't think I knew where the bruises came from, or what you and Papá were doing when he took you into his study. Why you cried yourself to sleep every night...of course I knew. How could I not have known?"

You knew?

You knew the whole time?

"I'm so sorry, Feli."

"And still I didn't do anything! Even when I knew!"

"You couldn't have done anything." Romano felt such overwhelming remorse that it made him sick to his stomach.

Why didn't I hide my bruises better?

Why didn't I sob more quietly?

Why did I have to put this burden onto my baby brother's shoulders?

"But I'm trying to help you now, fratellone, I'm really, really trying," Feli sobbed. His entire body shaking. "I'm trying to make up for it all, lo giuro. I'll make it up to you. I will."

"You don't deserve this burden..."

"Just don't push me away, please," he begged. He kissed Romano's fingers again. "Don't keep me locked out. I can't stand it anymore, I can't stand it. I can't stand seeing you like this and not being able to help you."

My poor, beautiful baby brother.

My fratellino.

Let me be a martyr.

Don't take on my burden.

I don't want that for you.

"I need to keep my promise to Nonno, I need to take care of you, I need to help you. Let me help you, Lovino. My big brother. I'm so sorry for what happened to you. I'm so sorry. I love you so much."

"I'm the big brother. I'm supposed to be saying this to you."

"No, no, no," Feliciano said. Over and over and over. "I just...I hope that you can forgive me. I hope you don't hate me. I don't want you to hate me."

Of course I don't hate you.

How could I hate you?

The baby brother that holds my hand and smiles when I forget what affection feels like?

"Lovi."

"Se?"

"If you don't want me around anymore...I mean, if that will make things easier, I'll leave. Whatever will make you feel better."

Romano squeezed Feliciano's fingers as hard as he possibly could and brought his lips down to the top of Feli's head.

"That's the last thing I want," he whispered. His voice cracked and broken. "I don't ever want to leave you again."

"Mi dispiace molto, Lovino. For not protecting you."

"Me, too."

Romano was walking to class with Kiku and Alfred the next week. He wondered how Kiku could deal with such loudness, such intensity first thing in the morning. The day had started with loud knocking and eagle noises at their door, to which Romano had responded by throwing a pillow at the door and letting a string of Sicilian curses flow from his mouth.

"Don't know what you just said, dude, but it's time for class."

"Stupid fucking American."

But it had done the trick, and Alfred and Kiku had convinced Romano to walk to the main academic building with them. Their boots crushed the light film of snow on the cobblestones as they walked, and when they spoke, they could see their breath in the air. Romano had his bag over his shoulder and was daydreaming, thinking for some strange reason of the beautiful and kind woman who had counseled him during his time in Granada. He wondered what she was doing, and hoped that she was happy, wherever she was. He regretted not being more kind to her. Kiku and Alfred were having an argument about which anime was best ("Fullmetal Alchemist over Naruto any day, bro!"), and, as always, Alfred was being sure to project his voice across the whole of the United Kingdom.

"Oh hey, writer Prof! What's up?"

Romano brought his head up and found himself face to face with Toni.

"Ah, hola...Alfred, was it?"

"Yup. Nice to see you again."

"You as well. Hopefully the semester has been kind to you," Toni chuckled. His gaze finally flickered back to Romano, who was grasping the strap of his backpack and trying to keep his heartbeat steady. Romano looked away instantly. Toni was not alone. There was a woman at his side, her arm linked with his. She was olive-skinned, with dark eyes and dark hair tied back from her smiling face. She was beautiful. And he knew that she was his wife.

"Are these students of yours, Antonio?" she asked. She spoke English with an accent that was much less heavy than Toni's.

"Nah, not me. We've only met once," Alfred smiled.

"Kiku Honda. It is a pleasure," Kiku said with a slight bow.

"And you?" the woman said, turning her too-bright smile (frighteningly similar to Toni's) to Romano. He blinked, searching desperately for his voice, but unable to find it in the panic of his mind.

"This is Romano," Toni said slowly.

"Ah! The writer! Antonio has only told me wonderful things about you, Romano," the woman exclaimed. "María. The pleasure is mine."

María.

Did you know that I'm fucking your husband?

¿Sabía que estoy follando su marido, Señora?

"Pleasure to meet all of you. I want to get to know this place where my husband spends all his time," she continued. "You all seem like very bright students."

"They are. Every student here, I'm sure," Toni nodded. Romano knew that he was looking at him, but he kept his eyes on the snowflaked toes of his boots. "Bueno, don't let us interrupt you. Hurry off to class."

"Sure thing, Prof."

Toni and his wife, flashing one last blinding smile, walked past them. Down the road, the opposite way. Alfred and Kiku continued walking. Romano could not bring himself to take another step forward.

"Romano-kun...?"

"I just realized that I forgot something in my room," he heard himself say.

"Oh, all right. See ya later then, dude."

Kiku and Alfred waved as Romano turned and walked back the way he had come. At the end of the road he took a sharp turn to the right and walked up the stairwell to his haven. He lay down on the snowy grass, taking in the numbing pain of the cold against the vulnerable parts of his skin, and he cried and waited for the ring of the bell tower. When it came, frightening him as it always did, he took his notebook out and, though his hands were shivering from the cold, wrote an entire poem about how beautiful Toni's wife was.

Translations:

va bene (Italian)=all right

lo giuro=I swear it