This is it! The final chapter!
Thanks to everyone for sticking with it. This is, in my opinion, my best work. I have a few other completed ones on this site, one other that I'm currently posting in the Hetalia fandom, and a few others I'm working on separately.
I am a busy woman.
Anyway the point is, shameless plug: if you liked this, check out my other stuff!
but, like I said, I think this is my best work. It's definitely my favorite child.
muchas gracias, somos muy queridos. ojalá que disfruten de mi historia y que les viere en el futuro.
xoxo
30
Secret Tunnels from Madrid to Sicily
Toni checked his watch and cursed under his breath. He was late. His editor was going to be absolutely furious—but what had he really been expecting? Toni's strong suit had never been his punctuality. He grabbed his bag and rushed down the stairs, outside, and into the car that was waiting for him.
"Madre mía, can't you be on time for anything? At this rate we might miss the flight," Eduardo hissed.
"¡No te preocupes, hijo!" Toni smiled with a wave of his hand. "We'll be fine. Aren't we always?"
On the way to the airport, he received a phone call. Seeing as how they still had an hour before their arrival, Toni went ahead and answered.
"Antonio speaking," he said, a hint of playfulness in his voice.
"Toni, mon chéri! I'm glad I caught you," came the voice on the other end.
"François! A pleasant surprise to hear from you."
"Well, I had to call and say félicitations. I just finished reading your new book, and I must say, it is as incredible as the critics claim."
"You are too kind, amigo."
"No, no, I'm serious! And an international best seller, too? Mon dieu, chéri, that's wonderful."
"Thank you," Toni replied. Hoping that François could imagine the wide smile on his face.
"Your book tour is starting now, is it not?"
"It is. I'm on my way to the airport right now."
"Wonderful. You will be stopping in Paris, I hope?"
"Claro. Next week."
"Formidable. You must call me once you arrive. I will treat you to dinner."
"You don't have to do that..."
"Of course I do! You treated me very well when I visited you in Madrid last year."
"Vale. No puedo ver la hora."
"Until then, chéri. Have a safe trip."
"Hasta luego, François."
Toni hung up the phone and sighed happily.
"Who was that?" Eduardo asked.
"An old friend," Toni replied with a grin.
Lovino locked the door of his office for the weekend, fumbling with his ring of too-many keys. He was eager to get home, pour himself a glass of wine, turn on Juanjo Dominguez and write. At the very least, he was happy that the university wasn't far from his home. On days that he was feeling particularly energetic, he could walk to work. But today, a Friday, he had opted to take the Vespa. The sun was beginning to set as he left the building and began walking toward the scooter, keys twirling in hand. But suddenly, a young girl with sunlight eyes and an enthusiastic smile blocked his path. She was in his writing seminar.
"Professor Vargas! Thank goodness I caught you before you went home," she grinned. Lovino clicked his tongue and raised his eyebrows, but refrained from rolling his eyes. He figured that, after teaching two classes, he had dashed enough hopes for the day.
"Ciau, Chiara."
"Ah, sorry for holding you up. You must be tired and eager to get home," she stuttered. She had a small notebook in her hands.
"It's fine. How can I help you?"
"Well, I was wondering..." She suddenly became nervous, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, blushing. "I, uh, I wrote a story and..."
"You want me to read it? Is that it?"
"If it's not too much trouble! It would mean the world to me. You're so brilliant, I would be honored."
"What's it about, eh?"
"It's...well, I guess it's not totally original. You know that new book, the one by the Spanish writer? Antonio Fernández Carriedo?"
"Túneles Secretos desde Madrid a Sicilia. I know the one."
"Have you read it?"
"Yes."
"It was very inspiring to me. So I wrote up a short story based on the main characters, because I wasn't satisfied with the ending. Would you be able to read it?"
Lovino looked into her eager eyes, sighed, but put his hand out. The young woman placed the notebook into it and her smile grew even wider.
"Grazij! I so appreciate it, you have no idea."
"Di nenti. Now go home."
"Yes, sir! Have a good night."
Lovino looked down at the notebook and sighed again. He put it into his bag, squeezing it in next to the red leather-bound notebook that he always carried with him (though the pages had long since been completely filled). Then he put on his helmet, got onto his Vespa, and rode home.
Toni liked to imagine the faces of the people that he inspired. He liked to picture the expressions on their faces when they read the happy parts of his books, the sad parts of his books, and every part in between. He liked to think that he was making a difference in someone's life—even if it was just one person. He wasn't terribly interested in what the pretentious literary critics had to say about it. Though, with raving reviews that had taken him to the forefront of international literature in a matter of weeks, it was easy for him to say that he didn't care. He had been genuinely surprised when the novel had received critical acclaim, propelling his career further than it had ever been. Eduardo, it seemed, had predicted as much.
"This one's gonna be big, I know it," he'd said before publishing. "Where you come up with this shit I have no idea."
Now here he was, staring out the window of an airplane, starting the book tour that he had always imagined himself doing. Around Europe, first, to talk about his book and do signings. He tried to plan the answers to the questions he might be asked.
"Where did the inspiration for this book come from?"
"A child that I met a long time ago inspired the story."
"Is it based on any historical fact?"
"No, not historically based—historically accurate, yes, but not based on any true stories."
"How long did it take you to write?"
"To be quite honest, it's taken me awhile. I started the book ten years ago. Then I put it off for a while before picking it back up again. Such is the process of a writer, I suppose!"
"Why Sicily?"
"I don't know."
Toni had already decided that he wasn't going to mention the fact that the ending of the story had actually been the brainchild of his ex-wife. They had already been divorced for eight years now, as hard as they had tried to salvage the marriage. As hard as they had tried to rekindle the love, start the fire up again, love each other the way they were meant to be loved. They just hadn't been able to do it. And it had been so long that he figured it would be pointless bringing her up.
Toni wondered why he was thinking about María. She hadn't crossed his mind in so long.
The voice of the captain rang out across the plane, wrenching Toni from his thoughts.
"Attention passengers: please fasten your seatbelts. We are beginning our descent into Palermo."
Lovino had forgotten that Feliciano was visiting for the weekend. So he was surprised beyond words when he walked into his front door and found his younger brother already at work in the kitchen.
"Lovi! You're late!"
"Please, come inside, Feli. Break in if you have to."
"Is that any way to treat your fratellino?"
Lovino smiled and kissed Feliciano's cheeks. Lovino was happy to see him. It had been a few months since he'd visited Feliciano in Rome.
"I made spaghetti. You hungry?"
"Always."
After dinner, they decided to take a walk by the beach. Arms linked, they slipped into shorts and sweaters and took to the streets of Palermo. Feliciano, as always, was talkative and energetic. He lifted Lovino's spirits, and together they admired the sea and reminisced. On the way back, Feliciano froze mid-sentence and pulled Lovino back.
"Lovi!"
"Fuck, what is it?"
"Look!"
They were standing in front of a bookstore. There was a large poster in the window, depicting a book. It was an advertisement for a book event—a meet and greet with the author of the book that was topping the charts all over the globe. Lovino had seen the ads.
"The book signing is tomorrow!"
"I know. I live here."
"Well? Are we going?"
Lovino stared at the poster. The truth was that he hadn't been planning on going. In fact, he had been planning on avoiding it at all costs.
"We have to," Feli cried. "He was our professor at school!"
"I know that."
"Tomorrow at five."
"Fine, fine, we'll do the stupid book signing."
"I wonder if he'll recognize us after all this time?"
"Probably not."
"Have you read the book?"
"Yeah."
"And? What did you think?"
"I think it's a masterpiece, of course," Lovino shrugged. He and Feliciano began their trek back home. "But I couldn't stand the ending."
"Really? I thought it was very poetic. Ludwig and I read it together and we both liked the ending."
"Just seemed like bullshit to me. What was the point of killing the kid? I don't get it."
"That's strange to hear from a writer," Feliciano teased. "I feel like you would understand."
"I don't."
"Bet it was nice and relatable for you, though. The main character being from Sicily and all."
"Yeah. I guess."
"I loved it. Every word."
"Me, too."
Toni had wanted to save Palermo for last, because he thought it would be more symbolic that way—the main character, the child that everyone so loved and identified with, was from Palermo. So, he thought, they should've gone there last. But Eduardo had insisted that they start the book tour off with a bang, and so in Palermo they would begin. And start with a bang they did. Before they even arrived at the bookstore, there was a line that stretched across the entire street. He had to enter from the back, for fear of being swarmed. If he was being honest with himself, Toni was terribly nervous. He had had relatively successful books before, but nothing like this. He'd never done a book signing of this size, and he was frightened that he would be overwhelmed. But, after the first few minutes, he fell magically into his rhythm. Conversed with the readers, answered their questions, signed each book with a different flavor.
"What was your favorite scene, hijo?"
"The scene where the general sings that lullaby for the child. It made me cry!"
Every person had a different opinion, a different thought, a different perspective about the book. Some people asked him if he had spent time in Sicily to better learn the culture and the dialect, because it seemed that he knew it very well from the way he developed the Sicilian child. But his answer was always, "No, I've actually never spent more than a few days in Sicily at a time."
"How do you know the culture so well?"
"I know a few Sicilian people who helped me."
The most amazing part was that there were people thanking him. Thanking him for helping them learn, helping them grow, carrying them through tough and dark times in their lives. Thanking him from the bottom of their heart, and it was an amazing reminder of why he wrote in the first place. It wasn't just something for him. It was for his readers.
As Toni signed the books, spoke with the readers of all ages, one after the other, he couldn't ignore the small tug in the back of his brain. The sliver of hope that was there. The desire that he had been trying to conceal since landing in Palermo. It was growing larger and larger. But he accepted disappointment before it even came. He watched the sun setting. His signatures became less extravagant. His attempts at Sicilian (which he had become rather adept at) slurred.
So he's not going to come after all?
"Lovi, are you okay? You seem on edge."
"I'm fine."
"Wow, this line is long. We'll be standing here forever!"
Somehow, though they had arrived at five o'clock sharp, they found themselves near the very end of the line. They had to stand outside for over two hours, slowly inching forward. With each passing second Lovino's heart fell further down in his stomach, his grip on the hardback book in his hand tightened. He was sweating bullets. He needed to remind himself to breathe.
Why do I feel this way?
It's already been ten years, hasn't it?
Lovino had lost hope that the book would ever be published. So when it had come out, and come out with a storm, he hadn't been expecting it. It had taken him completely by surprise. And he was having trouble sorting out his thoughts about it.
"I remember it like it was yesterday—I'd never even had a single class with him, and I went to visit him and ended up crying like a baby in his office," Feliciano chuckled. "I'm sure he remembers you much more clearly. You had class with him for both semesters that he was there."
"Maybe. But he did have a lot of students."
Lovino knew, of course, that he would remember. The book was proof of that.
When they finally stepped into the bookstore, Lovino thought that he was going to faint. The air was familiar. The smells familiar.
I was right.
I can't do this.
He heard his voice.
"Thank you for coming!"
Speaking in Sicilian.
"I'm so glad you enjoyed my book."
I can't do this...
They were next.
"Lovi, we're next!"
The people standing in front of them moved aside.
Antonio Fernández Carriedo lifted his head, smiling, pen in hand. Ready for the next person in line.
His gaze fell on a pair of amber eyes and thick eyelashes—the same amber eyes that he'd seen so many times in his dreams.
Everything else disappeared.
Lovino Vargas met those warm, green eyes and gripped his book.
Hola, querido.
Comu semu?