Lovino toyed with the gun, spinning it on the table's scratched surface with a slight flick of his wrist. They had always loved Feliciano more: their parents, uncles, aunts, neighbors… even his long-time crush had favored the younger Vargas. His grip tightened on the derringer as he lifted it off the table. Antonio, his beloved jackass, always crooned over his brother – how cute he looked, how hard he worked, how gentle he was – Lovino couldn't stand in anymore. It wasn't his fault that he had a temper, that he liked to cuss and holler.

The wine in his system allowed Lovino to set the pistol to his head without fear. It would be over soon. Antonio would find his body later: the chair toppled alongside him, his dark hair tousled and face peaceful but marred by the blood splattered across it. Then he would fall to his knees, sobbing and wishing that he'd spent more time loving the elder Vargas rather than chasing his stupid little brother. The safety snapped off, sending a gentle shudder running through the Italian's body. What if no one mourned him? Perhaps they wouldn't care about his tragic passing, or worse, suppose they were all secretly glad that he'd died.

Just as his eyes threatened to overflow, the doorknob turned.

"Lovi? I'm home-"

A stunned silence fell upon the unexpecting Spaniard as he observed his lover. Lovino reeked of wine, his bitter chocolate gaze holding the promise of tears. Mostly Antonio noticed the gun which was nestled securely in the young man's coffee-colored locks.

"You bastard." Pain flashed across the Vargas' angry face, his thin lips twitching into a tortured grimace. "You forgot."

"No, I didn't! Listen to me, Lovi-"

"You love my retarded little brother more, don't you? Admit it! It's Feliciano you really want!" He was screaming now, saliva flying from his lips. "Why do you even bother with me? Why do you bother pretending to love me?"

"Because I really do love you." Antonio had been inching towards his lover and now seized the weapon from the distraught Italian. "You're too perfect for me to hate, Lovino."

"I've violent and loud! It's my bastard of a brother who's perfect! All they ever talked about was how wonderful he was, how well he cooked and painted and, goddamn it, I'm sick of it!" Lovino dissolved into furious tears. "It's my birthday today, but no one even fucking bothered to remember."

"Am I no one?" The Spaniard reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a small parcel. His lover gasped sharply.

"What the hell?"

"Feliz cupleaños, cariño."

A gentle kiss was planted upon Lovino's furrowed brow, met with surprisingly little resistance. Without a word, the younger of the two reached for the small box and opened it, suspicion in his heartbroken eyes. Tipping the contents out into his hand, the Italian examined the delicate locket. It was engraved with his initials, and inside…

"Goddamn it." Lovino sniffed sharply, trying so hard not to cry. Inside was a photo of Antonio and himself, both smiling with laughter etched into their faces.

"When you smile-"

"I know; I look like my goddamn brother." A venomous glare was sent in the green-eyed man's direction.

"You look like an angel." He finished, as though he hadn't heard the outburst. "You're more beautiful than the sun, the moon, and a bushel of ripe tomatoes. Why would I want your brother when I can have you?"

Lovino sniffed. "You're lying. Everyone does."

"Am I lying now?" His warm, calloused hand rested easily against the other's flushed cheek, thumb deftly wiping the tears away. "Mi amor."

"Bastard." Lovino leaned forward, catching the Spaniard's soft lips with his.

Antonio could taste the wine on his lover, but also the pain, the sense of betrayal, and the burning desire to be loved. He pressed in closer, hands lightly grasping his boyfriend's face. Hearts pounding, green eyes met half-lidded copper before closing slowly, shutting out distractions.

Lovino could feel the other's long, silky lashes on his face, their noses brushing intimately as they sought a deeper contact. His hands trembled with excitement as he rested them on Antonio's chest, clinging tightly to his unbuttoned shirt. This was what it meant to be loved – to be with someone who truly cared. It was perfect.

"Grazie, grazie…" He murmured, breaking the kiss in favor of filling his bursting lungs. The Spaniard continued to shower him with light pecks: one on his nose, two for each eyelid, so many more on his cheeks, forehead, and chin… "Thank you for loving me, Antonio."

The gentle contact paused, forcing Lovino to open his eyes. His lover sat in front of him, an odd expression on his face which was accompanied by a faint blush.

"You called me 'Antonio'."

"Yeah, so?"

"You…" The Spaniard grinned slowly, wide green eyes becoming half-moons of joy. "You've never called me by my name."

"Never?" He furrowed his brow, frowning slightly. Scooting the chair backwards, Lovino hesitated. "It's a nice name… I mean, not stupid like 'Ludwig' or something nasty like that."

"Well, thank you." Antonio slid his arms around the birthday boy, pulling him closer and out of his seat. "I think Lovino is a beautiful name as well. I'm glad it's not 'Feliciano' or something like that."

These words might've made the Italian smile, but he had fallen asleep, his head resting on the older man's chest. A gentle snore escaped his lips, his sleeping face decorated with a bashful-looking red. Sometimes Antonio forgot how young he really was behind all those harsh words and violent actions. He forgot how sensitive Lovino truly was because of the hardened shell that he used to protect himself, the anger that hid his aching self esteem. It was true that Feliciano was kind and gentle – a whole host of things that his brother was not – but Lovino was interesting and had a mind of his own. He could walk on his own two feet (though they often found themselves backpedalling away from danger) and had a strong spirit.

Antonio smiled, brushing a dark curl from the boy's forehead. Grunting something intelligible, Lovino smiled softly, his lips turned upwards in a slight arc.

"If only you knew how much I love you, Lovi." The Spaniard murmured as he carried him to their bedroom, "If you knew, I'm sure that you would never have to hurt like this again."

Kinda fluffy, kinda angsty.

Was it any good?