A/N: HAPPY FUCKING NEW YEAR EVERYONE! 3

Written for sparo-exchange on LJ – a late Merry Christmas again to you all! I'm not sure I like the way this turned out – there's a lot more I could've done, and blah. BLAH. Anyway, enjoy.

Also, important: the song in this story is "You Are My Sunshine," and there are a few references to it and the lyrics in this. So. Go listen to it if you don't know it :)

EDIT: SORRY ABOUT THE LACK OF LINEBREAKS I USUALLY CHECK MY DOCS METICULOUSLY BEFORE UPLOADING BUT I WAS JUST SO TIRED LIKE ASLKJDFLKSJDDS so now it should be good si si siiiiii

The tinkle of the door opening isn't something he dreads, exactly – it's the tinkle of the door opening every night, right in the middle of his shift and the smile that blows into the room, the happy humming of corny old love songs and the "Hi Lovi!" that he can't hide from because it's right in the middle of his shift and the man, the smile, is leaning against the counter to tease him – that's what he really, really dreads. With all his heart. Honest to God.

"Table for one, please!"

That smile. That cheerful, grating, stupid fucking smilethat spills over like the sun and makes Lovino feel like he's thirteen again.

Not much of a stretch, considering he's only fourteen now. But still. "Mm. Don't fiddle with the straws."

"Aww, Lovi, are you having a bad day? Do you need a cheer-up charm?"

"Just go to your damn table."

Green eyes wink lazily, laughing at his words and cooing at the blush sprinkled across his cheeks as the man makes his way over to his corner of the café, and the corner Lovino will endeavour to avoid for the rest of the night. Every night.

Goddammit.

Lovino doesn't even know how they got on such familiar terms. One moment he's bringing coffee to a stranger with a terse smile that his grandfather forced him to perfect when he first started asking for money and got sent to the closest coffee shop with a flexible owner – and the next he's being complimented on his eyes ("Like gold, did you know?" "Shut up and eat your fucking cake.") and his hair ("Looks so soft, can I touch it – ow! I didn't know you were allowed to hit customers...") and even that annoying involuntary flush that rises to his cheeks at the slightest provocation ("Just like a cute tomato! …please don't spit into my coffee again.").

That first week had pretty much been hell. The owner – fucking French sleazeball who can't seem to keep it in his pants and could easily be sued for sexual harassment if not for the fact that he's probably the only person who would put up with Lovino for so long – is, as it turns out, total biffles with Mr Smiley-Sunshine, so there's no way he'll be thrown out. The Italian decides to throw a bitchfit about it anyway, but it earns him nothing but a casual "ohonhonhon, 'Tonio's just friendly, don't make such a big fuss!" and a good groping that he swears has given him herpes. In any case, at least "'Tonio" is harmless (for the most part) and keeps his hands to himself (again, for the most part) so Lovino just grits his teeth and bears with the stupid smiles and stupid compliments and stupid green eyes, hoping that one day he'll just leaveand the older Vargas won't have to deal with this bullshit anymore.

Still, the attention is nice. He knows that it won't last, but he does have to admit that it's flattering when the Spaniard grins at him, can't help the tell-tale red that flits across his face with every affectionate word and chirped praise that is sure to follow the tinkling of the bell every night.

…Fuck, this isn't good.

"Don't you want to know what I do for a living? I don't just spend all my time splurging money on coffee and doing nothing, you know!"

"Why the fuck," Lovino seethes, pen hovering in mid-air and ready to stab those damn eyes out instead of taking down the order like a good little waiter, "should I care about what you do."

The man – Antonio – only chuckles and turns his laptop around, expression brightening as he taps the screen. "I'm a composer! It's really fun, I get to work wherever I want as long as I have my Tomatop and my headphones."

"Your what?"

"Heh…Tomatop?" Antonio tilts his head, gazing up at the boy with a grin. "Isn't it a cute name? I really love tomatoes, you see, and I really love my laptop too, so it's called Tomatop! It even has pictures of tomatoes on it, look!"

Lovino takes three deep breaths, staring at the worn red stickers adorning the back of the screen and willing his hand to stop twitching. "…just tell me your damn order."

He pouts. "You don't think it's cute?"

Lovino doesn't think a grown man should pout. "No."

Antonio's face falls, and for a split second the Italian feels strangely lopsided. His eyes narrow. The feeling passes. What the fuck. "Ah, I'll just have the pain au chocolat, gracias."

Walking away somehow feels disappointing, but he tells himself that's just the hormones and that it has absolutely nothing to do with the look on his least favourite customer's face because fuck, why would he care about that?

It's been a while now, and Antonio has managed to weasel his way into Lovino's comfort zone.

Which is worrying. He tries not to think about it.

Sometimes, though, when he finds himself listening to some silly anecdote that Antonio is rattling on about (which Lovino only allows when there aren't many customers and he's bored with waiting at his usual place near the counter – and he's only there to make fun of him, dammit), his brain catches up with his emotions too late and he has to snort and turn away to hide the smile blooming, uncontrollably taking hold of his lips to avoid the utter embarrassment; but somehow Antonio has caught on, because there's always a soft, knowing smile waiting for him when he turns back, face set in the usual scowl, and it makes his heart quake with something quite startling when he sees it.

"Your boyfriend's here," drawls Sadiq as he gulps down a cup of water. "Go on and greet him, that's your job, isn't it?"

Lovino shoots him a dirty glare. "Fuck you. Get back to your skillet, retard."

His Turkish co-worker just snickers and waves him towards the door. "C'mon, you little bitch. He's waiting."

The waiter flares with anger, opening his mouth to scream at the still-sniggering bastard but all of a sudden he's being dragged backwards, and, "Frannie said I'd find you here, were you hiding from me, Lovi?"

Lovino splutters and flails, wrenching himself out of the cheerfully oblivious Spaniard's grasp and glaring up at him, willing the furious red of his cheeks to fade before he can be compared to a fucking fruit (fucking delicious fruit, but still). "Wha – no! Why would I even be thinking about you?"

"Because Sadiq said that I'm your boyfriend?"

"…FUCK YOU OH MY GOD YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKTARD."

It's the way he sounds.

Just a hint of an accent, really – heavy when he's excited or distressed, barely detectable when he's content. His chuckles, always cheerfully sunny. His singing, gentle and loving, eyes sliding over Lovino's frowns in secretive delight.

The way his name sounds when he laughs, the way it comes out in a "Lo-vi!" – always Lovi, only Lovino when he's being serious. Which isn't often. Querido when he's feeling especially brave, or confident that Lovino won't bite, always mumbled into coffees and casually breezed past when the Italian is in a good enough mood to keep up a conversation.

It doesn't piss him off too much. It did at first, but now he's used to it, and now he hears the deep affection, the low rumble in his mind whenever he thinks of the Spaniard – which isn't that often, dammit! – and more often than not, in his dreams.

They're only vague, hidden in memory, but something about those faint dreams makes him conflicted – he isn't sure if he wants to remember them or not, isn't sure if he wants to know what remembering might tell him about the strange tightness in his chest and the tingling in his stomach when he considers the older man.

The sweat slicking up his body and shallow pants when he opens his eyes and stares up at the dark ceiling certainly doesn't help.

The tune's been bothering him for a while now, and as Lovino makes his way over with a tall glass of café Vienna, he finds himself opening his mouth and blurting out, "Can you actually sing the words instead of humming all the goddamn time? It's driving me fucking insane."

Freezing in the act of pulling off his headphones to thank him, he stares up at the waiter with a strange expression on his face. Then a smile – not a smile, that smile – is burning itself into Lovino's mind and fuck, why are those bright eyes darkening and his heartbeat quickening? "You want me to sing for you, Lovi?"

There's something different about his tone; it's a little less amused and a little more uncertain, a little bit like he's afraid. Hopeful, but afraid. Lovino doesn't know what to think. "N-no, of course not. Fucker. I was just curious. About the song."

He laughs. It's slightly brittle, but still warm, and it reminds Lovino of summer in Italy and soft, Spanish melodies. "I'm sure you know it, querido. It's one of my favourites."

And as his voice picks out the notes of the song, he doesn't think about how he knows it but simply listens, measuring out the slow rhythm with slow breaths and wondering why Antonio is singing about sunshine when really, he is the sunshine.

Something is wrong with Lovino.

It must be the all-nighter he pulled for that damn history assignment, because he finds himself drifting over to Antonio towards the end of his shift when the café is mostly empty, finds himself snarling when the man laughs and pats the spot on the sofa next to him, finds himself on the chair opposite, slumped over the table with his head in his arms.

His eyes snap open at the hesitant touch to his head. Antonio withdraws, chuckling sheepishly and apologising in nervous Spanish, and Lovino just rolls his eyes and drops back onto the wooden tabletop.

When he feels the hand brush through his hair again, he stirs, tilting his head to the side, and closes his eyes to the feel of rough fingers carding gently over his scalp and the soft crooning of a song he knows too well.

"Lovino…" The way the name rolls out, something so indulgent and reverent and crooning – already he can feel heat pooling between his legs as his back hits the wall, sweaty palms pressing against the bricks almost desperately.

His breathing comes faster as Antonio leans closer, the intensity of those dark green eyes making his pulse stutter. Oh, God, this feeling – it rushes right down to his toes and Lovino can feel every inch of his skin crawling, itching for contact and rough fingers – the man lowers his head, tilting, lips brushing against his cheek with the softest touch. Heated breath flutters across his skin as Lovino trembles, fingers coming up to curl in messy brown locks. The back of his neck is so smooth. Something is raging inside him, forcing itself out in a whimper-growl and the Italian drags the careful head up, lips colliding heavily and nipping, biting, an explosion of passion and shuddering feeling that just melts when he feels those lips turn up, feels that smile through those lips before they start to respond just as fiercely, his name whispered in between feverish kisses – "Lovi, Lovino, Lovino"–

Further. More, more, more - his skin is ablaze and his nerves alive as he pants, those Spanish lips moving across his throat and those rough fingers splayed across his heaving chest, hips bucking forward in delicious friction. He can't help the mewl – "Ah, Antonio!" – that tumbles past his gasping lips and loses all coherency when his hands slide down his front to stroke him through his jeans –

– and when he jolts awake, shaking and sticky with sweat as he comes into the sheets, he can't help but notice that the keening moan that escapes him sounds more like a shocked sob.

"You've been avoiding me, querido."

"I…" Eyes of gold flash, look away. Fuck. "Here's your order."

Antonio is silent, questioning. He walks away, heart in his throat.

Antonio is almost thirty.

He doesn't know why this surprises him. He's always known he was much older – he's Francis' friend, after all, and must be somewhat close to his age – but when the airy Frenchman leans over the counter to chat with his BFF about their college days with some twinkie named Gilbert as Antonio's paying the bill, Lovino gets an odd lurch in his stomach. Twenty-eight. That's how old Francis is. How old Antoniois.

Lovino is fourteen.

He excuses himself from wiping the glass cups with a mumbled excuse about a stomach ache that isn't entirely false, and locks himself in the staff bathroom for a good twenty minutes until he's sure the two men have finished gossiping and Antonio is well out of the café; he doesn't want to think about how he might react when he sees that smile in the face of reality, bile rising in his throat when he catches his own miserable, disgusting reflection in the dirty mirror.

Fourteen is such an awful number, he thinks.

He tries so hard not to dream, but it's not something he can control.

Eventually, the pleasure gets the better of him and every night he is moaning Antonio's name, the guilty tears thick enough to choke him when he awakes.

"Is that seriously the only song you know?"

Antonio blinks, and looks up at him with cautious hope. "…hmm?"

Lovino shifts uncomfortably, arms crossed. "T-that song. The sunshine one. Don't you know any others?"

The corners of his lips are curving up sadly, his eyes softening as he gazes at the boy in front of him, and Lovino feels a shiver run down his spine. It's a gently terrifying feeling. "Of course not. But it's the only song I feel when I'm…when I'm here."

Those should be my words, he thinks, and the dark, honest flush that blooms on his face is almost worth seeing the sunshine return to his eyes.

"Do you know anything about computers?" sighs Antonio, pouting up at his waiter sadly. "Tomatop is sick and I don't know how to fix it!"

"What, just because I'm a kid I know what to do with your shitty technology?" snipes Lovino, putting the pen and pad back in his apron pocket and sliding next to him to peer at the blinking screen.

Another sigh, and the man pushes the laptop in his direction. "It keeps shutting off, I don't understand. Please help me, Lovi," he whines, shuffling closer to the boy and gazing at him with wide, pleading eyes. Lovino looks away, silently cursing at the sudden increase in his heartrate. Twenty-eight. He's twenty-eight.His stomach twists uncomfortably. Antonio doesn't notice – he's still visibly upset about his poor tomato. "Will I need to get a new Tomatop?"

"Just shut the fuck up and let me think!" The proximity is dizzying. He's very much unused to these feelings at fourteen, and even more aware of the fact that he is fourteen. Fucking hormones. He can blame those for these desires, for the constant want that flares up when he imagines that smile. Dragging the laptop closer, he glances at the clock and estimates that he has approximately three minutes before Francis comes around to ask why he isn't tending to the other customers with a stupid knowing smirk that he'd like to slap right off that perverted face and. Oh. Oh fuck, that's really gross if Francis knew that and still let Antonio flirt with him. Ew.

"So what's wrong with it?"

"I have no fucking idea."

"Oh…I guess I have to take it to someone to check it, si?"

"Probably." One minute. He reallydoesn't want to look at that fucking frog's face.

"Will you come with me?"

"What? No, I have better things to do!"

"Please! Come with me?

Lovino crosses his legs, hating himself for it. "No."

Something glimmers in his green eyes, dark and heavy. "It would mean so much to me."

"W-why would that make a difference, bastard?" Somewhere in the distance, he can hear slimy French footsteps heading his way…

"Um. I don't know. But, but Lovi - !"

Lovino stands, ready to sprint off at the first sign of his employer, but Antonio is too fast for him and grabs his sleeve before he can make his escape. "Fuck, let me go!"

"Please, Lovino. Por favor."

The trembling words sending a jolt straight into his heart. Or maybe that's just from the dread as his one minute draws to a close. "F-fine, I'll go!"

The answering beam staggers him, stays with him in flip-flopping butterflies that feel very much like adolescent bliss that lighten even his scowl and, despite the resounding numbers circling his mind, he can't help the perverse excitement about the fact that this is his first date and oh, he wants to keep this happiness in his skies of grey forever.

Thank goodness it's the late night lull.

"…you don't understand, Francis."

"Non, mon ami, it is you who does not understand. This isn't right! Think about this, please! How can I allowsuch a thing to even –"

" – how can you allow? What do you mean by allow?"

Lovino raises an eyebrow at Sadiq, who shrugs and goes back to flipping crepes.

The argument outside continues. The Italian sneaks forward, pushing open the kitchen door a crack.

Francis looks livid, and Antonio looks stressed. Both men are glaring at one another.

Lovino holds his breath until one of them speaks up. "It's not up to you to decide."

The owner of the café throws his hands up angrily, blue eyes flaming with frustration. "I never said it was! I'm just looking out for you, 'Tonio. This could be serious. You and him – what are you thinking? Did you honestly believe I would condone this?"

"It's not up to you to condone," replies Antonio, looking away. His eyes catch Lovino's through the gap, amber meeting emerald, and for a second there is a heated desperation – an electric current that races between the two – the dark intensity in those eyes, an intensity that he has only dreamed of piercing into him. His breath catches again.

"I did not think you were serious in the beginning," says Francis heavily. "Otherwise, I…"

A curtain seems to fall over Antonio's eyes, veiling his emotions as he tears his gaze away, swivelling back to his friend with a bitter twist of his mouth. "It's not up to you, amigo. It never was."

"He is only fourteen. Too young."

Lovino's heart sinks. At least now he knows that Francis had never meant for it to…for this. This mess that he doesn't even know how to define, the below-the-surface tension that's never been brought out directly or spoken out loud, that's been danced around and overthought but never actually thought about – hearing the words only makes it more terrifying. What's he doing? He is so young. He is fourteen. Antonio is twice his age.

"Age is just a number." His voice is dark, strained.

"You are so naïve," Francis groans, shaking his head. "Age is never just a number. You're the one who doesn't understand, Antonio – what are you expecting from him? Do you think you can expect the same things of someone your own age from a fourteen year old? You don't even knowhim, Toni."

"But I want to!" Antonio is suddenly frantic and bursting with passion, with hopelessness. "I've never felt this – this before, and it's so frightening you don't even know. I hate it, but he just…it's him.You don't think I know it's wrong?" His eyes are tortured, emotional. Childlike. Lovino hasn't seen this side of Antonio yet. "I don't choose this. And I don't think he does either."

"You are being selfish. You aren't thinking. You're blinded by your infatuation – this is nothing deeper than that. Infatuation. And oui, you are allowed to have an infatuation but not on a fourteen year old! Think of the consequences! Please, for your sake and his. Please."

Lovino has heard enough. He pushes away, past the awkwardly silent Sadiq and struggling to quell the urge to throw up. Instead, he muffles his screams into a sack of potatoes sitting in the storeroom, pounding the rough fabric until he can feel mush leaking from the thick weave. By the time he comes out, eyes puffy from tears and expression murderous by default, it's time to close up and Francis is picking at a rosewater macaron behind the counter, yawning into his sleeve like nothing's happened. Antonio is nowhere to be seen.

And Lovino is glad of it.

When he does return, he is mostly quiet. Lovino is afraid – afraid of the both of them.

"Will you come with me to fix Tomatop?"

The undercurrent of nervousness jars him. "No," he whispers.

He doesn't ask again.

"I didn't want this."

Under the tables, in that dank and heavy silence his lips are moving, grazing over sensitive collarbone and supple flesh with every intake of breath. He is humming softly, pressing the notes into his skin. His smile is real and the sunshine is real, peeking through the clouds of his heart and reassuring him in soothing sighs, a hand creeping up to stroke his hair lovingly.

And the green eyes – they are choked with emotion, churning with dark passion and desire Lovino knows is reflected in his own. "I'm so sorry," whispers Antonio.

The Italian reaches up, pressing a clumsy kiss to his lips, heart swelling with something – he doesn't know what. He doesn't think he should know. His voice cracks. "I didn't want this."

Lovino wakes slowly, and doesn't feel guilty. His sheets are dry, his breathing even and his heart – his heart is empty.

"I actually am a composer, you know," laughs Antonio, hefting the new laptop under his arm. His eyes flash with amusement as he leans against the counter. "I bet you still don't believe me!"

"Only because you sing the same fucking song over and over, bastard," scoffs Lovino. "You sound like a corny music box on loop, I swear."

"That's not really fair, it isone of my favourite songs. Sunshine isn't appreciated enough," he sighs dramatically, mouth curved into a grin. Lovino kind of wants to slap the smile off his face, but that means he'll have to do something about the one twitching up the corners of his lips, too. And Antonio isn't going to slap him, as far as he knows.

"Old bastard," is his only response.

Antonio looks surprised. Then he's shaking his head with a chuckle, smile overflowing with the sun as he turns to make his way to his table. "So mean, Lovi! You'll break my old, failing heart."

Lovino smirks as he follows, pen out and ready to take the Spaniard's order. "You mean I'll take your sunshine away."

Green eyes flicker his way apologetically, and the sunlit smile dims. "I'm afraid you just might."

"No, I won't." He means it, too. He is fourteen, and Antonio is twenty-eight – and Francis is right. But at least they know. And he won't be too young forever. He gazes back at him, gold meeting green, and something passes between them – less intense, less heady and yet somehow infinitely more intimate as Antonio sits at his table and Lovino cocks his head with a scowl, waiting for him to order.

He doesn't. Instead, "Tomatop the Second needs a case. Come with me to buy it?"

"Sure fucking thing, bastard."

.

.

.

End.