Lovino shudders to wakefulness when he feels a weak nudge to his arm. The persistent tinny ring of the alarm clocks blares in a shrieking, maddeningly consistent pattern, and when he rolls over to find the snooze, he realizes that it must have been going on for at least ten minutes. He turns away from the accusing red numbers and watches Antonio's face, trying to decide if he's fallen back to sleep or not, before tugging up the sheets tangled around his torso and mumbling an apology.

It's been a long time since he's slept through his alarm clock, and he can't figure out why it's happened now. He's been pulling long days in the studio, but he's always done that, and at least his nights are now occupied with wine and sex and sleep, rather than stress toppled on top of anxiety and more work. He lifts himself from the bed when the alarm clock shudders back to life, ignoring the embarrassing persistent voice that begs for a few more minutes in Antonio's presence.

He crawls carefully and quietly from the mattress like he always does, despite feigning ignorance when his boyfriend thanks him for tempering his heavy footsteps and tendency towards slamming drawers in the early morning. He slips from the dark room and closes the door behind him before flicking on the blinding hallway light. His skin feels hot and dry despite the frigid January weather, and he runs a hand through his hair, determining if the grease levels are low enough to shirk this morning's shower.

Antonio has been unrelenting in his offer to let Lovino share his bathroom and closet, but the Italian has begrudgingly refused: he's already taxed his sense of self-reliance by gradually moving in to the older boy's home, the thought of occupying his space further, of fully settling down and demonstrating any sort of dependence, makes him uneasy. So he pads down the hall to the spare closet and bundles heavy winter clothes in his arms, grabbing his olive green beanie from the hat rack on his way to the bathroom.

Lovino folds his arms into his chest and distracts himself from the cold by concentrating on the last pale stars gleaming through hazy blue clouds. He missed the bus and now he has to wait for the next half hour rotation, he knows he could go in and ask Toni to borrow the car, but he thinks he'd rather bear the uncomfortable weather than impose on his boyfriend. It's probably irrational, but he's just not ready for that sort of relationship: agreeing to be Antonio's boyfriend is one thing, jeopardizing his future by hinging his needs on the man is another.

Lovino dips his nose into his collar and wonders if he's shivered away the heat from the morning, he licks his burning lips and shuffles back from the road when he smells the vague musk of diesel indicating the bus' arrival. He manages a half-hearted smile at the driver and flashes her his pass, sighing deeply when he notices his favorite seat-nestled safely in the back of the bus-has been taken. This is why he likes to catch the first bus of the day: the sparse crowds make it that much easier to avoid human contact and uncomfortable pleasantries. He settles into an empty row near the middle and slides to the window, fishing for his mp3 player while diligently avoiding his reflection in the still-darkened window. The ride to school is a tedious 20 minutes, usually he'll just space out to music and try to dissuade his thoughts from creeping into dangerous territories, but today his limbs feel stiff leaned against the cold metal paneling, and his head throbs with the rhythm of his favorite songs.

He pauses the player but leaves his headphones in his ear, closing his eyes to block out the obnoxiously bright interior lighting. The Italian dozes off for a few minutes, though he's not sure how, but after what seems mere seconds, the screeching brakes rouse him to consciousness and a peak through barely slitted eyelids reveals his reached destination. Lovino clears his throat and tries to casually wipe the line of drool on his chin as he reaches for his knapsack and shuffles towards the exit. His limbs feel sore now, probably due to sleeping wrong, or perhaps from sitting immobile on the bus, but he ignores it and makes his way up to the studio, certain that these bothersome, but largely mild, ailments will dissipate after he warms his muscles with work.

Lovino slumps into a seat near the front of the room when he reaches the studio and lays his satchel on the table, ready to fish out his sketchbook when a buzzing in his pocket distracts him.

Good Morning! I love you! :) Did you make it to school okay?

The Italian bites back a smile and makes a show of huffing in annoyance, as if the mere action will prove he doesn't care as much as he's afraid he does.

Yeah. Here now.

He stares at the stark words and adds love you too before hurriedly locking the screen and shoving the phone back into his pocket. It doesn't matter how many times he's taken the bus, Antonio texts him every morning to ask if he's safe, if he's made it. It's annoying, Lovino's an adult and he's managed to handle himself without his boyfriend for 21 years now, but any efforts to explain this to the older boy have proven fruitless. People always assume the Italian's the hard-headed one in the relationship, Lovino has to hold back a bitter laugh as he rolls his shoulders forward, willing the tension from his back. If only others could see how possessive the Spaniard could be, how aggravatingly obstinate, then maybe they wouldn't be so quick to judge.

It's gotten better at least, he thinks as he sifts through the pages of his sketchbook. Initially, Antonio refused to let Lovino wait for the bus alone: a dictate that resulted in yelling matches and more than a few nights on the couch, culminating into bitter morning twilight with the Italian standing no less than 30 feet from his boyfriend on the sidewalk, chin turned stubbornly to the sky. Antonio just cared, that's what everyone said, that's what his brother had told him when he begrudgingly confessed what was wrong after what seemed the thirtieth time of Feliciano asking. And sure, he understands that, he's not fucking dumb, but he has his needs, too. He needs quiet mornings alone, he needs his bathroom, and he needs his closet and his seat in the back of the bus, and if that's too much for Antonio to give, then he needs for this to end, for this charade of a relationship to be called off before he invests too much of himself in the role.

Lovino groans and slams his sketchbook shut, he had assumed that the throbbing in his head was merely due to fluorescent lighting and noxious bus fumes, but his temples thump in tune with his heart and he's afraid it might be the beginning of a migraine. He pulls out his phone again and unlocks the screen, staring into the numbers as he tries to work out if he should push through his class or get Antonio to pick him up. Antonio doesn't have to go to school till the afternoon and Lovino's all but certain he'd drop everything to help him if he knew he wasn't feeling well, but somehow that knowledge makes the aching in his stomach double, so he stows the phone safely away and leans his head on the table until the filtering of noisy students into the studio makes it impossible to shirk his responsibilities any longer.

Class creeps by at a miserable pace and Lovino tells his students, "work on sketches, quietly, or I'll slice off your hands and nail them to the wall sohelpmegod," before leaning his head into his knuckles and wishing for death. He's pretty sure he has a fever, but that seems like a minor concern when compared to his headache and aching joints. He keeps relaying his options in his head, desperate to find a solution that doesn't end with unwanted attention, and maybe that's not totally sane and maybe he doesn't care. Because it's not like he doesn't want Antonio here right now, massaging his temples and whispering sweet sentiments into his ear: he does, he really fucking does, and that scares the hell out of him.

Lovino loses track of the time after a while, his vision is swimming in and out of focus and his addled brain manages to determine that his fever might be edging worryingly high levels. The students start dismissing themselves, quietly whispering and casting him sympathetic glances, and his annoyance at this unsolicited show of pity is enough to give him the energy to travel to the sanctuary of his old dorm.

He fingers the ridges in the cold metal key and manages to register relief that he didn't return it when he moved in with Antonio. He was made to feel guilty about it at the time, a reaction that he ignored but couldn't completely dismiss; because sure, maybe what his brother, Antonio, and that nosy Frenchman said had some underlying validity: keeping the key was a not-so-subtle hint that he didn't trust Antonio as fully as he should. Holding on to the key meant maintaining his isolation, his distance, and the symbology of that was so blatant it made his stomach twist in repulsion.

Lovino gnaws the inside of his cheek when he slips the key into the lock, he hasn't yet learned Feliciano's winter schedule-a fact that makes him feel guilty-so he pushes the thought away to deal with when he doesn't feel like he's been dragged across hot coals and left to burn. He can't help the sigh of release that escapes parched lips when he notices the room empty with no visible signs of a certain German's presence, but that thought is even worse than the one before it, so he pushes this one away, too.

He doesn't remember much of what happened after he gets into the room: he knows he must have kicked off his shoes and removed his coat and beanie, because when he wakes up-sweat-soaked hair matted to his forehead, chills wracking painfully up his back-the items are placed neatly on the desk chair.

"Ve~you're awake," a familiar voice lilts and he recognizes the possibility that he didn't remove his clothes like he had previously assumed.

Lovino groans in reply and turns his head toward the wall, "what do you want?" He tries to sound angry, but the bite wavers in his voice around the soreness of his throat.

Feliciano doesn't reply immediately and instead cups a cool hand against his brother's forehead, before clucking in concern and retreating to the bathroom.

"What time is it?" Lovino calls after him, begrudgingly hoisting himself up on wobbling elbows and pushing back until his shoulders are leveraged flush against the wall.

"Your voice sounds bad," Feliciano says when he re-enters the room, pushing a couple Tylenol into his brother's sweaty palm and holding out a glass of water when the boy deposits them in his mouth.

"That doesn't answer my question," the older Italian argues, clearing his throat before taking a few more gulps of water.

Feliciano takes the newly empty glass from Lovino's hand and smiles apologetically before cupping his cheek and placing a chaste kiss on his temple. "Ve~it doesn't matter, you're not going to class."

"Like you have a say," the older brother snaps, for no other reason than to feign that he's not as pathetically weak as he feels.

Feliciano comes out of the bathroom with a washcloth in his hand, but as hard as he tries, Lovino doesn't remember him leaving his bedside, so he blinks and blinks and tries to reorient himself. Then he's on his back, and he knows that gentle hands must have eased him down, but the only thing he can register is the dimpled ceiling spinning slowly above him. He feels the familiar warmth of his brother curled into his side, usually so comforting, except now the heat is suffocating and close and the loss of time and space would make him panic if he wasn't so goddamned tired.

"I called Toni to pick you up."

The words are close to his ear and he jumps as if he's forgotten the body beside him is capable of producing noise. "What," he drawls out, swiping his cheek when a stray drip escapes the damp washcloth. "Why? I'm fine." The words sound stupid, even to him, but his ego has burned in him longer than this fever and as long as his faculties are at least partially in place, he intends to maintain some small semblance of exasperation.

Feliciano chuckles softly and Lovino winces at the sound. "No, you're sick," he says simply.

"Fuck you." The older Italian returns. It's not fair to be mad at his brother, but he's hot and miserable and his discomfort both mentally and physically is reaching a critical peak.

"Ve~Lovi, don't be upset," Feliciano soothes, his brother's familiar empty curses glancing disregarded past jaded ears.

"I'm not fucking upset," Lovino grounds out and wipes another rogue droplet from the side of his face. "Just-you didn't have to call that bastard."

The older Italian feels his brother stirring next to him and shuts his eyes against the dizzying movement. "It's okay, Toni said it was fine to miss class, they're not doing demos or anything."

Lovino feels his heart thumping heavily in his chest and his eyebrows knit in frustration, "that's not what I mean, I-" His thoughts are jumbled and muddy and he finds he's not exactly sure what he means. Another cold stream of water trails down his cheek and he considers changing his approach and yelling at Feliciano for not wringing the cloth out better, but the thought is lost when he feels his head being gently cradled into his brother's warm lap.

"Shh," Feliciano soothes, voice soft and placating, "don't cry."

Lovino thinks to argue, to explain that it's the cloth producing this condensation, not him, but his eyes are hot and stinging and he guesses the effort of forcing words through his battered throat isn't worth the small scrap of dignity the lie might afford him.

He's not sure if he fell asleep or if he merely lost time again, but one second he's being mesmerized by the comforting rhythm of his brother's fingers combing sweat-matted hair, and the next his forehead is being touched by a cold palm considerably bigger than Feliciano's. He hears something that vaguely sounds like, "poor baby," and swats an arm out in annoyance when his stiff joints are forced up from the yielding mattress.

"C'mon Lovi, we have to get you home," Antonio pleads, once more attempting to lift his boyfriend from the bed.

Lovino twists his body around and fights with all the strength his shaky limbs can muster, he's not as strong as Antonio but he's gained weight since dating the older boy and his arms are lithe and muscular from years of printmaking. "Don't need your help, bastard." He croaks out, wrenching away from his boyfriend's grip and steadying himself on the mattress before attempting to stand. His knees don't give out immediately, and Lovino feels distantly pleased that he's maybe not quite as useless as he feels, but Antonio wraps an arm around him all the same, the proximity of his warmth stilling the tremors the older Italian didn't even realize he was experiencing.

Lovino leans his head into the Spaniard's shoulder, misery overwhelming pride, and tries to make sense of the words exchanged between his boyfriend and brother. He hears something about fevers and flu and delirious, but mostly he just notices the vibrations in Antonio's chest and the way his head is forced gently back and forth with each of the older boy's breaths.

Finally the conversation ends and Lovino feels his brother give him a soft squeeze before his body is pulled toward the door. Logic tells him that the Spaniard is the one supporting most of his weight, guiding him down the looming hallways and steep, sloping stairs, but it feels to him as if he's being dragged beneath a dark current, the clarity of his senses dulled by a mere few inches of insurmountable waters.

"I feel like shit," he manages to groan when Antonio lowers him into chilled leather seat, before reaching across the Italian's lap to fasten his seatbelt.

The older boy turns his head and kisses his boyfriend between the eyes, "I know, we'll be home in a minute."

Lovino shudders and rests his head against the cold glass, disturbed by how comforted he feels just from smelling the familiar scent of the Spaniard's shampoo.

"Do we need to stop off at the clinic?" Antonio asks, running his hand through his hair like he always does when he's worried about the Italian.

Lovino groans and turns his head from the blessedly cool window to scowl at his boyfriend, "of course not, you idiot, it's just a fucking cold."

"You definitely at least have the flu, your fever's too high for just a cold," Antonio argues, but his voice is gentle and calm and that irritates the Italian because he's sick but not fragile. "How did you manage to pick that up, anyway?"

"I did it just to fuck with you, clearly," Lovino snaps and coughs into his fist. "And my fever's not that bad."

Except he's wrong and it is that bad, 103 and change, so he lays sprawled out on the bed, stripped down to his underwear, watching Antonio sitting cross-legged next to him, searching the internet for home remedies. Then he's fed more Tylenol and apple juice and if he cries from how fucking miserable he is, Antonio doesn't say anything and he sort of loves him for that.

"It's not going down," The Spaniard says when he pulls the thermometer from his boyfriend's cracked lips. His voice wavers dangerously and Lovino thinks that he might hit Antonio if he starts crying, too. "Do you think you can stand long enough to take a shower?"

"Yes, Jesus, I'm not on death's door," Lovino croaks, more to convince himself than his boyfriend. Antonio helps him up anyway, but when he leads the Italian towards the adjoined bathroom, the boy wraps his fingers around the molding and refuses to enter. "My bathroom," he says simply and his ears buzz from the exertion.

"This one's closer," Antonio says. It sounds so simple, but it's really not, and Lovino's frustrated that he lacks the ability to explain that in a coherent way.

Instead, he shakes his head and crumples to his knees, "no."

"Lovino, now isn't the time," and he used his full name so this must be serious. Before he can argue, he's lifted from the floor and pulled onto the cold white tiles. He lets it happen because he's powerless to stop it, and when Antonio deposits him on the toilet, he folds his head into his knees and pretends to pout while the Spaniard fiddles with the taps. "You okay?"

The Italian glances up and notices Antonio is removing his shirt, so he guesses he's getting in with him. "Yeah."

The Spaniard nods and dips down to unbutton his pants, "can you stick your hand in there and tell me how it feels to you?"

Lovino licks his lips and nods, leaning an elbow against the side of the tub and reaching the other arm under the stippled spray. "It's cold," he says and draws his arm protectively back to his chest.

"Really?" Antonio quirks an eyebrow and rests a hand on Lovino's shoulder as he leans over him to test the temperature. "It's warm, it just feels cold 'cause you're so hot."

"Oh thanks, I know," Lovino looks up and quirks a sideways smile, and Antonio has to cover his mouth to keep from laughing.

"Oh my God, you really are delirious, huh?"

"You're the one that called me hot."

"Well in that pink underwear how could I not?"

"You love my underwear, admit it."

"I think I just did," Antonio lets himself laugh this time and ruffles the Italian's hair before giving him a quick peck on the lips.

Lovino immediately plants his palms on the Spaniard's chest and pushes him back, "stop, you idiot, you'll get sick, too."

"Yeah, yeah," the older boy placates before hoisting the Italian off the toilet and pulling down his briefs, "shower time, okay?"

Lovino only nods numbly in reply and allows Antonio to hold his elbows as he steps over the tub on wobbly legs. The shower spray is sharp and painful and he leans his head into his boyfriend's chest as the icy droplets pelt his stiff back. "I hate this," he moans in an uncharacteristic fit of honesty. He's not exactly sure what he hates: the shower, being sick, or being forced into the vulnerable space of Antonio's bathroom, but he feels strong arms wrap tighter around him and he guesses that on some subconscious level they both know what he means.

"You want me to wash your hair?" The older boy asks after a while.

The shudders have finally dissipated to a manageable level and Lovino doesn't feel as pathetically weak as he had just a few minutes ago, so he folds his arm into his chest and nods. Antonio doesn't wait for further verbal confirmation before depositing lavender scented shampoo into his palms and kneading it into his boyfriend's matted hair. The smell is relaxing and the Italian finally feels warmth tingling in the periphery of his fingertips when the Spaniard finishes with his scalp and starts soaping up his body, carefully scrubbing each inch of tanned skin with tender diligence. Antonio takes Lovino's hand and peels it carefully from his chest, massaging his palm, his fingers, his cuticles with soap. The Italian glances up through water-soaked eyelashes and, despite the fever, despite the pain and the trepidation, knows this is where he's supposed to be right now, and that this is the person he's supposed to be with.

"I love you," he says before he can think of a reason not to, and Antonio stops and glances up, but doesn't crack a joke or smile knowingly or tell him he's delirious. Instead, he leans in and kisses him, and it's so perfect that Lovino isn't sure if he's shivering from the fever breaking or from feeling so present in his own body, in his own existence.

"Stop," Lovino concedes finally, pulling away, "you're just begging to catch this."

Antonio laughs and turns off the faucet, reaching an arm across the tub to grab their softest towel from the rack. "I'm not worried, I have you to take care of me," he smiles and wraps the towel around the Italian's soft curves.

"Like hell you do," Lovino grounds out, accepting Antonio's assistance in clearing the tall tub siding.

Antonio winks and runs out of the room to get a spare towel from the linen closet, and Lovino leans against the wall and slides to the floor, staring hazily at the steam falling in a thick shroud from the ceiling. The damp air feels good on his throat, so he leans his head back and closes his eyes, tired mind unable to block the memories flickering on the inside of his eyelids: memories of his Mom making pallets on the bathroom floor every time he or Feliciano was sick. She would build up a soft shroud of towels and quilts between the toilet and shower and gather up the other brother, carefully constructing the perfect barrier of comfort. And even when he felt sick, even when he felt fucking miserable, her arms wrapped around him-around them- held tight on the cold linoleum tiles, was the safest he remembers ever feeling.

Lovino turns his head towards the door when he hears Antonio's returning footsteps, he expects the older boy to scold him for not drying off and getting dressed, but instead he slides down to the floor next to him and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

Lovino turns his head into the older boy's side and thinks this might be as good as a pallet of family and blankets. He knows there's nothing Antonio needs to do to legitimize their relationship, he's not perfect and neither is Lovino, but in a way that works, because he doesn't want someone perfect, he just wants someone perfect for him. And even though he knows he should worry, even though ever fiber of his being tells him not to trust that anything is permanent, he can't help but feel secure. And if that's stupid, then so be it, he never claimed to be smart anyway.

So he wraps his hand around Antonio's arm and draws himself closer to the others warm body. "Antonio?"

"Hmm?" The Spaniard replies, absently reaching a hand up and testing the heat on his boyfriend's forehead.

"When I'm better, let's move my stuff in here."

Antonio leans his head against the wall and brushes the damp tendrils from Lovino's face, "okay."