Lovino led Antonio up the narrow stairway, arm bent awkwardly behind him. Antonio couldn't tell if Lovino had honestly just forgot that they were holding hands, or if he was actually willing to go to such extent just so they could prolong their fleeting touch. Finally they reached the third floor and after a couple tries Lovino managed to find the lock in the dim light and unlock the door. It swung open with a creak and they stepped inside, hands still connected.

"Nonno!" called Lovino. "I got you Spizzico's!"

The door of the old man's room slammed open and he wheeled himself out. Lovino shook the dangling plastic bag containing the leftovers jauntily, but his attentions were directed elsewhere.

"What?" asked Lovino, following his line of sight down to his hand, intertwined with Antonio's.

His face turned red, then white and he forcefully pulled away, but not quick enough.

"I- I can explain," he said hurriedly. "Really. It's not-"

Roma just tsked angrily, turning his head away as if he couldn't bear to look at Lovino any longer.

"It's fine," he said quietly, beginning to wheel himself back to his room.

Caught by surprise, Lovino said, a hint of hope in his voice, "R-Really?"

"You're not my grandson anymore, so what you do isn't my problem."

Lovino blinked, not comprehending for a couple seconds. "Wha..?" he began to say, unable to finish once cold panic hit him. Fear glimmered in his eyes.

"No, you're mistaken- I am your grandson, I'm Lovino Vargas, I-" The plastic bag containing the pizza fell to the floor as his arm went slack. He hurried towards his grandfather desperately, but he wheeled himself into his bedroom, the door slamming in Lovino's face. The lock clicked.

"Nonno? Nonno!" yelled Lovino, desperately trying to turn the doorknob, but it just rattled in its frame, locked.

"Let me in!" he screamed, banging on the door with his fist.

"I gave you a second chance," came Roma's voice, muffled by the wood. "You chose him over your own family, over Christ."

"I didn't choose anyone- I'm still your grandson!"

"You're not. Not like this."

"No- I am, I am," pleaded Lovino, ramming the door with his shoulder. It shook, reverberating, but didn't open.

"W- What's going on?" Antonio dared to say, standing in the middle of the room, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. Lovino ignored him.

"If you really loved this family, you'd change," said Roma.

"But I can't change!" Lovino knocked himself against the door again. It didn't budge, though the wood was thin. There was something pushed against it- furniture; a dresser, maybe?

"One can always change, with the help of the Lord! You've done it before!"

Lovino paused his barrages for a second, confused. "What are you talking about?" he queried.

"You know what I mean- Lavinia."

It took a moment before the meaning of what his grandfather had said to sink in, reach past the previously impenetrable mental barriers he had set for himself all those years ago. Anger and embarrassment clouded his face, fogged his mind so he couldn't think straight.

"Don't," he choked, finding it hard to speak.

"Don't what? Remind you of who you was before I found you? I cured you, remember? You were so messed up in the head, but I fixed you, with the help of the Lord, and I'll do it again! You just have to let me! Promise you'll never talk to this- this Antonio again," he spat the name as if it were an ugly word, "And I'll gladly let you in!"

"I-" Lovino rested his forehead against the door, vision swimming. His fist, poised over the door to knock, grew limp and fell down to his side.

How could he choose- his family, or his best friend? He glanced helplessly behind him at Antonio, shuffling his balance from foot to foot. He looked up, saw Lovino staring, and gave him a hesitant, shaky grin.

"Everything okay?" he asked, gentle voice full of concern, and Lovino couldn't find it in himself to answer.

He directed his gaze back towards the door, and behind it, his grandfather, who had raised him since he was nine, given him care and attention when no one else had. How could he ever repay all those years of devotion and love, even when Roma's health began to wane? All those nights he had stayed up with him, washing his soiled sheets in the bathtub, berating him without anger and ruffling his hair when he was done, how could he ever fully express his gratitude for that? Is this what he'd have to do to finally get his grandfather's approval?

"Lovi?" Antonio's hand touched his shoulder gently. Warmth and comfort spiraled through his body, and he knew he could never bring himself to refuse Antonio, even if he wanted to.

"I…" he mumbled, closing his eyes momentarily. His hands curled into fists.

"I can't!" he yelled, knocking against the door with his whole body. His ribs ached desperately, but he wasn't going to give up, not now.

"I'm not going to choose!" he continued, kicking the door. "Why can't I have both?!"

The door and whatever was blocking it finally gave way under his meager weight. The door budged open just a couple centimeters, just enough for him to see the dresser that had been blocking it tumble down onto his aged grandfather.

"Nonno!" Lovino's scream filled the room, and in that moment his shrill, panicked voice sounded like that of a child. He and Antonio both rushed forward, working to heave the dresser off him and pick his limp, frail body up. He was heavier than expected, perhaps even heavier than his own grandson, and with difficulty they dragged him into his wheelchair.

Breathing heavily to the point of almost hyperventilation, Lovino felt all around him, checking for a pulse, heartbeat, a single breath.

"What… what just happened?" Antonio heard himself say. Lovino didn't answer, ear to Roma's mouth.

"Call 112," said Lovino, rubbing his face with hands as if he could rub it off, grow a new one.

"O- Okay." Antonio rushed over to the telephone, perched on the kitchen counter. He paused. It was an old rotary phone, like the ones in old movies. It had to be thirty years old at least, and he had no idea how to use it.

"Lovi?" he called. "How do I use the phone?"

"You just turn the dial!"

Antonio turned it, and then with a whirring noise, it clicked back into place. He jumped. "It won't-" He turned around, to call out to Lovino, but he was right behind him, marching up to the phone. He shoved Antonio out the way, furiously dialing. He held it to his ear, and talked in Italian for about a minute or so, then slammed it down into the receiver.

"An ambulance is coming," he said, "But they won't be able to get inside the gate and up here. We gotta bring him out to them."

Huffing with effort, Antonio carried the old man on his back down the three flights of stairs. Lovino was waiting for him with the wheelchair at the bottom. Gratefully he plopped the body into the chair and Lovino wheeled him out the door, his grandfather's head bobbing sickly on his limp neck as the wheelchair ran across the bumpy dirt.

Tight-lipped, Lovino approached the ambulance at the gate, the red and blue lights flashing and shining on his dark skin. His grandfather was loaded into the back, and Lovino hoisted himself up as well. Antonio followed after a moment's hesitation, not sure if he was allowed in the ambulance or not.

He sat down beside Lovino, casting a wary glance at him. He was holding himself stiffly, eyes staring straight ahead, blank and glassy. The engine revved and the car began to move, bouncing them on the plastic bench attached to the side of the car.

Lovino slumped forward, head in his hands. His body was still bouncing, rocking with the movement of the car.

"This is all my fault," he muttered, voice shaky. Antonio couldn't tell if it was because of the car or just overwhelming emotion. He attempted to place a hand on Lovino's hunched back, but he shook him off violently, lifting his head just enough so Antonio could see the anger and hurt in his blazing eyes.

"Don't touch me!" he spat. "That's what- what caused-" He buried his face in his hands once more. His fingers, ridged through his hair, dug into his scalp with his nails as if he were attempting to pull his face off. Tufts of soft dark brown hair fell out between his fingers, landing on his lap and the yellow floor of the ambulance, tainted with brown footprints from his dirty sneakers.

"You couldn't help it," said Antonio quietly, attempting to comfort him.

Lovino didn't listen, talking to himself more than anyone else. "I've killed him," he realized, gasping for air, beginning to hyperventilate. "I've killed my own grandfather!"

"Lovi, calm down," commanded Antonio, assuming a false air of authority in the hopes that it might persuade Lovino to calm down, but if anything, it seemed to make him worse. "You didn't kill him. He'll be fine."

"I did, I did, and it's all my fault," he repeated listlessly, tears welling up in his eyes.

Lovino clutched at his grandfather's limp, outstretched hand desperately. He was slumped over so far it was against his forehead, and slow, fat tears dripped from his eyes to the mustard floor of the ambulance, leaving wet clean tracks in his muddy footprints.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to his unconscious grandfather in Italian. "I'm sorry. It's all my fault. I failed you. I'm sorry."

The car stopped with a jolt and Lovino slid off the seat, but corrected himself. He wiped his face clean with the back of his hand, following the nurses limply into the hospital. His head swayed back and forth on his slack neck, yet he walked stiffly. He looked almost like a zombie from a bad horror movie.

Apprehensively Antonio followed. The smell of antiseptic and vomit, combined with the hundreds of beepings from monitors, all out of sync it seemed, and the constant blur of the rushing nurses and doctors, made him feel ill and dizzy.

Finally Roma's stretcher was carted into a room. The door shut in Lovino's face and he stood there, swaying, for almost a minute until he managed to sit down, leaning against the beige wall. Antonio squatted down beside him.

"Alright?" he asked. Lovino didn't answer, pulling his knees to his chest and burying his face in them hopelessly.

"I did this," he said tearfully. "It's my fault."

"He'll be alright," said Antonio, though he was acutely aware that nothing was alright.

"No, he won't, and it'll be all my fault! Why do I always have to do this, why do I always hurt people..?" Lovino tore at his face with his fingernails, strips of skin coming off under the nails. Long red scratches began to appear, contrasting sickly with his dark olive tone.

"Look, I'm sure he'll be fine, and he'll forgive you once he is, so don't worry about it! And stop that, you'll hurt yourself." Antonio pulled Lovino's hands away from his face, held them in his own.

"I deserve it," said Lovino thickly, looking at his hands in his lap, and Antonio's on top of his. He broke away, burying his face in his hands. "I deserve to die."

"No, you don't!" Strangely angry, Antonio placed his arm around Lovino's quaking shoulder, pulled him to his chest. He expected him to protest and pull away, but instead he seemed to invite the embrace, even laying his head on Antonio's shoulder.

"C'mon," he said, rubbing circles into Lovino's back with his thumb. He kissed the top of his head, lingering to enjoy the scent and softness. "Everyone does bad shit sometimes. That doesn't mean that you're inherently a bad person, or that you deserve to die. It just happens, and it sucks ass, but you'll get over it, and Roma will too."

"But I'm always doing bad shit, I'm always making mistakes and hurting people and fucking up- even my name-" he broke off, unable to finish.

"What? What about your name? It's a lovely name."

"No," Lovino shook his head, smearing tears across Antonio's t-shirt. "It- it means.. it means 'to ruin.'" He opened his eyes, looking up at Antonio. A small, hiccupping, sarcastic laugh slipped from his wet lips. "Isn't that ironic?"

Antonio didn't know what to say and instead stroked the back of Lovino's head, running the soft tufts of hair through his fingers. Lovino leaned into his hand, his expression somber once more.

"It'll all be okay," murmured Antonio.

"It won't." Lovino pulled away from Antonio with a sigh, pulled his knees to his chest and buried his head in them hopelessly. "He'll die, and it'll be my fault, because I couldn't control it."

"By… it, do you mean your, er, homosexual tendencies?" suggested Antonio meekly. Lovino shot him a glare, but then nodded slowly, abashedly.

"Well, what's so bad about them?" argued Antonio passionately. "You are what- who- you are, and no one can change that, least of all Roma! He thinks he can- can beat it out of you or something- well, he can't! He's being horrible and you just accept it- why?"

"Because I don't want him to die!" cried Lovino, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "I already made him sick, I already ruined the crops and cursed the farm- I don't want to cause even more damage because of my.. sickness!"

"You're not sick!" insisted Antonio. "You're you! What's so wrong about that?"

"Everything, if it hurts others! I've already done so much- Roma, the crops, Mamma-"

"Since when do crops have to do with anything?!"

"A-After Feli told, and Roma got sick, the crops- there was a disease, some sort of grape virus. Harvest was bad and the farm lost a lot of money, so they laid a bunch of people off, and it was all my fault, because I made God angry!"

Antonio leaned back against the wall, hands on his head. "So thats why the farmers all hate you," he realized. He reached out and patted Lovino on the back.

"It's not your fault," he said simply.

Lovino buried his face in his hands. "I just- I just don't want him to die," he sobbed, voice muffled. "If I kill him too, I'll-"

"Too?" interrupted Antonio, but his question was never answered, for the door swung open and a nurse stepped out.

"He's awake," she said, to the grief-stricken Lovino. "You can come in now." He nodded, getting up eagerly and wiping his face vigorously on his sleeve until it was red and shiny, no trace of tears left.

"I'll go get us some coffee," said Antonio, knowing he shouldn't intrude. Lovino nodded his thanks and stepped in, the white door closing behind him.

"He'll be fine," the nurse whispered in his ear. "Just a little pelvic fracture. As long as he doesn't walk, he should be okay." Tightlipped, yet still relieved, Lovino nodded, making his way to the bed slowly, cautiously. The old man's head lifted, wobbling on his thin stalk of a neck. He looked almost like an alien from a bad movie- withered, his normally dark skin pale, complexion almost translucent; with purple veins, age spots, and tubes covering the rest of his visible skin.

Lovino stopped at the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, hanging his head. He couldn't seem to look Roma in the eyes. There was no response.

"I- I'm sorry," tried Lovino again, this time a little louder. His grandfather merely tsked in disgust, turning his head away as if he couldn't bear to look at him anymore.

"Get out." Roma's voice was quiet, yet seemed deafening, echoing around the sparse walls.

"But-"

"Get out!" He pulled back the covers, apoplectic with rage.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," said the nurse quietly.

"And I'm not fucking going!" exploded Lovino, the anger that he had suppressed the last two years finally bubbling over and overflowing. The hurt and pain from being rejected by his grandfather that first time two years ago still hadn't left him and he couldn't bear the thought of being dragged out yet again. "He's my grandfather- I'm not leaving!"

"You're no grandson of mine!" roared Roma, the monitor beeping dangerously fast, jagged slopes of green LED pulsing on the screen.

"Please, sir," begged the nurse. "You're upsetting him!" She grabbed his arm, attempting to pull him from the room, but Lovino just wrestled it away impatiently, accidentally striking her across the face in the process.

"Security!" she screamed, clutching her reddened cheek. "Security!"

Two burly guards rushed in, their boots thumping against the linoleum like a heartbeat.

"Him again?" one of them grumbled, and each took one of Lovino's arms, beginning to pull him away.

His scuffed sneakers left screeching trails against the floor as he pressed in with his heels, trying to fight the guards, but despite all his kicking and biting and screaming, he was too weak to make much difference. With little effort, the guards managed to drag his emaciated body from the room, dumping him unceremoniously once they had closed the door.

"You gotta stop doing this, man," said one of them.

Breathing heavily, Lovino spat on his shiny black boots before turning and running away.

As he fled from the hospital, he ran past Antonio, knocking into his shoulder, causing him to almost drop the two coffees.

"Whoa- hey! Lovi!" he exclaimed, grappling to put the lids back on, but he had already disappeared out the entrance. Still clutching the two styrofoam cups of coffee, the heat burning into his hand, he chased after him.

A couple feet from the entrance he slowed, then stopped. It was pitch black outside, and Lovino was nowhere to be seen. He hadn't even known which direction he was going, and could barely see apart from the small patches of light from the lamps leading up to the hospital and passing cars.

Sighing, still clutching the coffees, Antonio set off to look for Lovino.

Almost an hour later, in the middle of an empty field, surrounded by barbed wire fencing, Antonio muttered to himself, "How did I get here?"

He seemed to be far away from the road, as he heard no cars nor saw any light apart from the stars. He had found them pretty the night before, twinkling benevolently, but now they seemed to be laughing, jeering at him and he raised his middle finger up towards them. Seeing only the silhouette of his fist and middle finger, edges illuminated by stars, he suddenly felt foolish, idiotic to be flipping off balls of gas millions of miles and years away that had no consequence to him.

Groaning, he continued to walk, hearing only the crunch of dead grass under his shoes. A couple hundred yards later, however, his foot fell on something else, creating a gravely, knocking sound. He lifted his foot, unsure if he had really heard it, and stamped again, harder on the spot, producing the same sound. It was rock.

He squatted down, placing the coffees on the ground and fishing his phone from his pocket, using it to illuminate the spot.

It was a gravestone, a flat stone marker placed on the ground.

Asunta Campagnolo, it read. 1863-1937.

A little guiltily, Antonio jumped off it, hearing the crunch of grass once more. He took another step backwards, clutching the coffees, and almost tripped over another gravestone, this one an actual marker that stuck up from the ground. He felt around. It seemed oval shaped, the stone rough.

He had landed himself in a graveyard. At night. And he was deathly afraid of ghosts.

Quickly he set the coffees down and pulled his phone out of his pocket again, turning it on to use as a light. 7% battery, it read, flashing red. Turning off in 3.. 2.."

He stuffed it back in his pocket, clutching the coffees so hard the styrofoam crunched.

"This is the worst," he said aloud. Something fell on his shoulder and he jumped, crying out in surprise. Then something else landed, on the top of his nose, then the crown of his head, then too many to count. It was raining.

"Seriously?!" he yelled at the sky, but just got water in his eyes. "Godammit," he muttered, beginning to walk again, excruciatingly slow, lifting his legs high with every step. He had the strange idea that a skeletonic hand might poke out from the now wet earth and grab his ankle, or that he'd suddenly feel a breath on the back of his neck or a ghostly hand on his shoulder, but nothing happened, and that was even worse in a way, because then he was constantly expecting it.

And so he trod on, tense, dripping, and irritated. Through the thick pattering of the rain, he thought he heard a voice and almost screamed, but then there was silence once more and he decided it was just his overactive imagination. A couple yards further, and he heard a sound again.

"It's all your fault!" it was yelling, for some reason, in English.

"M-Me?" said Antonio, so astonished at the fact that a ghost was speaking English at him in the middle of an empty Italian graveyard that he was strangely not afraid. It didn't answer, and kept yelling, as if it hadn't heard.

"All the- the dresses and ribbons and L-Lavinia-ing and shit! You made me like this! You made me-" and then it broke off, suddenly. Antonio thought he heard a sob, but couldn't be sure.

Stunned, he stood there, the rain beating down on his head and shoulders.

"Why couldn't I have just been a boy, like I was supposed to?! Why'd you have to make me a girl!? Why couldn't I have just been normal?!"

Antonio frowned. As he neared the source of the noise, the voice sounded suspiciously like Lovino's.

"You fucking bitch!"

There was no doubt about it. It had to be Lovino. No one else could swear so eloquently, so full of spite. He wondered if he should approach him, but had a feeling Lovino didn't want to be approached. He must have chosen to speak in English specifically so that any passerby wouldn't be able to understand him.

Antonio knew he should leave Lovino alone, that it was the right thing to do, but curiosity rooted his feet to the ground and he stood silently, listening.

"You fu-fucki-" There were several progressively heavy thumps that sounded like blows on stone.

"Why didn't you just abort me when you had the chance?!" sobbed Lovino. "You always said you wanted to!" There was another thump.

"Not being born at all would've been better than being born a mistake!" Lovino's voice rang out from amongst the gravestones, so painfully desperate and full of hurt that Antonio couldn't bear to just stand and listen quietly any longer.

Carefully he followed the sound of Lovino's sobs, growing louder with each step. Finally he found him, curled up on his side, sobbing, underneath a gravestone. He could barely see him, just his silvery silhouette, shaking tearfully.

He sat down beside him, leaning against the gravestone. Wet mud squelched as he sat down, soaking the seat of his pants, but he didn't really care.

"Hey," he said simply. Lovino said nothing, continued to cry silently, covered in mud.

"Want some coffee?" he asked, holding out one white styrofoam cup. It was the only thing fully visible in the darkness. He got no response.

Antonio sighed, setting down the cups in the mud. He felt around until he found Lovino's wet, quaking shoulder, and rubbed it.

His friend crying silently beside him, Antonio stared blankly up at the jeering stars. He raised his middle finger.

Hello, I'm sorry about the delay. Many people may be wondering why I deleted the last couple of chapters, and I'm sorry for the confusion.

I got a review from a guest, which said that they were offended with Roma's homophobia, etc, and that it was too excessive. I have to say I agree; to be honest, while I was writing the past few chapters, I was going through a very stressful time and whenever I get stressed, I tend to put my characters through more pain and angst than necessary and exaggerate their characteristics and traits. I quickly looked up some resources to support what I wrote, without taking the time to do proper research. Hence I deleted the chapters and have been rewriting them. The basic plot and premise is still there, but there are a couple changes.

The reviewer also said that in their experience, people are not very homophobic where they live. I am very glad to hear that, but at least in my family history it has not been that lucky. I have never been able to visit Italy myself, so I have to take my descriptions of life/LGBTQIA life in Italy from friends, relatives, and the internet, which are not as positive. I understand that this is not a very accurate method on which to base my story, but it's all I have. Please feel free to correct me, however, if I make a mistake!

There were also several misunderstandings in the reviews as to whether Lovino is transgender or not, etc., and offense because people thought that by Lovino not knowing what a transgender person was, that I thought all Italians don't know what a transgender person is. That is not what I meant at all, and in the next couple of chapters I promise it will all make sense!

Also, Rovino is a conjugation of Italian for Rovinare, which means 'I ruin.' Though Lovino's name in English is spelled with an 'l', in Japanese, it would be spelled with an 'r' so Himaruya may have intended for his name to be pronounced with an 'r' instead, thus giving it the meaning Rovino/Rovinare.

Thank you very much for your support, and special thanks to the reviewer who pointed out my mistakes.