Lovino sighs and turns his face to the blinds, concentrating on the frail orange light diffusing into muddy morning sky. He can't sleep. He hasn't slept in a while, actually. At least, not for long. At first it was just annoying, because it's hard to concentrate on his work when his eyelids are hot and stinging, and he hates that distant buzzing feeling after a night without sleep, almost like when you drink too much coffee, except that this alertness zaps his energy rather than contributes to it. And he's always fucking hungry and he guesses that's because his body's expending more energy than usual in its latest scheme to torture its possessor, so he eats and eats and eats and then his skin feels stretched and tight and uncomfortable and he can feel his pulse beating in his hips.

He licks his tingling lips and crooks his arm awkwardly back, pressing his palm into Antonio's warm chest and rubbing it slowly, fingertips curling over each dipped rib. They've been fighting a lot lately, not over anything big, but it still bothers him and the guilt sits in a painful knot in his already distended belly. He's been more irritable than usual lately because he's so tired, and it's not Antonio's fault: he knows he's tried to be understanding, but sometimes he just can't smile and act like everything's fine. Which is exactly what he told Toni last night, which is exactly why they got into another fight. Because, "I would never ask you to do that, Lovi, how can you even think that?"

And okay, that may be true, but Lovino grew up in a house that didn't exactly encourage anyone to be forthcoming with their emotions, so sue him, he automatically assumes everyone feels that way. Or maybe he just wanted to make Antonio feel guilty, knock him down a peg so he could feel as shitty as Lovino for a minute. It's probably a bit of both.

The sun's gaining strength now, the petrifying white light winning out over the last hazy trace of night, and Lovino's given up on thinking he may get an hour or two of sleep before class. His eyes are hot and stinging but not heavy, and he wonders: if he didn't know he should be tired, would he be? The stippling of the cheap popcorn ceiling spins slowly above him and he bends his toes in rhythm with the syncopated throbbing in his lips, contemplating if he should go ahead and take advantage of the fact that he's awake so early and shower and make breakfast and at least act like his blossoming life with Antonio is making him as happy as everyone, himself included, expected it to.

Time passes, not much of it, the minutes meld together so easily now, and he just watches Toni and closes his eyes and listens to his soft breathing. Finally, he finds the will to push himself from the groaning mattress and pulls himself to the edge of the bed, draping his long legs over the side. Antonio groans and rolls towards him, arms and legs stretched out like a crime scene chalk outline. "Did you get any sleep?" he mumbles into the sheets, craning his neck to peer at his boyfriend through squinting eyes.

Lovino only shrugs, he's past the point of being emotional about it, now he's just resigned to his sleepless fate. "My poor baby," Antonio crows, and Lovino can't help but be jealous of the heaviness in his vocal chords, cultivated from a night of deep rest. He doesn't have time to get mad about it, though, because he's pulled into tanned arms and the base of his neck is peppered with heated kisses.

He wants to ask, 'what if I never sleep again,' and get all teary and despondent, but he's done that the past few mornings and honestly he's grown bored of that routine. So instead he sighs and turns his head to look at the Spaniard fitted so perfectly into the curve of his spine, "I don't want to go to class," he whines because he doesn't have the energy not to.

Antonio smiles, "well I guess it's a good thing it's Saturday then."

"Oh," Lovino says and yawns, "yeah, that's right."

"You have two options for today," Antonio tells him, holding up his index and middle fingers to illustrate his point.

"Oh yeah? What are those?" Lovino asks, voice dull but amused.

"You can chug some Nyquil and crash, or you can help me in the garden and see if we can't wear you out enough to sleep tonight."

Lovino smirks and considers saying that he can think of better ways to wear himself out, but in actuality he's too tired for the interaction required for either humor or sex, so he keeps his thoughts to himself. "Garden, I don't want to get my sleeping pattern all fucked up."

"Okay," Antonio nods, limbs going rigid in a stretch before pulling himself upright and encouraging Lovino to do the same. "No shower, we're just going to get dirty anyway, and I don't want to risk you conking out and drowning."

"Hardy har," Lovino drawls, fingers catching on knots as he drags his hand through his hair.

"Unless you think it actually would put you to sleep, in which case, go for it," Antonio continues, padding to the nearby dresser and digging through it's contents.

"Mm," Lovino dismisses, rubbing his face with his hands and exhaling through his fingers. He's so bored of being the topic of conversation, he wonders if Antonio is similarly bored of pretending to care. Lovino's starting to feel guilty for his insomnia, like he somehow manifested it out of an unconscious desire for attention. Then he gets mad at Antonio for making him feel that way, so he throws the covers back and walks heavy-footed to the bathroom.

"Seriously, babe," Antonio continues, pulling on a ratty white t-shirt that Lovino mentally notes to burn later, "if you want to try going to the doctor or something-"

"Don't need a doctor," Lovino mutters around his toothbrush, leaning against the doorframe, left arm tucked against his chest.

"Okay, but you know all you have to do is say the word and-"

"I'm fine," Lovino insists, emphasizing each word as much as he can with a mouth full of foam.

Antonio nods wearily and smiles, and Lovino grimaces and shudders and draws himself back into the bathroom.

The "garden" is actually just a collection of barrels and potted plants squeezed into Antonio's tiny cement slab of a porch. Lovino's sure if it were anyone else, those plants would whither and brown and crumble to dust like plants are supposed to do when exposed to such unfavorable conditions, but somehow under Antonio's tutelage they grow lush and verdant, heavy leaves holding virtuously upright, spilling from their confines in waves of healthy produce. It marked a major milestone in their relationship when Antonio invited Lovino to help him care for his leafy children, and Lovino had treated the event with the gravity it warranted, even if the mere idea of garden-work made his lip curl in displeasure. But gardening was Antonio's religion and Lovino his eager disciple, and soon he found himself actually looking forward to being perfumed in the earthy musk of soil.

"I think the tomatoes might be ready to pick today," Antonio says as he pulls on the red gardening gloves Lovino bought him for Christmas.

"That'd be nice," Lovino returns, voice detached.

"Yeah, maybe we could have your brother and Ludwig over to celebrate. Try out a new recipe, pop open a bottle of wine..."

"Eh, I dunno," Lovino shakes his head, "I think I'd rather it just be me and you today."

"Okay," Antonio agrees easily.

'Okay,' Lovino mocks internally.

The cool breeze feels good when Antonio pulls open the sliding glass door, it's still late Spring and the early Summer heat hasn't had a chance to seep into the concrete yet. "It's nice out," Lovino mumbles, stepping out onto the porch and reaching for his watering can, only to stare confused at the empty space it usually occupies.

"I thought you could do the pruning today."

"What?" Lovino asks, straightening up and turning towards Antonio and the lost can.

"The pruning, I thought you might want to do it for a change."

"Oh," Lovino returns. He wants to argue about it, though he isn't entirely sure why. "Yeah, that's fine."

So he grabs the small pair of bypass pruners hanging from the tool rack he jimmy-rigged out of a scrap of wood and a couple nails he found lying around in the wood shop at school. Antonio had acted like it was the best fucking thing in the world when he brought the make-shift rack home. It wasn't like he had made it specifically for the Spaniard: the tools were getting rusty and they cost money, money that they didn't have as two broke students. So it surprised him when Antonio had acted so happy, but then, even more surprising, the older boy's reaction made him feel happy, and Lovino was left wondering: had he become the type of person that complains when he can't find his favorite pair of socks, but becomes so undeniably happy when his favorite song plays on the radio? Is this what it's like to be a person that has never endured a great tragedy? Has he somehow passed the threshold of "before" and "after" without even realizing it? He paced in the hallway thirty minutes longer than normal that night and, when Antonio finally convinced him to go to bed, brushed his teeth till his gums bled.

"The tomatoes aren't ready yet," Antonio sighs, and then he starts fondling the pliable leaves and humming sweet words of encouragement as if the green fruits will ripen solely through the efforts of his nurturing. It doesn't work that way, though, changes occur slowly, over time, and those plants have so much to face: the wind, the bugs, the brittle sun that barely graces their porch except in the dead heat of the afternoon. It makes Lovino angry that Antonio can't accept it, that he won't leave the plants alone, let them grow at their own pace. Because they're trying, and so is he.

They garden in silence for a while, Antonio working diligently to aerate the soil, Lovino feeling guilty for every dead leaf or wilting bud he trims away.

"Lovi?"

"Hmm?" He returns, palming a crumpled bloom, turning it with his fingers and wincing as the petals disintegrate beneath his touch.

"Have you thought any more about it?"

"What are you talking about?" He knows exactly what he's talking about.

"It's a nice day and we have all afternoon, I could drive you out there to see."

Lovino is somewhat pleased that Antonio isn't more explicit, because it aids in his denial of the problem, but the fact that his lie wasn't bought, and that now he's being forced to make a decision, makes him crazy. He finds himself remembering a photograph he once saw of a lion tearing apart a zebra, and the memory makes him smile despite himself.

Antonio sees that smile and latches onto it, "so it's okay?"

"Fine," Lovino says before he even knows the word exists in context to this event. But he doesn't have time to redact it, because he's pulled into tight arms and smothered in kisses, and his face is too hot, and his mind is too numb, to consider forming coherent sentences.

"Finish up here and then get changed, I'm gonna call the landlord," Antonio pants once he's pulled away. He squeezes Lovino's shoulder and cups his cheek before raising, dusting off his knees, and heading into the apartment.

Lovino blinks at his retreating back and wonders how Antonio can't see that his boyfriend's body is being sheared in half. In truth, Lovino knows a small part of him wants this, hell, maybe even a large part, but it's painful and hard and Antonio isn't enough to make it not that way. He's just so damn tired of waiting: waiting for these tomatoes to ripen, waiting for his relationship with Antonio to do the same, waiting for sleep to claim him and for the unspecified disaster he always senses looming in his periphery to take root. And before he can contemplate his intentions, he plucks an under-ripe tomato from its vine and digs his teeth into the unyielding flesh. The bitter juice drips down his chin and he imagines that he appears like Saturn Devouring His Son: wild-eyed and desperate and committing infanticide.

When they watch movies, Lovino always sympathizes with the wrong characters, Antonio finds it endearing, like he thinks it's a joke. It's not though, Lovino genuinely feels more for the villain, for the one constantly made a fool, for the unlovable one that can only fathom finding companionship by forcing it. And what if that zebra was a total jerk, what if it flaunted it's ability to cohabit the watering hole with so many other animals, like it has something the lion lacks. That lion can't help that he has long claws and big teeth, it doesn't mean he doesn't have feelings, dammit.

"I'm so fucking tired," Lovino moans to no one. He looks down at the firm green fruit clenched in his fist and picks at the perspiring bite marks, marveling at his ability to suck the beauty out of everything he loves. Antonio's excited and loud voice travels through the sliding glass door and it's that disturbance that finally stirs the life back into Lovino's leaden feet.

He barely passes the threshold into the bathroom when Antonio's chirping "thank you," and, "we appreciate it so much." He leans over the sink, splashes water onto his face, and wonders when Antonio decided he could start speaking for both of them.

"You about ready to go?"

Lovino doesn't respond, but he does move past Antonio into the kitchen, placing the green tomato next to the sink and desperately convincing himself that, despite the almost overwhelming urge, hitting the Spaniard will not do anything to alleviate the situation. Instead, he pads to the coat closet to pull out his loafers and slams the door so hard the hinges vibrate and whine.

Antonio busies himself with replacing the pruners and locking the porch door and not mentioning the presence of the too-ripe tomato or the teeth marks marring its surface. He notices them though, just like he notices Lovino's heavier than normal footsteps and the way his shoulders are hunched inwards like he's protecting something. Antonio notices but he doesn't completely understand, so he stays silent. Sometimes Lovino needs space, sometimes he needs to pace in the kitchen in the middle of the night or turn the gas jets off and on and off and on. Sometimes he needs to figure things out for himself, without being coddled, without being told it's alright because sometimes it isn't. He knows this, not because Lovino told him, but because he showed him. He demonstrated this need, patiently, over and over, until Antonio began to understand.

They have these communication issues sometimes, because Antonio has trouble with non-verbal cues, but Lovino doesn't trust words and prefers to express himself through actions. They're beginning to understand each other but it's hard, it's work. Antonio sometimes wonders if Lovino feels the work isn't worth it. Well, he used to wonder, anyway, until he finally caved and asked the Italian outright, which of course resulted in a huge fucking fight. So now Antonio assumes that if Lovino comes home at night, if he gets in the bed with him and is there when he wakes up in the morning, then it's not too much work. It's not perfect, not at all, but it's them.

So Antonio doesn't say anything when he hears the closet door slam. Instead, he slips into the hall and places a hand on his boyfriend's shoulder, squeezing gently while motioning with his chin towards the front door. "Ready to go?" He isn't more explicit than that because he can tell he's not supposed to be. He's learning.

Lovino shrugs and pats down his hair, "stop repeating yourself." He says quietly, with a hint of annoyance.

"How far is this place, anyway?" The Italian asks as he slumps into the sedan and pulls his seatbelt over his lap.

"About thirty out, it's close to downtown," Antonio replies, shifting into reverse and pulling effortlessly from the parking spot.

"Isn't that a little far, we'd lose so much money on the commute alone." Lovino returns, folding his arms across his chest and slumping into his seat.

"I'm not thinking we'd move there now, just, if it's still on the market when we graduate..." He doesn't continue the sentence, somehow the thought of implying a future with Lovino makes him nervous, like he's imposing his will on the still too-new relationship.

Lovino doesn't seem bothered by the implication, though, and instead hums and nods haltingly in understanding.

Antonio considers reassuring his boyfriend that he won't force him into anything that makes him uncomfortable, but decides against it. If he made that promise they'd never get anywhere, and he knows, despite the way the understanding makes his stomach churn, that Lovino would admit the same.

"Just hold out judgment till you see it," Antonio says after a while, "you'll love it, it's perfect."

Lovino hates when Antonio uses absolutes like 'perfect,' (because when he tells him he's perfect he's just setting him up for failure. "I'm not perfect Toni, please stop saying that. Please.") but he lets it slide. "How expensive?"

"A little out of our budget, but we'll manage."

"I'm an art major and you're a chef, how exactly are we managing?"

Antonio shrugs, smiles slightly, and rolls down his window a couple inches, "we just will, if it's meant to be, things will work out."

Lovino scoffs at his optimism but is secretly jealous. He leans his head against the car door, closes his eyes and recalls the Spring downpour they had one evening a couple nights ago. The small ditch surrounding their porch stood teeming with stagnant water and, upon viewing the sight, Antonio immediately began imagining infrastructures and canals and ways to utilize the collection of condensation to better the growth of his produce. Lovino saw those ten inches of water and wondered how easy it would be to drown in them.

"You still awake, sleepyhead?"

Lovino groans deep in his throat and opens his eyes, "always."

"Poor kid," Antonio says and cups his hand against the back of his Italian's head, gently combing his fingers across his scalp. His words are sincere and Lovino loves that about him. Even if the words come too often sometimes, the Spaniard always means what he says and Lovino appreciates that.

"We're almost there," Antonio says after a while. Lovino grimaces and buries his face into his arm.

"I'm tired, can I stay in the car?"

"Will you sleep?"

Lovino straightens up and sighs, "no."

"Then no," the Spaniard replies. The Italian's features tighten and Antonio realizes the answer might have been redundant, but he isn't sure how he would've expressed himself otherwise.

"I hate realtors," Lovino says after a minute, seemingly devoid of the fleeting irritation from earlier.

"It's not a realtor, it's just the landlord." Antonio clarifies.

"I hate landlords," Lovino says, just to be obstinate.

"Well lucky you, he just unlocked the door for us, he's not hanging around."

"That doesn't sound safe."

"Well it's a good thing you've got a big, strong bodyguard then, huh?" Antonio winks and Lovino curses mentally at the flushed heat spreading across his cheeks.

"I'll give you big but not strong."

"So mean," Antonio laughs and pinches his boyfriend's exposed side.

"Oh, you gonna pinch the intruders to death, then?" Lovino snaps playfully.

"Sleepy, delirious kid."

"Not delirious."

"Sleepy kid."

"Not a kid."

"Sleepy."

"Yes, fucking sleepy."

Lovino closes his eyes for a while and waits to hear the cracking of old asphalt that indicates downtown, before straightening up and sucking in his bottom lip, shredding the bits of dry skin between his teeth.

"That's it," Antonio says, pointing to a small, two-story brick building.

"It looks nice," Lovino says, wincing when his voice cracks.

"It is," the Spaniard agrees and pulls into a parking spot in front of the building, quickly climbing from the car and pulling on the wood-paneled front door, shooting a thumbs up to his boyfriend when the entranceway opens effortlessly. Antonio fiddles with the light-switch while waiting for the Italian to make his way in. "No lights," he says when Lovino walks hesitantly into the building.

"It's bright enough, anyway."

"Yeah," Antonio nods, "so what do you think?"

Lovino doesn't reply, he just walks to the open alcove on the left and ghosts his fingers over the rotting siding.

"We can tear all that down," Antonio explains immediately, "there's brick underneath, I think. We could put some nails in, hang some wire, make it your own little gallery space."

"Mm." Lovino hums, "what about the other side?" He knows the answer, but really, he just wants to hear the words again. If Toni has the strength to say them, maybe he'll have the strength to hear them.

"Well it's pretty small so-"

"Yeah?" Lovino prompts, and, oh God, he can hear the screaming already.

"Well, like I told you, I think a café might be-"

"Yeah, no," the Italian cuts him off. Lovino's being selfish, and he really fucking hates himself because so much of their relationship is already based around him and not upsetting him, and he knows that's not fair. But when the walls are closing in and he can't breathe and the screaming is so fucking loud-when those things are happening, then yeah, it can be about him for a second. He can be fucking selfish, because the world took Lovino's Mom away and that wasn't fair.

"I don't know, I don't know," the Italian says to no one and shakes his head back and forth and back and forth.

"We can work up to it, no one's asking you to do this overnight."

"Why am I being asked at all, Toni? Anything but a fucking café, I mean, seriously?"

"I thought you wanted to get better."

And yeah, Lovino did tell him that, but he didn't expect that it meant Antonio would ask him to live surrounded by the smell of coffee and steaming milk and all the stimuli that draws up painful memories. Exposure therapy is one thing, but isn't this taking it a little too far?

"I do, and I am getting better," Lovino snaps back.

"Yeah, but, babe-"

"I hate when you do that."

"Do what?"

"Make it seem like the progress I've made means nothing."

"Lovi," Antonio starts, and Lovino cringes at the sound of his name in the Spaniard's mouth, spoken like he's a child, like he's too immature to fully grasp the situation. "You know I don't feel that way."

"Well it's like you're setting me up for failure!" Lovino cries, chest tight with exasperation, nails embedded in his palms.

"That's not what I'm trying to do." Antonio says calmly, rationally.

"Yeah, okay," Lovino rolls his eyes and sighs, "but what happens when I can't do it, when I can't put up with living here and you resent me for it and leave."

"I won't leave and I won't resent you."

"How am I supposed to believe that, though?" Lovino demands, because his mother always said she wouldn't leave but her actions said otherwise. He doesn't trust words.

"You just have to trust me."

The Italian stares into Antonio's face, mouth slightly agape, eyebrows knit, desperately trying to sort out his thoughts but finding himself too tired, too spent to do so. "I-" he starts before hesitating, "I need a minute." And then he's pounding up the stairs to his left and whipping his head around until he finds the bathroom and pulls himself inside. Half the tiles are missing and the rest are scuffed or broken, the toilet's gone and the sink and bathtub are coated with an unidentified brown sludge, but it's a bathroom and it's safe and real. He leans against the tattered wallpaper, digs the heels of his palms into his eyes and wishes he was anyone but himself, wishes he could apologize for all the things he's done and all the things he's going to do, wishes he could understand why all the qualities he cherishes in Antonio are ruined in the context of their relationship.

He starts when there's a knock at the door, which is stupid, because he knew Antonio would come after him because that what Antonio does, that's what he's always done, he's patient and that's why this can work.

"There's no door, you know," Lovino says, and there isn't. The only thing that stands between him and Antonio is a doorframe and rusty hinges.

"Yeah, but it seemed rude to barge in." Antonio replies and leans a shoulder in the doorway.

"Idiot." Lovino grumbles and tries not to smile.

"We don't have to get it."

"I like it."

"It might not even be on the market by the time we're out of school."

"Yeah, but I like it."

"Yeah?"

Lovino nods slowly and gnaws the inside of his lip, "yeah, but."

"But." It's not a question, because for once, Antonio understands immediately.

"It's stupid."

"It's not, I get it, it can be a patisserie or a-a pizzeria or something, I don't know, we'll figure it out."

Lovino scoffs and finally smiles, "you can't make pizza for shit."

"I make amazing pizza, you love my pizza!"

"My pizza is way better than your pizza, way better."

Antonio laughs and nods, "yeah, maybe, but we'll figure it out."

Lovino looks at the ceiling and tries to remember the moment they stopped living the lives of Lovino and Antonio and started living the life of them, together. "No, it's a café, it just is, you can tell."

"Can you?"

"Yeah, Jesus, Toni. I think if you tried to do something else the roof would cave in or something."

"Well, better that than..." Better that than Lovino caving in, but he doesn't say that. In this case silence is better.

"Look," Lovino interrupts and moves towards Antonio, he pulls on his hair till his head dips down to his level. "I'm not stupid and I know you make sacrifices for me allthefuckingtime and I know I'm not the easiest person to live with."

"Lovi, you're-"

"No," Lovino interrupts and moves his face so close to Toni's that he can feel his breath against his mouth. "I want to do this so you have to let me. I'm not going to let a stupid fucking café stand between us because I love you and that's as clear as I can be so I'm sorry if that's not enough."

It is enough, though, and Antonio lets him know by closing the distance between them and pressing his lips to the Italian's. The taste is ripe and sweet and warm.

Soon after that, they leave the building, their building, as Antonio has dubbed it. On the way home Antonio talks about the green tomato curry he's going to make for dinner, and Lovino sighs and hides back chuckles and says that spaghetti would be better but curry is fine. The changes are so small they're barely noticeable, but the outbursts are shorter and the breakdowns are spaced out more, and slowly, slowly, Lovino starts to believe their relationship is mutually beneficial. It doesn't happen overnight, but it happens, or at least, it will happen; and tonight, for the first night in a weeks, Lovino sleeps heavily and safe, rooted to the earth by strong, tan arms.