Chapter 16 : Reunificación

Sleep did not come to the Italian that night. He lay quietly on his bed after the candle burned out, still fully clothed, listening to his brother's and sister's voices down below, and the occasional step of servants past his door. It was all irritating noise to Lovino, who couldn't hear what was being said and had too much on his mind to care. After a long time the noise finally died down, along with the rest of the candlelight, leaving the halls in peaceful quiet.

Only now did Lovino stir. Fumbling about, he lit another candle, and by its light wrote a short note to Feliciano and Chiara. Not without a twinge of guilt, but hell if they knew what this departure meant to him. At least they knew he could take care of himself now. His wound was healed and he had more important things to do than sit around being pampered.

And at the top of his list was finding a certain Spaniard.

Quietly he removed the loose brick in the wall next to his bed. By the faint light he could just see his untouched store of money, wrapped in an old cloth—he had been saving it for a day like this. Lovino took everything and concealed it as best as he could in his clothes. That done, he went down into the courtyard, took a little food from the kitchen, and borrowed a set of old clothes from Fabio.

The sky had already begun to lighten, a pale blue-grey hue, by the time Lovino finally slipped through the heavy back gates to freedom. He walked quickly, and, making sure to avoid the main canals—where the gondoliers would surely recognize him—he made for the inn where Antonio had once stayed.

His timing was not far off. As he arrived at the door he found Alessandro was already there and preparing to set out. The blond northerner's blue eyes met Lovino's just once, rather coolly, and then he bowed very courteously.

"We are leaving together then, signore?"

"Yes," Lovino said shortly. "For a while at least. And I have this for you to deliver later." He reached into his pocket and brought out the letter he had written a few hours since. Alessandro took it almost quietly until he saw the money which accompanied it.

"Antonio pays me, Signor Vargas," he explained for what must have been the thousandth time.

"Take it anyway."

"You gave me more this time, signore. Is this for—"

"No, damn you, it is not an apology for when I punched you. And don't lose the letter."

"I would hope I haven't given you reason to doubt me," said Alessandro with a touch of irony. Lovino rewarded him with a few choice words for good measure, but they didn't seem to affect him.

Damn Antonio for telling him so much.

"Just hurry the fuck up," Lovino sighed, in a gentler tone this time. "And don't call me Signor while we're there."

Fifteen minutes later, as the sun rose, they found themselves on board a cargo ship bound for Trieste. It was better this way, Alessandro assured him, since two men riding through the countryside could easily be attacked by bandits. There was also the question of speed.

Lovino had no time for such calculations, however. He was already busy arguing with the captain to do that for them.

"What do you mean, 'probably within the day'? How many hours? You've gone this way before, haven't you? You should know!"

It was hard to tell whether he was intentionally trying to be rude as opposed to quiet and therefore suspicious, or whether this was just the way he managed his daily affairs. Judging by the unfriendly encounters he had endured so far, Alessandro supposed the latter was most likely. Lovino's only good fortune, he thought halfheartedly, was that he had the wealth and status to do whatever he liked.

Still, everyone could use a little help now and then. Shaking his head, he shoved his way into the argument and pulled Lovino aside before he could start administering to the captain's thick skull.

"You will have to forgive my friend, Capitano," said Alessandro quickly, stopping the man mid-insult. "He is simply anxious about a friend of his in Trieste, who is quite sick and wishes to see him. Things like these tend to take their toll on one's state of mind." And he patted Lovino sympathetically, or tried to, before he was roughly brushed off. The captain at least seemed to believe him and bestowed on Alessandro a much friendlier look.

"Well, I'll see to it that he has a quiet corner to rest," he said gruffly and ordered his sailors to do just that. Alessandro thanked him and made his way over to where Lovino sat stewing in his anger.

"You weren't telling the truth when you said he was sick, were you?" he hissed when they were both out of earshot.

"Of course not. You need to stop worrying about everything."

Lovino grimaced. "Every time you omit the word 'Signor' it hangs in the air like a dead weight."

"You told me not to say it."

"Still. This is strange. Or maybe it's just because I don't like you."

Alessandro rolled his eyes as Lovino looked off in the other direction. "I don't think either of us has a choice at the moment," he muttered.

He received only a glare in response, and received it calmly, not only because Lovino looked ridiculous with it but also because Antonio had told him to expect such things. It seemed Lovino had also been thinking along the same lines, because the next question out of his mouth had to do with the Spaniard.

"Tell me about Antonio."

"I have already," Alessandro tried, just to be difficult, but Lovino's face brooked no argument. He sighed. "Fine. You want to hear all I know about him, from the minute I met him?"

"Do I even need to say yes?" Lovino's eyes glittered. "Fucking tell me. If you've told me, tell me again."

Alessandro did so. It was not a very long tale. Then, as now, he had been a young servant; though at first under the employment of a cruel and unkind master, beside whom Lovino seemed almost an angel (here Lovino interjected with a well-placed insult, and a demand to skip the irrelevant things). He had run away and looked for work, which brought him to the shipyards of Trieste, which was where he found Antonio dripping wet from jumping off the ship.

"He really does like doing that, doesn't he?" Lovino grumbled to no one in particular.

"He asked me to help him, and I thought he might be a lawbreaker—but he looked too kind for that, and he didn't turn out to be. They needed more work in the shipyards, so I introduced him to it. He's been at it ever since. He treats me like a younger brother. I live with him—"

"You what?"

"—and some of the other men in a small inn nearby. Very friendly our boss is, too. Anyway—"

"How is he now?" Lovino interrupted again. "Is he healthy? Does he eat and sleep well?"

"Do I look like I sneak into his room to check on him?"

"Just answer my damn questions."

"Well, by all appearances he's fine. He didn't get thin or get sick, if that's what you mean. He eats and sleeps like everyone else, or at least I think so." Alessandro paused for a minute. "The only thing I've seen out of the ordinary is that he looks sad. When he thinks no one sees him, he stares off into space and just sighs to himself."

"Fucking shit." Lovino bit his lip and glanced away, his face working. "That stupid bastard. As if I was any different—"

"He asks after you too, you know."

Lovino was silent then. He did not speak for a long time, and stared out past the ship's deck at the horizon, their destination a small speck across the sea. Now completely ignored, Alessandro observed him.

He was a strange man, he decided at last. Strange enough to become fixated on Antonio and not someone else half as wealthy as the Vargas family. But the look in his eyes, although it had been harsh a few minutes prior, was now softer and (for Lovino) almost kind. It was the look of someone truly in love, the same look Antonio had worn whenever he lapsed into his daydreams.

"Are we almost there yet?" Lovino shouted out yet again, earning only a vague reply from the captain. Once more he stood and marched over to have the last word.

Once more Alessandro followed him, wondering what in the world he had done to get stuck with such a companion.

Though three months had passed since his first day's work at the shipyards, Antonio still found it challenging to drag himself out of bed before dawn. Having his own say in daily affairs had been a luxury only known to pirate captains. But he had renounced it long ago and welcomed the hard work for all it was worth.

Today should have been no different, but it was. He could feel it in his chest, could feel it in the air. Even the sky seemed to dawn strangely slow, as though in preparation for something to happen. But there was only one thing Antonio wanted to happen, and he couldn't will it.

As the other sailors rose, he left his hammock and went up to the deck. The ship was nearing land—nearing Trieste, home. The captain was shouting.

"Get ready to drop anchor!"

His order was quickly obeyed as the ship approached the shore. Antonio was ready with the docking lines, and jumped off to secure them. The other men lowered the gangplank and he helped to set it against the ship. Then they began unloading the cargo the captain had brought back from their short trip to the nearby Italian ports.

According to the captain—even now it was strange referring to another as captain—according to him the trip had originally been intended to last a week. But some of the goods had been perishable and three days ago they had come back to Trieste to leave them. That was when Antonio had sent his letter off with Alessandro.

Three days and he might well be back, with news. It did not take long to sail from Trieste to Venice. Antonio could have done so himself... if only his work didn't require him to make such frequent appearances.

His heart still felt hollow whenever he thought of Lovino. What was he doing right now? If he had received the letter, there was no way he'd have missed Antonio's mention of Trieste. He could be coming at this very moment—no, thought the Spaniard, quickly banishing that thought. It was best not to get his hopes up.

Working was always the remedy for such things. And he had work now. Lugging the crates took away just enough of his strength that he had none to spare for melancholy thoughts.

"Eh, Antonio," said one of his companions, a burly man called Lorenzo. "You're going the wrong way. We're putting them boxes over here this time." Someone nearby laughed.

"Sorry," Antonio answered, forcing a smile and wiping his forehead on his sleeve. He was tired, but there was no way he could admit it.

"Here." The man set down his crate and moved to help Antonio. "You've got a heavy 'un, anyway. Takes enough mindpower just figurin' how to lift it like you do."

The work was finished quickly, mostly because of people like Lorenzo, who was strong enough for two men. And then they had the rest of the morning to themselves, a rare freedom. Most of the men were all for going to the taverns, but that was the last thing Antonio wanted to do.

"Sure you don't want to go with us?" Lorenzo asked, putting a heavy hand on the Spaniard's shoulder. "You look like you could use a drink."

"No, I'm fine." Antonio gave him a more genuine smile and made his way back to the small inn near the shipyards. Distantly he could hear another ship docking, but didn't have the heart to go and watch it. It was none of his business now; his work was done for another hour or two and there were others taking his place.

He went all the way up to the entrance, then paused, his hand inches from pushing open the door. He knew what he would do when he went inside: go directly to his room, lock the door, and lie down. Then he would spend one or two hours staring at the ceiling, with thoughts of his Italian racing through his head. He might even read his letters over again, like he did every day.

At last Antonio thought better of it and crossed over to the woods, finding an abandoned tree stump and sitting down. It was quiet here, almost too quiet in the shade. He could still hear voices from the inn, and birdsong in the trees nearby, but it was all faint and muffled to his ears; his own heartbeat was louder. He found himself holding his breath with the tenseness of the surroundings, as though waiting for something, someone... but it might simply turn out to be nothing.

It always did—

"Antonio!"

He glanced up and saw the shock of blond hair and the youthful face with its barely concealed excitement. Alessandro was running—not walking, running—with a letter clutched in his hand, his face glowing.

"He wrote back!"

Antonio's heart leapt and he reached for the letter, tearing it open eagerly. It was heavier than before; he soon found out why. A familiar golden chain fell out into his palm—his own necklace. Lovino had found it and sent it back.

Grasping it tightly, Antonio devoured the words written in ink on the page, and involuntarily a smile made its way to his face.

"He's coming...? Did he tell you this?"

Alessandro gave a nod; he looked as if he might leap up and disappear into the trees at any second. "He said he's coming to see you. He left right away after giving me the letter. Who knows, he could be here now..."

"You're—you're not serious," Antonio whispered disbelievingly.

"Since when is Lovino Vargas not serious?"

The new voice rang through the air like the peal of a bell, jarring Antonio's heartstrings and stopping him before he could draw breath. Rough, with that barely concealed undercurrent of affection—it was his voice.

Slowly Antonio looked up from the letter.

There he stood, several feet away, partly in shadow from the waving branches of the trees around them, looking achingly, heartbreakingly familiar. His brown hair was tousled by the wind, his eyes still that same intense shade of hazel. But Lovino's face had grown paler than Antonio had last seen it, slightly thinner; his gaze held a degree of sorrow that Antonio had become accustomed to feeling. There he stood, his mouth a stubborn tight line, waiting for Antonio to say something, to acknowledge his presence.

"Lovino," he said at last, and the still picture moved, running forward with impossible speed to meet him halfway in the clearing. The familiar warmth and strength of his arms snaked around Antonio's waist; he lifted his face to meet the Spaniard's. And that was how Antonio knew this was real—Lovino's lips against his, their arms around each other.

He was really here.

"Antonio," the Italian whispered raggedly, holding onto him as if Antonio were his lifeline, as if he never wanted to break away again, never wanted to let go.

And he didn't let go.

Neither did Antonio.