Like Always

[by Fish]

He's there. He knows he's there. That fucking Spaniard is always there, hanging out in the art room every Thursday lunch break. It's been like this for weeks, no, months now, and unless the Spaniard has gotten bored, it'll be the same thing this week.

Lovino grips his lunch bag tighter, mouth drawn in a flat line, eyes locked on the door leading to the art classroom down the hall. If the Spaniard is there (the door is slightly ajar, so he has to be in there already), it'll be the same thing, just like every week. That stupid smile, those stupid twinkling eyes, that really nice brown hair that he just wants to run his hand through just once, and that damned laugh that makes his insides churn and shake and he just wants to go over there and fucking kiss him and can't you see what you're putting me through how is it possible that you haven't noticed yet-

Lovino's ears twitch, and his stomach does a cartwheel when he hears laughter coming down the hallway. It's like fucking bells or some shit, low and high and musical all the same no matter what pitch he's laughing at. That fucking moron. Lovino feels his heart skip a beat, and another, and another. He gulps, beelines for the door, hands sweating, heart beating thmpthmpthmpthmpthmp in his throat, free hand already reaching out to swing it open so he can make his entrance like always-

Another voice comes through the door, high and embarrassed. "Ve~ It really wasn't that funny!" A chuckle, and then:

"Everything you say is funny, Feli." A low voice, a cheesy line, a softly-spoken nickname.

Lovino freezes in his tracks, hand hovering over the door knob. Grips his lunch bag even tighter. Closes his eyes. Slowly takes a deep breath. Calm down. And then yanks the door open with a crash, walks in with the force of a small storm. Antonio and Feliciano stare silently as he enters, all conversation temporarily paused. Feliciano is sitting by the window near the door, the sun shining gently onto his easel (it's too bright to make out what he's painting exactly, but it's probably something magnificent and amazing, like always); Antonio, the bastard, has stolen the stool from a nearby easel and is perched on it, hair glowing with the sunlight behind him (he looks like a work of art, a sculpture from the Grecian era, an angel from heaven here to grace them with his presence, like always). Lovino quickly heads for his easel, shoes slapping the tile floor. His canvas is still sitting where he left it, on the other side of the room from when he had class earlier that day. He loosens his grip on his lunch (his knuckles are turning white, he notes) and settles down, waiting for them to pick up conversation again, the clock on the wall tick-tick-ticking away the minutes left of their precious lunch period.

When neither speak up, he steadies himself, then turns his head around and glares at them. They're both still staring at him, like he's a fucking zoo animal, the silence so thick Lovino could have cut some off and eaten it for lunch rather than this gross cafeteria shit.

Feliciano has the decency to finally smile and wave merrily (what a great brother, really, does his presence mean nothing? Nothing at all?), while the Spanish bastard simply gives him a small smile and a small nod in acknowledgement. (Even those small gestures are enough to make his heart make a noticeable THUD in his chest fuck-) Still, neither speaks up. Internal sigh.

"What?" Lovino finally growls, still glaring. "You got a problem with me being here?" He directs the heat of his glare at the Spanish bastard, who visible shrinks backwards a little, his body leaning away from Feliciano, a nervous grin on his face. Lovino's heart aches a little. No, don't make that look, no-!

"No no!" Feliciano quickly says. "Stay, we don't mind! The more the merrier!" But there's a small frown on his face, as if he has something to say. Lovino catches the younger twin's eyes staring at the space between their easels, the number of empty seats separating the two brothers, the biting of the lip that means he's gathering the courage to say something, and immediately the glare is redirected in his direction. Whether he actually notices the glare or it's animal instinct kicking in, Feliciano quickly looks around his easel at Antonio instead. "Right, Toni?"

Lovino thinks he sees something dark flash across the Spaniard's face, but a blink later and there's a smile plastered on his face. "No, no, no me importa! Let us know if we're being a bother!" He flashes a small grin at Lovino.

Lovino's stomach flops around a little, and he quickly looks always, hoping his face doesn't give away the heat rising in his cheeks. His mind instantly captures the smile (a grin, that grin is for him, a grin is just part way to a smile, right?) but the pain in his chest reminds him of the reality of that small static grin. He grits his teeth and doesn't respond, instead staring at his easel, a death grip on his lunch. His hand is shaking.

No, of course they don't mind. Isn't that how they always respond? Isn't this how the conversation goes when he walks in, every time?

A glance in their direction tells him they're both still waiting for an answer. As if he is the gatekeeper to their conversation. Like every other week. So he turns to look at his canvas fully, sets down his lunch-he's not hungry anymore-and responds dully:

"Do whatever the fuck you want."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Feliciano smile brightly, distantly hears him cheer and tell Lovino to join them-a request that is ignored-distantly hears him restart the conversation Lovino had cut with his noisy entrance. Antonio brightens up (had he imagined the shadow earlier?) and avidly replies to Feliciano, a genuine smile lighting up his entire face, his entire being glowing (or was that the sunlight?). Lovino notices the softness in his eyes (they're so green, even from this distance), the warmth in his smile (his teeth are so shiny in the sunlight, they could blind the already blind), the gradual forward lean of his body, hands gripping the edge of the stool as if it's the only thing keeping him rooted to reality.

Most importantly, he notices how all of those things are directed at Feliciano.

Lovino turns to his canvas. His stomach sinks. His heart sinks. He picks up his paintbrush and adds to a sad stroke of dull red to his canvas. The conversation continues, a steady stream of noise and laughter coming from across the room, enveloping him and suffocating him and keeping him rooted to his stool, food forgotten as his eyes stare at his single stroke of color. That dull shade, pure red tainted with the ugliness of gray. He adds another stroke in the same shade.

And so lunch continues. Like always.

"Lovi," Feliciano whines. They're standing in the hallway, classmates streaming around them in a bid for freedom. Lovino's locker is wide open as he sorts through it for things he needs before they head back home for the weekend.

Lovino makes a noncommittal grunt, so Feliciano continues. "Ve~ Lovi, why did you change places?"

Lovino shrugs as he takes out his textbooks. "I don't know what you're fucking talking about." Math textbook, History…did they have homework in history?

"You know~!" The younger twin taps his foot on the ground, one cheek puffed out as he stares at the older twin. "You suddenly changed places in art class last week! With that tall German guy from our year! I mean, not that I'm complaining he's a pretty good artist andkindofcute-not that you're bad or anything! Or not cute!" Lovino pauses to glare at him, but Feliciano doesn't seem to notice and continues with a dramatic sigh, "But I miss having my fratello next to me while I paint!"

Lovino hmphs as he rummages through the stacks of papers and books. What were they reading in class again? Not Shakespeare, they finished that yesterday. "The sun was fucking getting in my eyes so I moved. And you can use that damned Spaniard to keep you company-" He pauses, then shoots him a suspicious glare, eyes squinting. "Wait, what was that about the German?"

"But you always look so lonely!" Feliciano whines, deftly ignoring the second question. "If it's the sun, we can just move to you, right?"

"I'm not lonely, dammit!"

"Ve~ Really?" He leans on Lovino's back, nudging him with the side of his head affectionately. "But you always look like you want to join us during lunch..."

"Tsk!" Lovino stuffs his chemistry textbook into his bag and does his best to throw off Feliciano. "I don't know what you're seeing, but you and that Spanish bastard are always making so much noise, it's fucking annoying!"

"You could leave-"

Lovino huffs. "I still gotta work on my canvas, don't I?"

"You could tell us to leave-"

"But then you would never finish that damned painting of yours, you always take forever with the details."

"You could tell us to shut up like you usually do-"

He grabs his Spanish textbook and tosses it in his bag, ears suddenly flushed, hoping Feliciano doesn't notice. "W-well, but-"

"But?" Feliciano prompts, nudging him again with his head.

Lovino slams the locker door shut, glad that the other isn't looking at his face. "But nothing, I'm done. Let's go," he says quickly.

He pushes Feliciano off of his back, swings his bag over his shoulder, and quickly walks towards the exit as Feliciano sings after him, "But what~?"

But then I can't hear him laugh, he wants to say.

But he doesn't. Like always.

The Spanish idiot has been visiting the art room for lunch on Thursdays for just over three months when it happens.

Lovino sees it coming from a mile away. He sees Feliciano brighten up when they enter the art room, his dumb smile on his face when he sees the damned potato bastard sitting in Lovino's old place. His endless chatter, contrasting with the German's stoic silence.

Feliciano doesn't admit it to Lovino, but Lovino can tell. He recognizes the signs, and he wonders how long before he has to see Antonio's heart break.

"So, Feli~? Do you like anyone?" His smile is wide and inviting.

"Yeah!" Feliciano smiles happily.

"Oh really? Who is it?" He winks. "Is it me?"

"Oh-" The Italian laughs nervously. Lovino stares intently at his canvas. "W-well, I haven't told Lovi this…" of fucking course you haven't "but there's this guy in our art class…"

Antonio's smile falters. Lovino swears he sees a look of panic flash across his face. But a second later, the look is gone, the smile is still there (though much smaller, Lovino notes), and Antonio is saying cheerfully, "Oh really? That's so nice, to be in love! Is he handsome?"

Feliciano nods happily and immediately goes off about how he and the German bastard got to talking after Lovino made him switch places with him. About how great he is. About how he really felt a connection after a few conversations. About how the German will listen to anything Feliciano will say, no matter what topic it is. About how the few things he says in reply make him happy. About how happy he is to talk to him every day.

Lovino wonders if he can legally set the bastard on fire. As he sits at his canvas in silence, hand moving as he continues painting, he glances Antonio, grimaces at his expression, turns back to the canvas. He doesn't try to peek at his face again for the rest of the lunch period.

The rest of the lunch period is filled with Feliciano's happy chatter about his crush while two unwilling listeners sit in silence.

The Thursday after Feliciano admits to liking the damned potato bastard (Lovino will never acknowledge him by name, never ever ever), Lovino's walk towards the art room is surprisingly quiet. He cautiously opens the door, only to find that Feliciano is painting in his usual spot, like always.

Except the stool beside him is empty.

Feliciano turns when Lovino enters the room. Smiles. Turns away. Continues painting.

Lovino sits at his easel, picks up his paintbrush, paints on a stroke of dull red.

Lunch continues. The silence stretches between them.

Like before.

Te amo.

He imagines those green eyes staring at him, lit with joy.

Te amo.

He imagines those lips moving, the words coming out in that deep voice, a wide smile directed at him.

Te amo.

He imagines being engulfed in a hug, their bodies aligned as he breathes in the Spaniard's scent. What does he smell like, he wonders. Flowers? Sunshine? The earth? Definitely something outdoors. He closes his eyes, imagining that they're lying in the grass together, hands entwined.

Te amo, Lovi.

But of course, when he opens his eyes, the only thing staring back at him is his ceiling, the pale moonlight shadowing everything in sight. He pulls the covers over his head, hiding in the darkness.

He whispers quietly, "Ti amo, Antonio."

Nobody replies. Like always.