Antonio awoke, curled up in a puddle of water on the dirty bathroom floor. His neck and shoulders ached from his uncomfortable position, and as he sat up he felt a twinge of pain shoot across his jugular. Rubbing his neck, he stood up and attempted to open the door. It didn't budge. He tried again, harder, and it slid open a crack. Lovino was leaning against the door, asleep. His gray blanket was wrapped around him. He must have spent all night like that, Antonio realized, and the guilt hit him like an avalanche. Carefully, he pushed the door enough so that he could get out. Lovino's body slid sickly as the door moved, but he did not wake.

Antonio closed the door, holding Lovino's body up so he didn't crash to the floor. He laid a pillow under his head and pulled the blanket up over him once more, then padded to their room to pack his things.

It was five am when Lovino plodded into the room, bleary eyed.

"Good morning," said Antonio carefully, zipping up his bag. Lovino said nothing, just picked up his duffel bag and exited the room again. Having finished packing, Antonio also left the room, depositing his bag by the door. He heard the clink of bottle against glass and the trickle of liquid as Lovino poured himself a brimming glass of red wine, shaking the bottle vigorously to get out the last drops of alcohol. Antonio opened his mouth to chastise him, but then closed it, figuring he wasn't in any position to criticize after last night.

Last night.

Antonio groaned, sinking down onto a chair and resting his elbows on the table. He rubbed his face sleepily, wishing he could erase the events of last night from his memory.

There was a thud in front of him and he lifted his head to see Lovino place a steaming mug of coffee in front of him.

"Thanks," he mumbled, taking a sip. It tasted strange, oddly sweet and thick.

"I put some chocolate powder in it," explained Lovino quietly, leaning against the counter and sipping his wine. "You like mochas."

Antonio nodded his appreciation and took another sip. The coffee itself wasn't very good, but the sweetness of the chocolate seemed to nullify the usual sawdust-esque taste of the stale coffee.

"About last night-" he blurted, and then stopped, hanging his head.

"Yeah?" Lovino swirled the wine around in his glass.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I lost control, I was really awful and-"

"It's fine."

"Huh?" Antonio raised his head, startled.

"I said it's fine," said Lovino curtly, but by the look of his face, nothing was fine. His eyes were bloodshot, rings of red surrounding them, and dark purple sleep bags hung under his eyes. His face seemed to have been rubbed raw, and had a strange shiny quality to it which Antonio credited to his first layer of skin having been rubbed or scratched clean off. His nails were bitten stubs, the cuticles bloody, and his hair was disheveled and matted.

"Right," said Antonio shakily. Lovino eyed him for a moment longer, and then completely drained his glass in one gulp. He slammed the glass on the counter, then came and pulled a chair out across from Antonio.

"Um, about the flight," Antonio began, knowing that despite the awful timing and situation, it was the only chance he'd get to properly tell Lovino that he was leaving.

"Yeah, I know," said Lovino lazily. "It's at 8:20, so we should leave soon, right?"

"Y-Yeah," Antonio heard himself say, stunned into silence. He had to tell Lovino, but somehow, he just couldn't force himself to open his mouth and actually say the words.

"So finish your coffee and let's go," he said impatiently, standing up and putting on his shoes, kneeling down to tie them.

"Right," muttered Antonio, and finished drinking his coffee.

It was a bit past eight when they made it to the airport. They were in such a hurry to get to the gate before it left that Antonio almost forgot about his having to leave Lovino, until it all came flooding painfully back at the passport check.

"Passport," the guard said in a bored voice. Antonio dug his out of his pocket eagerly and handed it to him. The guard just barely glanced at it before handing it back to him and waved him through.

"Next," they said, and Lovino stepped up. He stood there, silently for a minute, waiting.

"I need your passport, sir," the guard said.

"Yeah, I'm with him," said Lovino in Italian, pointing to Antonio, who was fidgeting nervously on the other side.

"That's nice. We still need to see your passport."

"But he showed you his, and I'm with him, so I can go through." Lovino made a step towards Antonio, but the guard blocked him.

"That's not how it works, sir. I'm sorry, but you can't go through."

"I can!" Lovino switched back to English. "Right, Antonio? I can go through."

Antonio shook his head stiffly, afraid that if he opened his mouth he might vomit. His insides were churning, and he felt as if a great block of ice was in his stomach, melting slowly and spreading cold unpleasantness throughout his entire body.

"I'm sorry, Lovi," Antonio managed to say, hands shaking so bad he dropped his bag. "You can't come."

"The fuck you mean I can't come?! You said-" His words were cut off as a guard gripped his elbow, yanking him backwards forcefully and throwing him off his feet.

"I have to go," croaked Antonio, bile welling in his throat. "I'll be late."

"No- you can't, you can't-" Lovino kicked the guard in the shin, making him lose his hold momentarily. He took the chance and surged forward, only managing a couple of feet before the guard grabbed him round the chest and hauled him backwards.

Antonio took a couple steps backward, dragging his bag with him. His whole body felt wooden, limbs moving stiffy. He had to go, he was already so late, but he couldn't leave Lovino. Not like this.

"Lovi, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh god, I'm so sorry," repeated Antonio relentlessly, wiping tears and snot from his face with his sleeve. "I have to go." He forced himself to turn around, pick up his bag, take a step.

"No- No, you can't, you can't do this- don't do this to me! Antonio!" Lovino's voice grew fainter as Antonio walked on, guilt and self-hate filling every pore until it seemed to be seeping out of him. He clapped a hand over his mouth to keep himself from crying out to Lovino, clenched his fists until his fingernails dug into the palms of his hands and his knuckles were white.

"You bastard!" screamed Lovino, voice cracking. "You fucking bastard- you said I'd never have to be alone anymore!"

The words hit Antonio like a blow and he wavered slightly on his feet, legs shaking underneath him. "I'm sorry," he tried to say, but the words caught in his mouth and choked him. Lovino's cries grew fainter and fainter as he walked further away, until the sound of him swearing fully disappeared.

Somehow Antonio managed to make it to his plane in time and boarded, eager to escape the sickening white glare from the fluorescent LED lights reflecting off the marble pietra dura airport floors; the red dry mud that crumbled into dirt under his heels and infiltrated every inch of him until the shower ran red and brown with dirt; the tiny, moldy apartment with one window that let in drafts but not air, with dim yellow lights that only served to show how worn down and old the place really was; and of course, the voice of Lovino, screaming, yelling, begging, swearing as he walked away coolly- how could he just walk away?- it echoed inside his head, his bones; it seemed to be running through his very veins: "You said I wouldn't have to be alone anymore!"

A wave of nausea overwhelmed Antonio suddenly and he clapped a hand over his mouth to stop himself from projectile vomiting onto the person in front of them and their overly-gelled coiffeur. How could he do this? How could he just leave? He had done everything that he had said he wouldn't, he had broken all his promises and vows, and for what? For Emma? But even the once-comforting thought of Emma made him feel ill- he had cheated on her, he had betrayed her, too- who would love him now? Who would fill the empty space in his hand while walking; who would curl up on the couch next to him with a bucket of popcorn and laugh when he screamed at the scary bits; who would comfort him when he came to their apartment at two in the morning, crying over a failed exam or an unlucky animal he had seen, dead by the side of the road? Certainly not Emma, nor Lovino, whom he abandoned. He couldn't even find it in himself to love himself. And how could he? How could he love himself, when he had violated the trust of his best friend and ruined everything he held dear?

He had to get off the plane. He had to find Lovino, wherever he was by now, and apologize. He needed to call up Emma, and explain his predicament, and accept whatever punishment or distrust that brought.

With shaking hands he unbuckled and began to stand up. He was easing his way out of the aisle when the plane jolted, starting to roll forwards at higher and higher velocity, preparing to take off. He was knocked off his feet and tumbled onto the lap of the person sitting behind, apologizing maniacally in Spanish, English, and broken Italian, and attempted to stand up again and walk out, only to fall again as the nose of the plane tilted upwards and it began to fly.

"Sorry, sorry, lo siento, er- mi dispiace..?" he said repeatedly to the disgruntled passenger on whose lap he had fallen. A flight attendant appeared, berating him in Italian, and desperately he tried to signal that he spoke little to no Italian, but his gestures were mistaken for signs of agreement, for the flight attendant moved on, wobbling a bit in her heels.

Knowing that attempting to get back on the ground by now was futile, Antonio abashedly moved back to his seat, making it a point to step on the passenger who had sworn at him's foot as he did so. Hopelessly he stared out of the window, watching the brown and green squares of farmland grow smaller and smaller as the plane gained altitude and wondering which one was Lovino's division, until Palma Campania was swallowed up by clouds and disappeared completely.

Lovino watched as Antonio walked away, tantalizingly slowly. He screamed until his throat was raw, struggled against the guard with all his might, but none of it made any difference. Antonio was gone, and he was stuck here, left behind and forgotten; unwanted. Again.

The speck that was Antonio finally disappeared from sight, and the anger that had been feeding Lovino's verbal and physical rampage wore out until all he felt was cold, buzzing numbness. He fell to his knees- he knew this because of the sudden pain in his kneecaps- and the guard who had been holding him let go, the full weight of Lovino's now-limp body weighing him down.

Thickly, as if through water or syrup, he heard the guard's voice, first in nervous, accented English, then in Italian,

"Sir? Are you alright?"

Lovino closed his eyes, getting to his feet. He didn't want to see the cold, harsh white interior of the airport anymore. "Yeah," he tried to say, but no sound came out and, surprised, he held a hand to his throat.

"Sir?" asked the guard again. Lovino nodded, unable to speak. It was a moment before he swallowed saliva, wetting his raw, scratched throat, and found his voice.

"I'm fine," he said quietly, and then again, louder, more for himself than the guard. He turned and, head bowed, eyes lowered so that all he could see was the shoddy pietra dura marble floors- he could do better, he thought briefly- and his scuffed sneakers, walked past the guard and back to the entrance of the airport, where he cast one last look at the gleaming walls, floors, and ceiling, before leaving.

Upon leaving he checked his pockets, then his bag, and discovered he had used up the last of his money for the bus fare to the airport, and that he had none for the ride back. He swore, loudly, startling a mother pushing a pram, and sat down in the middle of the sidewalk, removing his shoes and checking the lining, ripping open the seams in his jeans and jacket to see if he had sewn any coins into them, sweeping the bottom of his duffel bag, finding only sweet wrappers and crumpled photographs. He felt something that had a papery texture and eagerly pulled it out, but all he found in his hand was the wrinkled pamphlet that Antonio had asked about so many months earlier: "Overcoming Social Anxiety: How to Interact With Others." He stared at it for a moment before promptly ripping it up into tiny pieces and throwing them into the road.

Groaning, he rested his head in his hands, rocking back and forth on his heels. He had no money to get back to Palma Campania, let alone to his home three miles from there. He was left with no other option- hitchhike, or walk. Not wanting to have to deal with truckers mistaking him for a girl or the lingering fear that whomever was giving him a ride was a serial killer, which always seemed to haunt him whenever he hitchhiked, he settled for walking.

It was going to be a long day.

The noon sun was glowering on Lovino's back and neck by the time he got to Palma Campania, his dark hair and skin glistening with sweat. It was not actually very hot, rather a pleasant cool, but the light of the sun reflecting off of his almost-black hair just served to make him sweat more. He was acutely aware that he hadn't washed since yesterday morning, nor had he eaten since then either with the exception of wine, coffee, and sugar packets, and that his throat was so parched and dry from all his yelling and coughing and breathing trouble in general that he was surprised it hadn't just cracked in two like the hardened mud he trode on. His shoelaces dragged behind him, he was too tired to actually squat down and tie them. He passed the hospital, the door open, welcoming, yet also somehow appearing sinister in the heat haze. Lovino hesitated in front of it, the image of Roma screaming at him still firmly imprinted in his brain, replaying on a constant loop in the background, but a gust of cool, air-conditioned air hit him like a slap in the face and he made his decision.

He washed his hair in the sink, and took off his shirt and used the soap dispenser, paper towels, and the sink water to scrub himself until his skin was raw and gleaming under the LED lights. Memories of doing this exact same thing in the many public bathrooms and venues back in America, when he had no place to wash, filtered into his mind and distracted him temporarily from the overwhelming, numbing reality that Antonio had left and wasn't coming back, that he was all alone just as he had been back in the home, with countless other children teasing, pulling at his pigtails and skirt; touching, touching, touching him relentlessly, trying to discover 'which' he was, as if there were only two default options; that the only person he had now was one who hated him and did their best to remind him every day of that fact; that he was completely, utterly, undeniably: unlovable and unneeded.

Lovino scrubbed harder, skin aching. The dark, tanned, olive tone gave way to red, clashing horribly with the pale pink of the soap suds. He washed his arms, then under them, and his chest. He was washing his waist, water seeping into his pants, when he saw in the mirror, partially hidden by the soap suds, his scar.

His fingers lingered over it, feeling the minute bump in his skin from where the twisted metal shrapnel had pierced his side as he leaped over his little brother at the last minute, shielding him but ultimately wounding himself. Just last night, a mere handful of hours ago, Antonio had touched him here- nay, caressed, the sensation of his fingers still lingering as if his skin bore a second scar- and now he would never touch him again, never see him. And who, if not Antonio, would touch him now; who, if not Antonio, would love him?

But he never loved you.

He wasn't sure where the thought had come from, if it were in his head or if he or some unknown person had spoken it aloud, but the fact of it remained, and he knew it was true. Though he had not eaten, he felt nauseous, and his stomach churned emptily, mixing horribly with his hunger pains. Lovino rushed to a toilet, not bothering to close the stall door behind him, and tried to vomit, tried to rid himself of the evil and rage and sadness inside him. He couldn't, and even when he stuck his right hand as far down his throat as he could, all that came up was water and mucus, the contents of his stomach empty. And then he began to laugh, bile dripping off his chin and into the toilet bowl, because that's all he was- empty.

Though he didn't want to, Lovino's feet carried him down the hall to his grandfather's room. He paused outside, wondering if he should knock, but decided not to. His wet clothes and hair dripping on the linoleum floor, he stepped past the ajar door and into the room.

His grandfather was shielded from view by a lime green curtain that just the sight of made Lovino want to puke again. Yet somehow, ignoring the blinding glare that burned his retinas, he pushed it back and pulled up a chair beside his grandfather's bed. He was asleep, heart monitor beeping peacefully. He watched him sleep, the gentle rising and falling of his chest accompanied with the occasional snort or meaningless grumble calming and soothing. Lovino found himself nodding off as well, and it wasn't long before he was slumped over in his chair, sleeping soundlessly.

He awoke with a start, and noticed that it was now sunset, the lowering orange sun filtering through the blinds and elongating the surrounding shadows until it seemed they were looming ominously over him. He turned to check the time(a little past five), and noticed with a jolt of panic that his grandfather was awake, watching him curiously.

"Hi," he said shakily, hands gripping the edges of his chair.

"Did you piss yourself?"

"Huh?" Lovino was startled out of his nervousness by the absurdity of the question, and followed Roma's eyes to below the chair, where a small puddle had gathered from the wetness of his clothes.

"No!" he said indignantly. "My clothes got wet." Comprehension registered in the weary brown eyes of his grandfather, but he said nothing. Lovino scooted his chair closer to the bed, flinching at the loud, unholy scraping noise the legs made against the floor.

"H-How are you?" he asked, reaching a hand out instinctively and then faltering, letting it drop back down to his lap.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine!" said Lovino, a little too quickly. Roma rolled his eyes and turned to his side, facing away from him.

"What about you?" he asked again, a tone of desperation in his voice. "How is your hip? Did the doctors say wh-"

"What did he do to you?" interrupted Roma. His voice was quiet, yet somehow it seemed deafening in the tiny room, echoing off the walls.

"Nothing! He's fine!" rushed Lovino, his voice raising several pitches in his panic.

"He left, didn't he?"

Lovino chewed his lip, not wanting to admit it, but knowing he had no choice. He settled for saying nothing, hoping that the absence of words would persuade his grandfather into silence as well.

"I thought so." Roma confirmed everything that Lovino hadn't said. "Those men, they're all the same. You can't trust them."

"He's not-" protested Lovino, but then fell short.

"What, he's not like that? Is that what you wanted to say?" Shadows and light danced across his grandfather's still form, only his jaw and beard moving. Orange-yellow tinted his white beard and the sheets, so it appeared that he was lightly coated in butter. "But he left you, didn't he? He had a girl on the side, didn't he? Or am I wrong?"

"We weren't… like that," said Lovino, a lump swelling in his throat. "We were just friends."

"Were you?"

Lovino slumped over in his chair, digging his fingers through his hair. "I..."

"I was just trying to protect you."

"Wha..?" Lovino lifted his head, slowly, to see Roma had rolled back onto his back, his neck turned to the side so he could see him.

"All of this," he lifted one veined, wrinkled hand, the IV attached to his index finger flashing in the dimming light, "I did for you. I'm trying to help you, to cure you. So you don't fall into the traps of men like him."

"You what?"

"I'm just trying to help you," repeated Roma. "That's all I've been doing. You're confused, and," he let out a small, sarcastic, laugh, "who can blame you, after what your mother did to you?"

Lovino stared at him, aghast. Sadness and defeat gave way to indefatigable, overwhelming anger that boiled inside his veins like a pot ready to overflow.

"You can change, if you'd just let me-"

"Let you what?" interrupted Lovino. "Let you hit me whenever I cried?"

"It was for your own good," said Roma, voice lowering. His eyes flashed dangerously. "You know, I've been hurting too. But you never stopped to consider my feelings, did you?"

"Your feelings? Are you fucking kidding me?!" Lovino stood up angrily, the chair falling to the floor with a clattering noise.

"Don't take that tone of voice with me!"

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want, because according to you, I'm not your grandson anymore!"

Roma stared at him for a moment, his weathered brown eyes sharp with rage. "Sit down," he said quietly.

"No," defied Lovino.

"I said sit down!" roared Roma, frightening Lovino so much he almost fell over in his panic. Defeated, Lovino picked up the chair again and sat in it, glaring at his grandfather indignantly.

"I just want to help," said his grandfather again, more menacing than sincere. "I don't understand how you can be so ungrateful."

"Ungrateful? What should I be grateful for? For when you kicked me out; for when you refused to speak to me for months; for when you cut me out of your will? Or should I thank you for the times when I slept outside in the snow; when I got sick from eating rotten food in the dumpster behind Burger King; when mold grew in my lungs and I couldn't breathe without the aid of a fucking tube?! If so, thanks a lot!"

"You.." Roma licked his dry lips nervously, beard quivering. "You never told me about any of that!"

"You didn't listen!" snapped Lovino. Breathing heavily from his rant, he grabbed his duffel bag and stood up, turning to leave.

"Wait," called out Roma, and reluctantly, he turned.

"What?" asked Lovino impatiently.

"I.. I never intended for any of that to happen," said Roma, his eyes pleading.

"Too late," said Lovino coldly, and left, slamming the door behind him.

Emma was waiting at the gate for Antonio when he arrived. She looked prettier than ever, in a new dress patterned with sunflowers. It made him want to throw up.

"Hey!" she cried, waving her arms excitedly as he approached. "Toni!"

He forced a smile, his suitcase feeling like a ball and chain dragging behind him as he walked towards her. Her face fell- obviously he was more transparent than he had previously thought.

He stopped, about a foot in front of her.

"Hi," he said, voice hoarse.

She brushed back her bangs impatiently. "What's wrong?" she asked. Antonio didn't know how to answer, so he just decided not to. Still she seemed to understand, and touched his arm lightly, saying,

"It's just three years." Antonio hung his head.

"I know," he muttered. "But still." Lovino hates me now, he wanted to say. And you will, too.

Almost a week had passed since Antonio left. School had started, and though the work was already piling up on him, he couldn't seem to do it, or much of anything. He just stared at his textbooks and notes and figures until his eyes blurred and it was well past midnight, but was unable to move, to think. He had long since turned his phone off for good, after several texts and missed calls from Emma causing his phone to vibrate almost constantly. He avoided going to the coffee shop, or even passing it, taking a longer, more painstaking route to work so that he wouldn't have to see the warmth inside, the new replacement for Lovino.

Six months later, Antonio got a letter. It was addressed to him in spiky, messy blue ink. The envelope was crumpled, and when he lifted it, the faint scent of grapes and dish soap permeated the room. There was no return address.

Fumbling, he opened the envelope, accidentally ripping it in the process. He swore, and then apologized as if the envelope could hear him. With trembling fingers, he reached inside and pulled out the letter, scrawled in the same handwriting.

He dyed yesterday, it read. His last words was 'where's Feliciano?'

There was no signature, but Antonio already knew who had sent it. He traced his fingers over the wrinkled paper, hoping to find something in the words, in the blue ink blotched by tears, but he found nothing. There was a strand of hair caught in the folds of the paper, and it glistened dark brown by his lamplight. Antonio picked it up, held it to the light. Then, for a reason he did not know- perhaps to rid himself of the emptiness, sitting in his bowels and threatening to consume him- he put it in his mouth. It sat on his tongue, itching uncomfortably against the roof of his mouth. It tasted like nothing. He swallowed, then carefully folded the note back up and placed it in the envelope, which he put under his pillow, with the thank you note Lovino had written him so long ago and the photo he had taken of him while he was in the hospital: red-faced, angry yet still smiling, looking beautiful in a way Antonio would never get to see again.

Hello, Liesel here.

I received so many encouraging messages and reviews that I have decided to not delete the story like I said I would in the last chapter. However, I may take it down for a while to rewrite it so that it is not so inaccurate and offensive. I'm very sorry to have caused alarm.

Thank you so, so, so much to everyone who commented and messaged me, it really made me feel a lot better about something which I'm insecure in, and persuaded me to not delete this story. I will keep working hard, and I hope I live up to meet your approval! Thank you very, very much to all readers.

I'm sorry that I made you all worry.