Whoever Antonio had been expecting Francis' surprise to be, another old school friend was not it. When he opened the door five hours after the phone call with Francis, he was expecting a cute girl/boy of some sort, or perhaps even, if the world was truly against him, Lovino (in an effort by Francis to be helpful, because they'd exchanged another call between the first and now, when Antonio spilled everything before he'd even touched any alcohol.).

An albino, red eyed German wearing a 'I Heart Prussia' was not it. He was perched over Francis' shoulder, white hair flopping over his eyes in a fashion he clearly believed was cool and his mouth pulled into a shit-eating smirk. Laughing, he thrust his hand out for Antonio to shake. His entire forearm was covered in plastic charity bands and leather bracelets that twisted and jingled as he moved; Antonio thought he could hear the sound of a bell in there too.

Antonio shook his hand, offering his trademark sunny smile with it.

"It's been a while, Gil." The man, Gil, inclined his head and laughed again.

"That is has been, 'Toni! So, losers, are we drinking or not?"

On the way to Antonio's usual bar, he was filled in on his old school friends' lives since they'd split ways three years ago.

The three had been the best of friends at their high school, inseparable from each other and known from their madness, badness, and down right attractiveness. The terror of all teachers, the 'Bad Friends Trio' had caused 5 years worth of mischief, growing more and more adventurous as they grew older. But all good things must end and the boys had disconnected from each other after starting college.

Francis had moved back to study in his home town in France, but had apparently returned on a student job offer. The pizza delivery was just a side to pay for the rent while he stayed. He'd met Gilbert again at the pizza shop, as Gilbert had also found himself in a job there after his brother started dating the manager's grandson. (Antonio wasn't sure how this wrangled Gilbert Beilschmidt a job anywhere, but he didn't dare ask any further.) Gilbert had gone to a college near their old school, unlike Antonio, who moved further up the country and in fact knew Lovino – he was the pizza shop manager's other grandson.

By the time they reached the bar it was as if they had never been apart. The only difference was the choice of drinks.

By 10 o'clock, all three young men were off their heads on bad vodka and spilling all their dirty secrets to each other. Antonio had cried over Lovino more than he cared to admit but he had finally pushed the weight off of his chest and had even gained some helpful advice from Francis, who was apparently wise in the ways of stubborn types. (No-one asked why, and Francis let nothing slip. It was the only thing Antonio still didn't know by the end of the night.)

By midnight, or possibly one in the morning, Gilbert had fallen into the dance floor, abandoning the other two in search of a willing body to grind against. He must have found one, as neither of the others saw him again until the next day, when he was wandering around like a lost puppy wearing a t-shirt with a painted maple leaf on it. The lucky girl had left it at Gilbert's flat and according to Gilbert, had stolen his I heart Prussia shirt.

By what was most likely three in the morning, Francis and Antonio decided they should go home. They then were accosted by a gaggle of scantily clad women in pink killer heels who demanded they dance with them, and who were two young men to deny the advances of pretty women? Francis ended up in the ladies' toilets with one particular blonde who he maintained that he recognised and did not emerge for 20 minutes. He returned without her.

By four, they left a taxi as a tangle of limbs, trying to hold each other up and stop the other falling into the road. None of the Pink Heeled ladies were anywhere to be seen.

By five Antonio was fast asleep alone in his hallway, sprawled messily across his carpet with one shoe missing, his hair painted green on one side and ink stains scribbled up both arms.

So it was to a killer hangover and a mouth tasting like a sewer would smell had it had a large amount of vodka dropped into it that Antonio awoke. He didn't bother trying to open his eyes; he knew it would just make everything worse, make the lights more painful than the muted colours behind his eyelids already were and the headache feel like a power-drill rather than a steady drum beat. At least he was still wearing most of his clothes, he figured, as the last time he managed to drink himself into that deep an oblivion he had awoken naked with his arms around a thin waist and a mouth full of red hair. In no way was Antonio keen to repeat that particular morning (unless the waist happened to belong to a certain Italian. Then he might be persuaded to relive it.)

Antonio was still musing over previous morning afters and wondering if he could be bothered to physically move and find some painkillers when a knock came at the door. It was a small noise, barely a rap, and Antonio wouldn't have even heard it had he not been laying a foot from the door. As it was, he finally opened his eyes, wincing at the sharp assault of sunlight from his still open curtains and peeled himself up off of the carpet. It left a prickling feeling across his cheek as the skin pulled away pink, raw and imprinted with Carpets4Every1!'s cheapest weave pattern that he couldn't help but rub at as he opened the door.

He stopped the movement involuntarily as he realised who was standing outside of his apartment, letting his hand fall to his side.

Lovino was hopping from one foot to the other with his head bowed down, hand stuck into the jumbo pocket in the front of his hoodie. As Antonio watched him in stunned silence, one hand crept up into his hair, where he pulled absently on a fly-away strand that never seemed to tame down. Behind him the corridor was empty, no opening doors or stressed out, pacing students, and so it became even quieter than it normally would have been.

When the silence had manifested itself into something that would probably need to be cut with a sword, Antonio moved to the side of the doorway, gesturing for Lovino to come inside without a word. Lovino ducked his head a little as he entered, and Antonio's mouth felt as dry as the desert. Any thoughts that entered his head just seemed to fly straight out again – even when he tried clearing his throat, the action just seemed to stick there in an awkward lump. He just couldn't make the words work; Lovino looked so effortlessly gorgeous in that baggy hoodie and those running shorts and Antonio himself was, oh shit, he hadn't showered and he probably smelt awful, like a bar...

Antonio startled out of his daydream as he heard Lovino cough and breathe in to say something. He pulled his eyes up to Lovino's face, where he met glassy hazel eyes.

"Look, I know I shouldn't have run out on you, but you were a jerk too, you know, you bastard, you wouldn't speak to me either, and I did want this to work, I, I l-like, you and- oh, you know what, fuck it. C-come here and kiss me, bastard." With his last words, Lovino reached up to Antonio's face, grabbing his jaw and pulling him down so they were eye to eye. After a few heated seconds, they moved together slowly, at first their lips just brushing gently. Antonio had a strange jolt of deja vu. The last time the two had kissed, they had been in similar surroundings, although this time the sobriety was lending the kiss a healthy dose of nervousness.

Lovino pulled away after another few seconds, frowning slightly. Antonio was a little worried until Lovino batted him in the side, furrowed eyebrows shadowing over a cheeky smirk.

"Go brush your teeth, you stinking bastard, I'm not kissing you properly again until you're fucking squeaking with cleanliness!"

Antonio did, and Lovino was true to his word.

AN - Hello again! Sorry, more slow updates...