27

What Kinds of Dreams Do You Have, Signor?

There is a boy standing in an old-fashioned phone booth.

He is holding the phone to his ear and pressing the numbers, his hands shaking, soaked to the bone from the rain outside. He is shivering. He walked for hours, wandering the streets, getting caught in the rain and ignoring the worried looks and comments from the strangers that passed him. He even entertained the idea of hopping onto a train to Barcelona for a moment, only to reach into his pockets and remember that he didn't have enough money to do something like that.

And now he's in the phone booth. He is biting down on his trembling lower lip, is trying to calm himself. He is feeling an unholy mixture of absolute elation and absolute terror, fear. In his other hand there is a piece of paper crumpled up, ripped and wet, with running ink. It has his name written at the top.

"Congratulations!" it says.

"We are pleased to welcome you," it says.

"We are willing to provide you the financial support," it says.

"You are bright," it says.

"You are talented," it says.

Someone wants you, he hears.

He's so awfully happy. He can't think straight. He can leave, run off to the UK, study in a new place with new people—create better memories to replace the bitter ones that have taken over his malleable mind. He can write there, he can discover new things there. The Belgian therapist will be so proud of him. He hasn't felt such pride in himself in so long. He hasn't felt so happy in so long.

But he also feels so frightened. There is a chance, he thinks, that the people there will not accept him. He will have to start from the bottom again. He will be alone again, absolutely and terribly alone. He's never been to the UK before. He doesn't know what's there.

He wants to talk to his little brother.

He's calling the phone number of his old house in Rome—a number he long ago committed to memory, though he's never actually called—in the meager hopes that someone will answer and he will be able to talk to his brother. To tell his little brother, Hello, I miss you, look at what I've accomplished, now tell me what you've accomplished, little brother, my beautiful little baby brother, my fratellino.

He feels nauseated as the phone continues to ring. It is late. But someone has to answer.

"Hello?" he hears the unfamiliar voice. A servant, perhaps.

The boy responds, forcing himself to speak in the Roman accent that he long ago discarded in favor of his Sicilian dialect.

"Who is this?" the person on the other end asks.

It's me, it's me, he repeats. Let me speak to my brother. Is he awake? Can you wake him for me? I just need to talk to him for a little bit.

"I'm sorry, but the young master is sleeping. I cannot wake him up."

Please, you don't understand. I'm his brother, I'm his older brother, I need to talk to him.

"I am going to hang up now," the man says slowly. "And, please, do not call this number again. Else I will have to tell the master, and he won't be happy to hear that you called."

The boy hears the click of the phone and begins to sob.

The day that Feliciano and Romano returned to London and took the train back to their university campus, they were visibly refreshed and happy. Romano couldn't remember having the ability to smile like this, truly smile without having to fake it. He hadn't spent time like this with his brother in so long, and he had forgotten how just Feliciano's presence could lift his spirits. Exploring with Feli, eating with Feli, taking walks on the beach with Feli, zooming through the Sicilian streets on a Vespa with Feli, laying in bed and talking until they could see the sunrise. Romano was overwhelmed with this indescribable, unfathomable love he felt for his baby brother. On the train, while Feli was smiling and watching the English countryside, Romano couldn't resist. He put his arms around his baby brother and held him.

"L-Lovi? What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, stupid. I just wanted to hug you."

With a laugh, Feliciano squeezed Romano and they swayed together.

But they were exhausted. When they returned, they went back to Romano's room, said swift hellos to Kiku and Alfred, and collapsed onto the bed. Feliciano was asleep within minutes—unlike Romano, who tended to curl up into a ball when he slept, Feliciano spread his limbs out, making it less than ideal for Romano. But he didn't mind. He just moved to the wall and looked out the window. As exhausted as he was, sleep was not something that would come so easily to him. Now that he was back in the UK, now that he was hearing English around him and seeing the remnants of a snowy few weeks, he could feel himself slipping back into his habits of despair. He tried to keep the thoughts from his mind, but they were creeping in slowly, discreetly. He couldn't pinpoint where they were. They were sneaky.

And now he was desperate to see Toni. He hadn't told him, but Toni's good night messages and good morning messages had meant the world to him. They had helped him rest at night and given him motivation to get out of bed in the morning, knowing that there was someone who loved him enough to tell him, every night and every morning, "I love you. I hope you slept well. I miss you." I'm waiting for you.

Even if he is lying, I don't think I care at this point.

The next day, Feliciano apologized and said he would be spending the day with Ludwig.

"Fine, but I still don't like him."

"Lo so, lo so."

They kissed goodbye and then Romano showered, took his medicine, messaged Toni, put on a coat, and began the trek to his apartment.

"Romano! Welcome back!" Toni said with his grandiose smile as he opened the door. Without a word, Romano wrapped his arms around Toni and buried his face in his neck. He hadn't even noticed the tears coming until they were there.

"Welcome back," Toni repeated quietly. He held Romano tightly. Kissed his wet cheek, his temple, the top of his head, his eyelashes, his ear, whispered, "I missed you."

Toni closed the door. Romano leaned back against it and opened his lips, ready for, begging for Toni's kiss. It came heavy and hungry. A hand to his cheek, fingers in his still-wet hair. As he drank in Toni's embrace, let himself fall back, Toni unzipped Romano's coat. Slipped it over his arms as his tongue ran slowly and smoothly along Romano's quivering lower lip. Then Toni unwrapped Romano's scarf and, as Romano put his arms around Toni's shoulders, slid his hands beneath Romano's shirt. Romano sucked in his breath at the suddenly cold touch, and Toni laughed quietly against his lips. Romano opened them more widely and took Toni in.

They were hungry, they were deprived, they were desperate. Once their skin touched their most fiery desires were awakened again and they moved like a storm. They didn't even move to the bed. Toni pushed Romano, hard, against the door and Romano heard himself groaning, moaning, asking for more. Crying out softly when Toni, his lips grazing Romano's ear, slid his hand down into his pants. Grabbed him, said his name.

"Te quiero..."

"Más..."

Romano forced Toni's shirt over his head and to the ground, wanted to hear him breathing out into his ear. He dug his fingers into Toni's back and traced a line with his tongue from Toni's jaw down to his neck.

"Roma..."

Toni pressed his hands to the door and leaned forward until their chests were one, moaning Romano's name, pressing his knee up between Romano's legs. Romano could feel him breathing, could trace the lines of his muscles, could taste the saltiness on his skin as his tongue danced there. How much he had missed Toni, how much he had missed being held like this, giving pleasure and being given pleasure. Gripping hands and swapping breaths, tongues colliding and sweat pouring, with this man that he loved so much it made him feel physical pain. Made him feel that he was drowning and being resuscitated all at once.

Toni put a hand to Romano's cheek and kissed his lips again. Romano bit down on Toni's lip and pulled, groaned as the sensations in his lower body exploded at Toni's touch. Overwhelmed by the comfort of Toni's thumb running along his cheek and the lust of his other hand grabbing him and controlling him with every move.

"Roma...quieres...?"

"Se...mmm...se..." Romano leaned his head back against the door and gripped Toni more tightly. "Apprisciàrisi..."

Toni shifted position. His open lips above Romano's, foreheads pressed together. He lowered Romano's pants, lowered his own, pushed him up against the door. Keeping his eyes steadily on Romano's face the entire time. Romano sighed out into those open lips as Toni slid his fingers inside.

"Don't move away," Romano murmured as Toni, slowly, began to enter. "I want to see your face."

"Lo que quieras."

Toni didn't move away. As he thrusted, making the pleasure and the pain and the sensations explode within Romano, he kept his gaze fixed to Romano's. Romano watched the contortions of his features—watched his brows furrow, his teeth clench, the breath leaving his lips and the way his nose crumpled. He watched the sweat pour down in droplets from his temple and the trembles in his lips, the way he shut his eyes and squeezed with each push, the way the waves of his hair pressed to his forehead. Kept watching even when he began to run his finger along Romano's lips.

"A-ah, Toni...!"

"Nn..."

As Romano rose higher and higher, he couldn't maintain contact. He banged his head back against the door and closed his eyes and cried out, drowning in the sweet, numbing pleasure, feeling Toni's hot breaths against his neck.

They came together, their gasps raspy and their skin covered in sweat. But they didn't move. They held each other tightly, as if mesmerized by the fact that they were there, alive, together.

"I missed you so much," Toni murmured.

"I missed you, too," Romano said. Hiding his smile.

You're just saying that.

You don't mean it.

But...do you...?

Toni grabbed an extra shirt for Romano, they turned on some music, and decided to open the bottle of Sicilian wine that Romano had brought with him.

"Thank you, querido. It was so nice of you to bring this."

"It's the least I could do. You're the best fuck I've ever had."

"¡Que eres lascivo!"

They sat on the couch, and Romano curled up into Toni's chest and forced his arm around his shoulders. He closed his eyes and listened to the music and immersed himself in every detail of Toni's touch, Toni's warmth, the comfort of Toni's embrace.

"Did you enjoy Palermo?"

"Of course I did. It's home."

"Me alegro."

"What did you do while I was gone?"

"Stay home in fear of the snow."

Romano laughed quietly.

"You would love the beach in Palermo."

"Are you glad you got to spend some time with Feliciano?"

"Yes."

He felt Toni's lips touch his temple and smiled. They spent the day lazing around the apartment, drinking wine, shooting the breeze, relishing each other's presence. At one point, while Romano spread himself out on the couch and read one of the books from Toni's bookshelf, Toni pulled out his notebook and sat on the floor across from Romano and wrote. Wrote, and wrote, and wrote. Glasses sliding down his nose, pausing every few moments to tinker with his eyebrows.

"What are you writing now?"

"I'm working on my novel."

"The one about the Sicilian boy."

"That's the one."

"Do you have it all planned out?" Romano asked. "Do you know how you're gonna end it?"

"Ah..." Toni paused, scratched his head with the pen. "No, not yet. Still working on it."

"Oh."

He smiled at Romano, Romano smiled back, and went back to reading.

Toni must have been tired. He slept until one o'clock in the afternoon the next day, leaving Romano to fend for himself in the apartment. He got out of bed after spooning for a little bit, being gentle so as not to wake Toni, and went to make himself a cup of coffee. He was delighted to find that there was a box of tomatoes waiting for him in the fridge, which he proceeded to devour. Then he took a quick shower and went back to reading his book on Toni's couch. Every so often he would peek into the dark bedroom, see Toni still fast asleep, gripping the pillow, drool on his chin.

I hope you're having sweet dreams.

Does a person as good-hearted, as pure as you, even have nightmares?

What kinds of dreams do you have?

¿Qué tipos de sueños tienes, Toni?

At exactly 1:12pm, Romano's phone began to ring. He had forgotten to put it on silent (as he often did, since he didn't receive many phone calls), and Maria Callas was so loud that it woke Toni up.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Romano whispered as he rushed to pick up the phone, which he'd left in the bedroom. Toni blinked the sleep from his eyes, wiped the drool with the back of his hand, and sat up in bed. His hair completely matted on one side and completely wild on the other.

"No pasa nada..." he grumbled.

Romano grabbed his phone. It was Feliciano.

"Feli?" he answered.

He was met with sobs. Terrible, heart-wrenching sobs.

"F-Feli! What's wrong? What's the matter?" he said into the phone. The sound of Feliciano crying had always made Romano's heart sink, his hair stand on end, his breathing catch in his throat. Toni furrowed his brow.

"Lovi, I...I'm sorry..."

"What're you sorry for, eh? Why are you crying?"

Feliciano tried to respond, but was cut off by another broken sob.

"Come on, Feliciano, you're scaring me..."

It's Papá. He's dead.

Papá? Dead?

This morning.

What do you mean, dead?

I mean he's gone, Lovi.

Even after the phone call ended, Romano was frozen. All he could hear was silence on the other end. But he was paralyzed, couldn't move, couldn't sort his thoughts. Was hardly even aware of Toni grasping his shoulders, looking into his eyes, saying, Romano, Romano, what's wrong, talk to me, what happened, because he couldn't understand Italian well enough to comprehend the conversation. Everything around him was fuzzy, everything blurry, everything gray.

"Romano, neno, what's wrong, please," Toni continued. Desperation dripping from his voice. "You look like you've just spoken to a ghost, tell me what happened."

Toni's face finally came into focus. Romano opened his mouth.

"My father."

"Your father?"

"He's dead."

"...Dead?"

Without a word, Toni took Romano into his arms. Romano didn't have the strength, the will, the energy, to hug him back. And Toni understood that. He just held him. Held him tightly. Put his hand on the back of Romano's head and cradled him like a child. He was, after all, still a child, wasn't he?

He's dead.

He's...dead.

He's...dead?

What?

The worst part of all, the scariest part of all, was that Romano didn't know how he felt. Even after hearing the anguish in Feliciano's voice, the terrible sobs that had wracked his little brother's body, he didn't know how he felt. Hollow? Numb? Maybe it hadn't hit him yet, maybe the information hadn't sunk in yet, maybe...

Maybe I don't care.

Feliciano couldn't stop crying.

And worse than that, he couldn't stop apologizing.

"I'm sorry, Lovi, I'm sorry. I know how he did terrible things to you and I know all of the bad things he's done but he's still my father and I'm so sad, I don't want to believe that he's gone."

"It's okay, please don't apologize..."

Romano couldn't say that he felt sad, because he didn't. How could he, after everything? After the beatings, the bruises, the neglect...perhaps even in death, Romano's father was loath to hear Romano call him that. "Father." Romano didn't feel anything at all—but that, in itself, was feeling something. It was as if someone had carved out a piece of his soul, a piece that he couldn't name or describe, leaving him with the irksome feeling that he was missing something. Toni tried to comfort him but wasn't sure how, because when he said he was sorry and asked if there was anything he could do, Romano said, "No. I'm fine. Really."

And he meant it.

But Feliciano was completely crushed, devastated, couldn't hold his tears back for more than a few hours at a time. He stayed in Romano's room, trying to keep it together; Ludwig stayed with him, as well, and it was the only time Romano would have tolerated him in his room. It was the worst time for it to happen, too, as classes had been set to start the next day. But Feliciano and Romano were in no position to go to class.

"You'll come to the funeral...won't you, Lovi?"

Romano hadn't planned on it.

He wouldn't have wanted me there.

But Feliciano was the one person that Romano could never, under any circumstances, refuse.

"Of course."

So, for the first time in over ten years, Romano bought tickets to Rome. They packed and they flew over there for the funeral.

"Are you sure you're okay, Roma?" Toni asked the night before his trip. Feliciano had finally managed to fall asleep, and Toni and Romano agreed to meet behind the dorm building. "You haven't said anything about it..."

"I...I really don't know if I'm okay," Romano admitted. "I don't know how I feel. I don't really feel anything."

He stared down at his hands. He recalled all the nights that he had laid in bed, cursing his father to hell. He couldn't decide if he regretted that or not.

"That's okay."

"Am I a terrible person for not feeling sad?"

"Of course not." Toni lifted Romano's chin and looked into his eyes. "Of course not, querido. Give yourself time to figure things out."

"What if they don't want me at the funeral?"

"You're there for Feliciano, no? Just be there for him."

"Okay."

"Message me when you arrive safely."

"I will."

One last kiss.

It seemed as if all of Rome had come to their father's funeral. And Romano, as he expected, recognized absolutely nobody. He couldn't even recognize his own aunts, his own uncles, the people he had lived with until he was seven years old. He worked harder than usual to hide his Sicilian. He stayed by Feliciano's side, supported him, said curt hellos to the people who came not to comfort him, but to comfort Feliciano. Very few people recognized him, as well; and even if they did, they didn't let it show. They would give him quiet nods, shake his hand. Not coddle him the way that they did Feliciano—who, admittedly, was more emotional. Tears constantly running down his cheeks, voice cracking when he tried to speak. Every few minutes, Romano would lean over and whisper words of comfort, words of support, in Feliciano's ear.

"Lovino. You actually came."

That was the greeting he received from Feliciano's mother. Now a widow.

"I know that he didn't consider me his son, but he was my father, all the same," Romano responded. She nodded, put a hand on his shoulder, kissed his cheeks as was custom.

"It was good of you to come," she said. Her face like stone. "It means the world to Feliciano, I'm sure."

Feliciano spoke at the funeral service. Romano was sitting in the front row, because Feliciano had absolutely refused to have Romano moved from his side. As Feliciano spoke, the entire congregation was moved to tears.

"My father wasn't perfect. He had a temper. He was stubborn. And, like anyone, he made some terrible mistakes." Feliciano paused, moved his gaze to Romano. Romano couldn't stand to meet his eyes and stared instead at the ground. "But he was my father. He loved me and...he loved me and my brother, and he wanted what was best for us."

Romano couldn't breathe. He felt everybody's eyes on him now. Everybody who knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Feliciano was lying. Romano's face was hot, and he felt so nauseated that he might have passed out.

"I can't imagine what my life will be like without him."

At the reception, Romano felt like throwing up. Felt like locking himself up in the bathroom and taking the time he needed to breathe. But he couldn't leave Feliciano.

Papá didn't love me.

He didn't care about me.

I was an embarrassment.

But...now that he's gone...

Romano, of course, slept at Feliciano's home. The home that he himself had been born in. He had a room to himself. The maids and the butlers tended to him, and it felt strange. They drew a bath for him, made the bed for him, brought him dinner to his room when he said that he wasn't feeling well enough to come down.

The maid that brought him his dinner was named Isabel.

"You probably don't remember me, but I took care of you when you were just a little boy," she smiled. Romano was taken aback. Surprised that someone of this household was smiling at him, conversing with him. She put the dinner on the table and sat on the bed beside him. "You were very small, and very quiet. Not like Feliciano."

"We're still nothing alike," he grumbled.

"I can see that. But you've grown to be a fine young man," she said. He blinked at her, silent, not sure what he could say. There was a terrible pain in his chest. "You know...I used to give you your baths. And I used to cover up your bruises and tend to you."

Romano was suffocating again.

"You caused trouble. You broke things, and you threw tantrums, but...I knew it wasn't your fault. I wish that I could've given more to you. Done more for you."

The tears spilled.

"But I want to tell you something. I was with your father when he died, you know? In the master bedroom. I was with him. He said to me, you know what he said? He said, 'My regret, my one regret...'"

No, stop.

Don't do this to me.

Don't do this.

"He said, 'My one regret is that I never asked for forgiveness from Lovino. I'm not sure if he would have given it, but I should have asked.'"

As Romano began to weep, he realized.

He had never blamed his father.

He had never blamed him.

He had never blamed anyone.

I've always just blamed myself.

Am I...am I really the one to blame?

Of course I am.

It's not Papá's fault I'm like this.

It's mine.

It's mine.

It's mine.

I'm sorry I wasn't a better son.

I'm sorry, Papá.