*Song quoted throughout is "Blind, Deaf Too" by Jonathan Keevil.

There's holy days and there's Sundays
And there's hope every weekend, we make it

Four days.

Antonio woke up to aches everywhere. He had fallen asleep on the couch in Gilbert's room in a contorted position. His neck was strained, his legs were heavy, and a hammer inside his head was batting his skull incessantly. Dull voices echoed everywhere.

Antonio decided to stay home that day.

He didn't go out on the balcony; he kept the doors closed and locked. At some dark point in the night however, he pulled back the curtain of his windows—too desperate to forgo the balcony across from him.

The lights were off. The blinds were drawn. He saw no one.

Even the ashtray was empty.

Lovino didn't wake up, because he never went to bed.

He collapsed on his mattress in his weather-worn and tobacco dipped clothes, and stared at the starch white wall. He cried. He cried for minutes and hours. He cried until small fragments of sunlight streamed into the room. He cried until he was dry and empty.

He couldn't leave the house that day.

It was a Sunday. Everything was closed. Rome shut down, so why couldn't Lovino?

He didn't have any cigarettes to get up for anyway.

Three days.

Rain never comes when you want it to, the weather never listens to the cries of your heart. Actually, it seems as though it will always do the opposite to taunt you, tease you, and remind you ever so loudly that you're just too small to do anything about it.

The sun came out, and Antonio had no choice but to open his eyes and face its brilliance. His body was stiff from twenty-four hours of bed rest, but he rose to stumble towards the glass doors. The curtains were pushed aside slightly – he didn't remember doing that – and the sunlight glinted strong from the rooftops and glass opposite him. Antonio's eyes were still tender with sleep, and he closed them to the sight. But just after sunlight made him bow, it compelled him to rise again, and Antonio couldn't fight the instinct to look across the way.

And he doesn't remember ever seeing Rome this way.

White. His eyes were stunned white from the clarity. Since when has Rome's air been so pure, and so light? Antonio's eyes flew through the air, he saw so much. Curious and stunned, Antonio unlatched the door, and stepped out onto the balcony with bare feet. It was…warm.

He leaned against the railing and wrapped his fingers around the iron. Of course, Antonio's eyes flit all over the panorama – he was victim to the brightness – but it was inevitable that his gaze should fall heavy on the apartment across from him. And it paralyzed him.

Chipped paint. Cracks…everywhere. Two chairs, barely standing. A table covered in ashes. A dozen empty wine bottles in the corner. And cigarettes blanketing the ground.

Was it because of the rain? Or the exhaustion? Or because Lovino always carried a veil of smoke with him?

In all of his stay, how was it that Antonio never noticed how ugly Lovino's apartment was? It's not as though any of it was new; the pieces might have been fresh, but the habits were the same.

He watched the wind knock ashes over the table, and some cigarettes tussled over one another, tapping the green, empty bottles. Antonio's shoulders slumped, and he sighed. He didn't want to see anyone else's pain but his own. That was the reason. If he didn't bother looking, how could he see that everyone else in the world was suffering too?

Another sigh, and he let go of the railing. When Antonio walked indoors, he suddenly felt too comfortable.

He was just so goddamn self-absorbed.

"Hey Gilbert, have you seen my black pair of pants? I thought I left it on the balcony to dry, but it's not there anymore," Antonio asked, as he jogged into the kitchen. He was fresh-faced and dewy from the shower; water still dropped from his hair.

It took a moment for Gilbert to set down his newspaper, but when he did, his eyes lit up. "Oh, right," he exclaimed, and jumped from his seat. He started walking out of the kitchen, so Antonio followed him. "Sorry man, I needed space to hang my laundry, and your clothes were already dry, so I took them down," he said as they entered his room.

Antonio chuckled. "That's all right. I kind of forgot I left them there. I hope it wasn't any troub…" his voice trailed off at the sight of Gilbert's bed. "You folded all of my clothes?" he asked.

Gilbert glanced between the clothes and Antonio, and perhaps for the first time since their encounter, Gilbert looked slightly…embarrassed? "Uh, yeah," he laughed, as he straightened the sleeves of his suit. "When I have a lot on my mind, I tend to just clean. And your clothes happened to be there, so sorry about that."

"No, no," Antonio said as he grasped his tidy pile. "Don't apologize for that. I mean, I never fold my clothes, so it's kind of nice for a change."

Gilbert looked at him and his usual grin spread across his cheeks. "Well then, you're welcome," he jeered, and the usual spark returned to his eyes. He gave Antonio a once over. "So are you running a bit late this morning?"

Antonio grimaced slightly. "Yeah, I suppose I am. I don't have time to walk to the metro, so I'm wondering if I should take the bus around the corner."

"Oh, that's never going to come," Gilbert dismissed with a wave of his hand. "But, why don't I give you a ride today. I'm going your way for once."

"Really?" Antonio's voice sounded hopeful.

"Yeah, it's no problem."

Antonio was ready in five minutes flat, though his curls were still damp, and he trotted out the door with Gilbert. Of course, Gilbert and his brother never took the elevator, so it was four floors down before they exited the complex and turned a corner to a street of parked cars. They neared a black four-door car, fairly standard, Antonio couldn't tell what brand; and they both slid into the seats.

After he heard Gilbert buckle up, Antonio snapped out of his reverie and did the same. And soon, they were free from the parking spot, and skidding down the Roman streets. Everything went by so fast from looking out the window. Did life always go by that fast? Antonio already felt older by the time they reached the first red light.

Gilbert sighed and relaxed a bit in his seat: impatient for the light to turn.

Antonio pressed his lips together and continued to stare out the glass. Sometimes traveling helped put things in perspective, but the really, the only thing Antonio's eyes could catch were the flashes of color. Even sitting still, he didn't see figures or forms, he just saw patchworks of color. Like a mosaic. Or a field of flowers.

"Oh," Gilbert breathed, and his gaze turned to the direction of Antonio's window.

Antonio looked away from the front and to Gilbert. "What is it?"

Gilbert pointed over his shoulder very briefly. "Lovino. He's walking down the street."

At the sound of that name, Antonio whipped his hair around – some stray droplets flew with him – and he held a breath when his eyes caught the familiar fast sway of Lovino's figure. He was pacing down the sidewalk beside them, wearing less than his usual black coat, and without the layers, Antonio realized just how small he was. Not so much in stature as in build. He looked as young and tender as a fawn. Jesus.

Why the fuck couldn't Antonio see past his own loneliness, and his own pain?

Why the fuck couldn't Antonio hear past his own constant, annoying, internal monologue?

He didn't have an answer, so instead, he asked, "Um, should we offer him a ride or something?" Antonio glanced in Gilbert's direction for an answer.

Gilbert's eyes were heavy and dark. "No," he said. The light turned green, and he started the car down the street once again. "Lovino doesn't ride in cars anymore."

"Oh," Antonio gasped, as the realization hit him all at once. He waited a few moments, preparing his voice, before he asked, "Was he the one driving when it happened?"

Gilbert turned hard to the left. Antonio swayed with the car, a little unprepared.

"Nope," Gilbert replied curtly.

"Oh," Antonio exhaled.

The car turned again. A sharp right.

"I was."

Antonio's heart stopped. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't look, he didn't know what to sa—

"One thing that's interesting though," Gilbert continued, his voice clipped. "Lovino never once blamed me for what happened. He never got mad at me. He never even raised his voice."

Antonio took a risk and glanced at him.

Gilbert was staring at the road, his eyes looking faraway. "Not even once," he repeated.

We find truth in all of our losses
And we build from what we can not possibly bear to see

"Do you have a favorite flower, Lovi?"

Lovino was dozing off in his chair when Feli asked the question. He rocked back to reality and shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun. He could only see Feli's profile.

"Um," he paused. "Maybe roses or carnations." Lovino shrugged his shoulders glanced around their stand. It was towards the end of the day and there were less flowers now. It was a bittersweet time.

Feli hummed as he leaned over the cases, sniffing each flower. "I can see that. They suit you. Beautiful, colorful, and complicated."

"They're flowers, Feli."

"Still though! I think it says a lot."

"Uh-huh."

Feli stretched his arms and exhaled grandly. "I think my favorite might be sunflowers."

"I didn't ask you."

"They're so happy, and smiling. And they try to stand so tall for a flower."

Lovino thought for a moment, and added, "I don't know. They're kind of weird looking."

"That's right," Feli smiled. "They're so imperfect."

Lovino sighed and let his memory burn away in the sunlight. He was standing in the center of Campo de Fiori, watching the world pass through, surrounded by flowers and fruits and color. It was more than he remembered. How was he ever part of that world to begin with?

"I love their imperfections though. It makes them so tender. So sweet. Just so…human."

With the decision guiding his steps, Lovino dug his nails into his palms and strode forward into the stands. He picked his small purchase, dropped the coins with shaking hands, and swiftly, exited as he came.

Maneuvering the crowds like he had never even left.

To see
To see

Ludwig was sitting on the curb, when Lovino saw him. It was odd, new, and so very not-like-Ludwig, so at once, Lovino slowed his pace. He wondered if something was wrong.

With the fight or flee fight or flee debate still ringing in his head, Lovino tentatively walked to the curb. Ludwig finally heard him and looked up from the pavement he was staring at: something small, orange and striped was sitting there.

Lovino narrowed his eyes. "Is that a…cat?"

Ludwig's face retreated into feign disinterest, but red still glowed in his cheeks. "Um, it's a kitten, yes. I was going inside when I saw it here, so I'm just…" his voice trailed off as the kitten batted his hand with a paw. He sighed and offered, "She seemed kind of lonely."

"Aren't they all?" Lovino muttered, and he abruptly dropped his weight on the space nearby. The kitten jumped and hid behind Ludwig's arm. Lovino ignore it and rolled his eyes. "You going to keep her?"

"Oh, well," Ludwig breathed and he looked at the kitten. "I don't really know. I'm more of a dog person really."

"Of course you are."

The kitten jumped at Ludwig's arm and held on. He smiled, "But it might be nice to have a pet around the house."

Lovino glanced at Ludwig, watched him smile, and he tried hard to suppress the urge to wipe that happiness from his face and toss it in the trash. He felt that urge too often. He knew that. But…it was still hard to see people moving on when you're not ready too.

Lovino clasped his hands together, averted his gaze to the other side, and gnawed at his lip. It took a few seconds. Then he blurted, "Sunflowers."

Ludwig stopped playing with the kitten and looked over. "What was that?"

Lovino started shaking his leg; distracting himself. "Sunflowers," he repeated. "They're—um. They're Feli's favorites."

Ludwig wasn't smiling anymore, but he wasn't frowning either. He was looking at Lovino with so much softness. And he replied, "I didn't know."

Lovino nodded his head shortly, and stayed silent.

"Did you want anything for yourse—"

Lovino cut him off with a fast shake of his head. His teeth chewed at his lip, and he didn't say a word.

Ludwig waited for anything more, but when it didn't come, he asked, "Are you—will you come that day?"

That day. Wednesday. The seventeenth of March.

So many emotions turned in Lovino's blood, his head span. He didn't know what to make of it, but he also didn't want to take the time to mull it over. It took all he had to grit his teeth and force a curt nod.

He heard Ludwig's breath catch, then a careful, "Really?"

Lovino bit his lip and nodded again. But when he felt the shift in Ludwig's stance and the noisy silence of about to say something, and Lovino couldn't take it.

"Ciao," he coughed as he scrambled to his feet. Ludwig's hand almost touched his shoulder—Lovino knew because he craved that contact. Human contact. But if he allowed himself that comfort, he might start crying. And that's not allowed in front of Ludwig.

So instead, Lovino dashed off the curb, and into the building. He let the glass doors close too hard behind him, and the solid sound was kind of reassuring.

At least there were some things capable of withstanding the close.

It was a quarter until midnight when Lovino checked the clock again. He was sitting in his kitchen, still fully dressed, with his purchase sitting tauntingly in front of him. Sunflower seeds.

It'd been ages since he had laid his hands on a flower. He wondered if he could still help things grow. Could he still touch things as delicately as he used to?

His fingers were nervously picking at the skin of his fingers when he heard the familiar tuning of Antonio's guitar. The music drifted through the flimsy walls and slowly eased the tension from Lovino's hands. He even felt his heart slow.

So as the guitar strummed anonymous tunes, Lovino pulled his pot closer, and as the pace slowed, he parted a clump of dirt away and picked up the seed. Then along with the rhythm of the chords, Lovino dropped the seed, buried it, and watered the top.

He walked to his window, drew the blinds, placed his pot on the sill; then he caught the fierce green of Antonio's eyes looking up at him. Lovino stayed there watching longer than he should, and when the clock struck twelve, his heart beat along with it.

Two days.

Antonio remained for ages. It was nearing the early hours of the morning, and the voice of reason inside his head warned him that he had errands and work to do tomorrow, that tomorrow was important. But when tomorrow was already today…Antonio sighed and reasoned he needed all the time he had to mull over his thoughts and actions.

At some point, he heard the doors slide open, and another figure step onto the balcony. Without looking, he figured it was Gilbert: he had a habit of stopping by unannounced. But when Antonio's eyes betrayed him and he looked over, he saw that it was Ludwig.

Ludwig quickly caught his stare and looked down bashfully. "Sorry," he said, "do you mind if I join you?"

Having forgotten about the other human existence since Lovino left, Antonio scrambled to his manners, replying, "Of course! Yeah, sit down. Please."

Ludwig smiled and sat down in the other chair. He was carrying an opened beer, and gingerly took a sip. The Bielschmidt brothers never drank wine, Antonio noticed. It was kind of funny that way, but fitting still.

"Have you talked to Lovino recently?" Ludwig asked.

Antonio halted in his strumming of the guitar, and he felt his face flush. (Not that anything happened, of course. But somehow, since that Saturday, he felt like everything happened.) "I haven't. Not for a while actually."

Ludwig glanced over his expression coolly; he never gave away his emotions freely. "I see," he murmured.

Silence lingered in the air, so Antonio decided to fill some of it with his clumsy notes. For some reason his usual musical coordination betrayed him at the moments he needed it most, and he wished so desperately for Lovino's cloud of smoke to appear. But it didn't. It hasn't for days.

"What was Feliciano like?' Antonio asked suddenly. Some force inside of his head which he had no control over compelled him to ask the question, but he regretted it as soon as he asked, and backtracked. "I'm sorry—If you don't want to say I—"

"No, no," Ludwig stopped him, and his voice was calm. He placated Antonio with another soft smile. "It's fine, I…I like to talk about him."

Antonio relaxed in his chair and held his guitar, not strumming anymore.

Ludwig looked in the direction of Lovino's apartment, but his eyes were very far away. They were mystical. "Feliciano was beautiful, and very kind," he said. "You probably already know that he and Lovino owned a flower shop together in Campo de Fiori."

Antonio nodded his head. He'd heard that much from Gilbert already. It was one of his first questions.

"I met him there. I wasn't looking for flowers. I was just walking around town at the time, but I got distracted and I…" he laughed and shifted in his chair. "Feliciano was very persuasive when he wanted to be. He could attract anyone to their stand. And he was so charming, and so kind, and so open." Ludwig stopped and closed his eyes. "I'd never met anyone like that before. He was so opposite of me…but I—he was like a breath of fresh air. He swept over me like a breeze."

Antonio listened and his heart was enchanted. This was a part of Lovino's past that he could never touch, or know—but he wanted to. So, so much. "Feliciano was everything to Lovino, wasn't he?" he said, and it was more of a statement.

Ludwig turned to him, his blue eyes sharp. "Yes, I think he was," he said. He looked at his beer, then added, "I think he still is actually."

Of course, Antonio thought. Because people never die in your mind. It's impossible, because nothing dies in your mind. Thoughts and memories are nomadic, but they are immortal. "I can see that," he whispered quietly.

Ludwig nodded and took a swig of his beer.

Antonio hesitated, but asked anyway, "What was Lovino like?" Before the accident was left unsaid.

It took a moment for Ludwig to reply. He furrowed his brows and concentrated on the concrete of the balcony floor. "Lovino was…much the same actually," he revealed, "but in some ways he was less…like less harsh, and less vacant. Less wanting to be somewhere else." Then his gaze met Antonio's and he finished, "But he was also harsher—and brasher. Where Feliciano was all softness and lightness, Lovino was all passion and intensity. Kind of abrasive actually, but also just—just him."

The words echoed into the empty space, and Antonio let them linger there. He wanted so desperately to hear those words said aloud, because he knew. He knew already what Lovino was like. Of course he knew, because Antonio was the same way. In his own version of dark pasts he understood; he even told Lovino about this. You give up a part of yourself when you lose the one you love, but whereas Antonio's was voluntary, Lovino's wasn't. That was the difference.

But was the chasm really so grand?

Antonio wasn't sure anymore. Before, he thought that his might've been worse; he always thought that. Because how could a stranger understand what he was feeling, and what his pain was? But at the same time, Lovino suffered a loss. It wasn't just a parting of ways, or a split in the road, or even a dead-end. It was as if the road was ripped from underneath him entirely. He didn't know where to go anymore.

"I'm an idiot," Antonio chuckled, and he raked his hand through his hair. His eyes were shining, and gazing wistfully at the balcony across from him. But there was nothing to see because it was empty, dark and closed. The space was closed to him now. "I'm such an idiot," he murmured again.

Ludwig didn't argue, but didn't agree either. "I didn't like him back then," he said. "But Feliciano would always say how they were reversed. Feliciano had a soft shell, but was very hard and strong underneath, and Lovino…was the just the other way around."

Antonio smiled, though the smile hurt more now.

"I like Lovino," Ludwig added, "I like him more now than I did." He took a few swigs of his beer and let the oppressing silence of the night surround him. "But I think he likes you too, you know? I think he needs you."

But what good would I do him? Just another chipped piece.

"Yeah," Antonio replied. "Yeah…" he repeated quieter.

And they sat together for another hour, just basking in the night; because at least the quiet of the too-early morning was something to calm them. It was the time that made the rest of the day seem vulnerable, and that maybe they could conquer it.

They wanted to bask in it a little bit longer.

But Antonio couldn't help but miss the company of some second-hand smoke that usually came with it.

Unfortunately, it seemed as though the morning would never, ever be welcome in Rome. It was always too early, or too late: just not at the right time. And Lovino felt like that morning after morning after morning again, because he knew the routine. Of course, he did.

But he was trying. Lovino was trying these mornings harder than every other; despite the fact that they inevitably sucked, and that too much happiness and brightness reigned down on him when he was still stuck in the darkness of the mind. He really was trying. So he pulled himself out from under the safety of his covers, and began the usual early routine.

He went through the motions, as he always did. It wasn't as though he tasted the toothpaste anymore, or felt the scalding water of the shower; he didn't even feel the first cup of caffeine. It was just part of the script that he was forced to follow, and he did, and Lovino continued through his day, even through his errands: following his mind to the lost path through Piazza di Spagna—usually meant for those lost hangover days with Feliciano, but now…there seemed to be another connotation tied to the place.

But how could that be? Lovino hadn't moved on from the accident, He really hadn't. There was no way his heart could be panging for someone other than the most important person in his life. Especially two days before the seventeenth. It was impossible, it was disloyal, it was…fucking horrible.

He sat on the steps watching the lovers hold hands and stroll by, and wondered with distraught realization that he was thinking about the fucking Spanish idiot that denied him two days before the anniversary of his brother's death. How fucked up and selfish was that?

He was the worst.

"Oh, it's you little Italian!" a French accent sang.

Correction: everyone else was the worst too.

Lovino raised his gaze from a stained spot on the ground to a familiar young gentleman grinning before him. "Hello?..." he began cautiously, but at once realized his mistake.

"Oh, you recognized me, hm?" the man laughed and flipped his lush, blond hair. "I'm so flattered you do. But I suppose it's not often you come across the rare blend of brains, beauty and talent, no?"

Lovino's tired, not-nearly-caffeinated brain caught up with him, and he muttered a low, "God fucking damn it."

"Now, now," the man (what was his name?) reprimanded, "that's not the language you use in front of your colleagues, now is it?"

Lovino sighed and rolled his eyes. "What are you doing here?" he asked in resignation. It's not as though this man would actually concede defeat. He definitely wasn't the type.

The man smiled, and his blue eyes glittered something untraceable. "I'm the artist, don't you remember?" he declared dramatically. "But perhaps our previous encounter was too brief. I recall that you were pulled away too early. I wanted to show you something, remember?"

Lovino pressed his lips together and shifted his gaze to the side. "Yeah, I remember."

"Ah, so it seems my zest has not gone unnoticed!"

"You're too annoying to forget apparently."

The man laughed carelessly, and Lovino dared to think that it actually sounded nostalgic to hear—it's not as though he actually liked the man. It was exactly the opposite.

"Lovino," he said, and his voice was compelling. "I wanted to show you something. Will you please follow me?"

Why did those words sound like a trap? Lovino wondered. Was it because Feliciano so often said the same things? Or was Lovino so embittered and tired that he didn't recognize friendliness when he heard it? What could it even be anymore?

It took several moments between grunts, tapping feet, and nervous fingers for Lovino to exclaim an exasperated, "Fine, you win." And he followed the flamboyant French artist away from the steps and to the open and crowded center of the piazza.

They approached a stand – Lovino assumed the same stand as last time – and he momentarily wondered how the man could leave it unattended. Then Lovino realized he didn't care and scoffed.

"So, how are you doing this fine Roman morning?" the man asked. "And my name is Francis, in case you've forgotten.

That was it, Lovino recalled. (Not that he cared anyway.) "I'm fine," he muttered.

"Ah-ha! Those are the two biggest lies in the dictionary. How about trying again?"

Lovino crossed his arms over his chest and looked to the side. "I'm tired. Is that okay to say?"

"Anything's okay to say, I'd just rather hear the truth during our brief encounters," Francis said wisely. "It's best not to waste any time while we're together."

"…Right."

Francis sat down in his simple wooden chair, and crossed his legs. "Do you remember how I wanted to show you something last time?"

Lovino hesitated as he brought up the memory. "Yeah," he admitted reluctantly.

"Well, I still do. Rest assured."

"Do you think I actually car—"

"But I thought before I show you, I might tell a story first," Francis stated, and he patted the top of the other simple chair next to him.

Lovino tossed a glance over his shoulder, eyeing his escape route, then reluctantly sat down in the chair. He made sure his expression was set in that of extreme annoyance and discomfort.

But Francis didn't seem to mind or see, and instead proceeded to wave his hand dramatically and begin his story. "So once upon a time—"

"Jesus."

"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful and struggling artist, who lived in Paris. He'd always been talented, and lucky, and happy, and although he didn't sell more than two paintings a day, he was content with his life."

Lovino opened his mouth to make a smug comment, but he caught the twinkle in Francis's eyes and decided not yet.

"Then one day, a young lady stopped by his stand," he said, and his tone changed somehow. "She wasn't like his other customers. She was kinder, and softer, and he wasn't able to use the same tricks he had on other girls. They talked, and she returned. And somehow…along the way, he became kinder and softer too. He never realized how bad of a person he was, until she showed how to become a good one."

Lovino narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Are you saying that I'm a bad per—"

"Shh," Francis shushed him, and swiftly continued his story. "And then, as the story goes, the two of them ended up falling in love. Like a true Parisian love story, if I may say so." He turned to Lovino smiling and heavenly.

The happiness was making Lovino's stomach turn.

"But," Francis began again, and he laughed rather breathily. "The real world has a loathing for happy endings. And it's always the good people who find out first." He reached down on the ground and fished out a small print. He held it gingerly between his fingers. "She got sick. She got very, very sick. Everything happened so fast, and then all of a sudden…she was gone."

Lovino's acute paralysis attacked his limbs, and he suddenly didn't know at all what to do. He never talked about death. It was left unsaid. It was taboo. Never to be spoken.

And likewise, he never expected to hear it. He never wanted to hear it.

Because it fucking scared him how death was everywhere. If that was a painting of the woman, he didn't want to see it because she was dead. Gone. Not alive. And probably so fucking beautiful and kind too.

Lovino didn't know whether Francis sensed his onset fear or not, but he did continue talking.

"Returning to the life he had before he ever met her was impossible, because he wasn't that person anymore, and that wasn't his life anymore. But his new life wasn't his life anymore either—he was stripped and bare and thrown into a different place in a different time."

Someone burned the flowers.

"And he thought he could go through the motions, and somehow, he would return to how he used to be. As thought that were even possible."

Someone threw black ink across the sky.

"He went on like that for a while: not really living, not really breathing, but just moving along. And then one day, he met a young man as fresh as a breeze, and as soft as flowers," Francis stopped and he was looking straight at Lovino. "Your brother was a lot like Jeanne. He was very kind to me, and we talked quite often."

Lovino's skin was cold. He didn't know how to react. "Um, you know he's—he's…"

"I know," Francis replied quietly, and those blue eyes swirled so dark. "I'm very sorry, Lovino."

Lovino's throat was closing, and he couldn't bear to see anymore. He closed his eyes and turned away.

Francis was leaning in his chair, it made a creak. "It's his birthday in two days, isn't it?"

Lovino gave the slightest nod.

"…And it's yours too, right?"

Lovino didn't make a move. He'd been pretending his birthday didn't exist anymore. He couldn't age another year than Feliciano. They were twins. How could that even work?

There was rustling of papers, and it sounded like Francis was sorting through his prints again. There was a sinking feeling in Lovino's heart.

"He commissioned a painting for you about a week before…" Francis trailed off knowingly. He held the paper in front of Lovino, waiting for him to grasp it. "I wasn't able to complete it until very recently though. I didn't know how to."

Lovino felt the print, the thin, fragile canvas pricking at his forearms, but he was afraid to look.

"He wanted you to have it," Francis encouraged gently.

A soft Italian voice whispered in his ear, and Lovino opened his eyes. He saw the ones just a shade lighter than his painted in watercolor and staring back at him. And he saw himself smiling, like he was happy.

"He said it was a photo of you two from your—"

"Last birthday," Lovino finished, his voice clipped. "I remember."

It was one of the good days that was being romanticized more and more, with each passing day. Lovino would never forget.

At some point, he realized he was on his feet, and he was walking.

There was a voice that called, "Wait! Where are you going?"

And another voice that sounded similar to his own that replied, "I need to go home. I'll be back later."

"Lovino!"

There were no more roses, gardenias, tulips or daisies. Laughter evaporated into the air. The stall fell to pieces. There as nothing left in Campo de Fiori.

There was nothing left at all.

He

Was

All

Alone.

One day.

Antonio had an epiphany. It was something about the absence of a certain thing he'd grown accustomed to that helped him make the realization.

Lovino wasn't the one who guarded himself with smoke and mirrors. In fact, he didn't hide at all. Lovino sent out signals, hoping someone would notice and find him.

It was Antonio who was hiding. It was always him. He'd been tricking the light hoping no one would figure it out, but it was all for naught.

Because Lovino could see through any cloud of smoke. And he despised mirrors.

Antonio kept trying to convince himself that it was him that was embracing reality. That it was him that was moving on, and letting go, and not afraid of life. But that was because he never planned on living it. He didn't have fear, because he didn't need it.

Lovino was terrified every moment because he was trying. He was trying so hard, every step of the way. And he kept falling hard on his knees, scraping and bruising them, only to get back up and fall again.

And when Lovino handed a piece of his tender heart to Antonio with trembling, delicate hands, Antonio went ahead and kicked him to the ground.

He didn't deserve to love Lovino.

But Lovino was more than deserving of love.

So somehow, those seemed to cancel out. And Antonio allowed himself the privilege of sitting on the balcony all night long, playing a broken record of songs he used to know, hoping it was just loud enough to lull Lovino asleep, and soft enough to encourage pleasant dreams.

There's people, you said, there's sentences
And there's eloquence after death
There's beauty in every consequence
But if you don't notice it, it will wipe you clean
Spread you like butter across the sheets
Hand you down everything
I'll hand you down everything
Feeling like emptiness
As it braces you for the aftermath of it

Zero.

Of it
Of it

Antonio woke up with his face stuck to the plastic cover of the dining room table: apparently he fell asleep that way too.

The light was still gentle and fresh, it must not have been noon yet. Something about the day seemed cooler than the ones past though. More like spring. Antonio felt his heart pang a little in appreciation; he was learning to love the sun again, and it made him miss Spain.

Soon he heard footsteps echo in the hall nearby, and someone approached. Gilbert walked in dressed far more prim than Antonio had ever seen him before, in a suit very dark and crisp. His face was set rather serious until he caught Antonio's eyes, then his usual, teasing grin spread across his lips.

"Oh, well if it isn't our sleeping beauty? Was the kitchen table to your liking?" he joked, and took a seat across from him.

Antonio laughed as he worked out the kink in his neck. "Not really," he replied, and gave Gilbert another once-over. "Why are you so dressed up though?"

Gilbert's smile faded and he cocked his head in restrained surprise. "You don't know?"

Antonio pursed his lips and did a mental check through his to-do list. "I don't think so, no," he said simply. But Gilbert's growing bewilderment was getting to him, so he added, "Why? What is it?"

Gilbert licked his lips, ready to respond, when they heard someone – it could only be Ludwig – unlocking the apartment door. He strolled in, his oxford shoes clacking against the floors, and walked into the kitchen also dressed to the nines in a black suit. He was even holding a bouquet of sunflowers.

"Hey, what's up?" Gilbert asked, his voice back to casual. "I thought you were picking up flowers with Lovino. Did he go back to his apartment?"

"He never met up with me," Ludwig muttered, his voice very exasperated. "I waited for a half an hour, and I called, and texted, and rang his buzzer. So I thought he might be sleeping and I'll just get the flowers on my own, but then he texted me later saying he doesn't feel well."

Antonio finally noticed the sheen of sweat on Ludwig's forehead, and the dark circles under his eyes. This was important.

Gilbert, always excellent at placating a situation, responded, "It's possible he doesn't actually feel well."

"Damn it, Gilbert! That's not true! We know it's a lie. He's just too afraid to come," Ludwig shouted, and his blue eyes were piercing.

Gilbert sighed and leaned over the table. "It's his birthday too, you know."

Antonio's ears pricked at that word. Did that mean it was also Feli's…

"What are you saying?" Ludwig demanded.

"I don't know. Maybe cut him some slack?" Gilbert snapped, and he whipped his head around, glaring at his brother. "I'm sure he's pretty damn upset right now."

"And he thinks that I'm not?!" Ludwig shouted, and his fingers scraped at his scalp. "I can't take this anymore! I don't know how to get through to him! It's impossible! He just wants to be alone all the time!"

"That's not true," Antonio interrupted desperately, raising his voice to be heard. "Lovino doesn't want to be alone—he just…is. I don't think he knows what else to do."

Gilbert stared at Antonio, and his expression relaxed in curiosity. Almost like wonder.

Ludwig, on the other hand, couldn't take it. He gripped his sunflowers tight and turned his back. "Well, I can't deal with this today. I need to get going."

Gilbert stood up. "Yeah, you can head over to my car. I'll be there in two minutes."

Ludwig marched out the door without another word. Gilbert was following, picking up random pieces scattered throughout the kitchen: his phone, wallet…

"Do you think Lovino's okay?" Antonio asked. He couldn't really help himself.

It didn't even take a second for Gilbert to reply. "Nope," he said. "I don't think he's okay at all."

Antonio's heart stuttered. "Well, what should we—"

"I can't do anything. Ludwig need me. I'm the only way Ludwig is going to make it through today intact," he declared, and his voice was very bold. He flashed his eyes to Antonio. "But you're right about what you said—Lovino doesn't have anyone."

Antonio waited. He wanted a cue. He wanted an order.

But Gilbert didn't give it to him, he just let his heavy gaze linger for a moment longer, and then he turned on his heel and left the apartment.

Two chipped pieces were separated by the space between the balconies.

But perhaps two chipped pieces together are better than two on their own.

Lovino really didn't feel well. It wasn't a lie.

The night before he smoked something close to twenty cigarettes in an hour, while at the same time sipping at glass after glass of wine. His stomach was churning, and his head was throbbing. And he spent so many tears and yells that he felt as though there was hardly anything left inside of him. He felt empty.

He'd been craving emptiness for so long: the absence of all of the horrible emotions he'd grown accustomed to feeling. And yet, emptiness was nothing like he wanted. It didn't feel like a release. It felt lonely.

The buzzer rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Lovino wondered if it was Ludwig again; he really never gave up. Why did Feliciano ever fall for a hardhead like him? He should be at Feliciano's grave anyway. Why the fuck was he wasting time?

There was only the smallest corner of Lovino's heart that allowed himself to be the tiniest bit pleased, because if he was here, that meant he cared. In some small way, he must care about Lovino. But…mostly, the reason Lovino dragged himself off of the floor to the speaker near the front door was for Feliciano's honor's sake. Someone worthwhile had to make it. And apparently it wasn't going to be a good-for-nothing like him.

Another buzz.

"Pronto," Lovino replied tiredly. His voice sounded ghostly.

It must have caught the visitor by surprise, because it took a while for them to say something. There was a breath, and then: "Lovino! You actually responded!"

Like a reflex, Lovino's hand immediately dropped from the buzzer. Like defibrillation, his heart suddenly started beating again. His eyes were wide open, and his breath was cut short. He didn't know what to do, or what this meant.

The buzzer went off again. This time more incessantly, and longer.

Lovino's finger shook in front of the button for a long while, but he pressed it. "…Yes?"

"Lovino, don't hang up!" Antonio exclaimed hurriedly, and his tongue tripped over the words dramatically.

Lovino's lips turned up hesitantly at the sound of panic, and he rolled his eyes. "Fine."

"Okay, okay good," Antonio coughed, like he was learning how to breathe again.

"What do you need?"

"Oh, I don't need anything," Antonio replied quickly. "But I did want to wish you happy birthday!" The last part was yelled loud and happy.

Lovino had to take a step back from the buzzer, but his finger stayed on the buzzer. His body betrayed him and laughed. "What are you talking about?"

"It's your birthday today, isn't it?" Antonio queried, like he already knew the answer. "I wanted to stop by and say hello."

Lovino's cheeks flushed and he looked at the ground nervously. "Oh…that's—"

"Also," Antonio interrupted excitedly. "I wanted to stop by so I could give you something."

"What?" Lovino asked dumbfounded. He didn't want anything. He didn't expect anything. He didn't even tell him of his birthday. "B-but I—"

"Uh, Lovino. Can you please let me in soon, because I think that's the landlord lady looking at me and I think she thinks I'm harassing you or something," Antonio chuckled anxiously. "Lovino, Lovino pleaaaseeee."

Lovino grumbled under his breath as his ears burned, and he clumsily unlocked the building door. Through the very, very thin walls, he could hear the close of the heavy doors down below, and soon, he heard the elevator go down. Lovino decided to leave his door open, assuming Antonio would find it, and retreat into the living room once again. He curled up on his spot on the carpet, leaning against the wall.

Time must have flown by while he zoned out at a particular spot in the carpet, because suddenly Antonio was in front of him, just the way Lovino's eyes had grown accustomed to him. The tan, shining skin, the curly mussed brown hair, the vibrant and lost green eyes, and the most tender and guarded smile he could imagine. He was holding his usual acoustic guitar, and in the other hand a bouquet of red roses.

"I know you owned a flower stand, so you're probably very picky," he began nervously, "and these are probably so cliché. And not even your favorites. But I thought they were pretty." Antonio smiled broader, and his eyes even seemed playful. "And you deserve something pretty on your birthday."

For the first time in a long time, all of Lovino's skin was on fire, and he realized that this was definitely a thing he did not miss about himself. He tried to curl up and hide the glowing red tint. He wasn't sure from which of the dozen emotions it was growing from either.

Antonio was then sitting down in front of him, holding the roses out for Lovino to grasp, and his expression sparkled in triumph when Lovino took hold. "So how old are you turning?" he asked excitedly.

Lovino hid his face in the flowers. "Twenty-six."

"Oh wow! Really?"

"Why are you so surprised?" Lovino asked kind of worriedly. He didn't know what that meant.

"I don't know. I think I thought you were…" Antonio stopped and glanced at Lovino up and down. "Actually, I don't know what I thought you were. I probably would've been surprised with any age actually."

Lovino scoffed and tucked his knees closer to his chest. "Whatever."

Antonio took his time to let his gaze wander around the room, taking it all in. Lovino knew he was being scrutinized, but Antonio still sounded very casual when he said, "So you've been celebrating here by yourself?"

He must have seen the empty wine bottles. Lovino didn't nod or shake his head. He buried himself in the flowers. How he'd missed the smell…

"Do you like them?" Antonio asked.

Lovino loved them. He adored them. He'd missed the smooth sensation of a stem, and the silky skin of a petal. His voice was so soft when he murmured, "They're my favorites."

Antonio's face brightened. "Red roses?"

Lovino hummed yes.

"Ah," Antonio grinned. "That suits you very well actually. I'm glad I went with my instinct."

"You were just lucky."

"Well, I'm quite the lucky guy actually."

"Not really."

"I am though. I attract all sorts of luck all the time."

Lovino raised a brow, and stared at him quite amused. "What an interesting thing to say," he mused.

"Haven't you realized how interesting I am by now?" Antonio teased.

Lovino smirked, but a pang in his heart sharpened his words. "I think I'm still deciding."

Antonio bowed his head, conceding defeat. "Fair enough." He raised his eyes, and they danced over Lovino mercilessly. "So what do you want to do for your birthday?"

Lovino's face fell, and he reluctantly, turned to the clock on the wall. It was almost seven now. "I don't really want to do anything."

"Ah, the pleasure in doing nothing. Isn't that an Italian saying?" Antonio said, his voice rather dreamy.

Lovino didn't reply. He was looking away, and his fingers were gripping the flowers tight. "I'm not going, Antonio," he declared quietly.

Antonio blinked at him.

"I'm not going today," Lovino repeated more firmly. "I can't."

Antonio's eyes softened, and he reached his hand to touch Lovino's shoulder, but then pulled back. "That's fine," he murmured.

Lovino turned to him.

"You don't have to go, you know. It's your birthday. You don't have to do anything."

Lovino panicked, and insisted. "But it's Feliciano's birthday too! I shouldn't be allowed to do this."

Antonio bit the bullet, and held Lovino's shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. "Feliciano would understand, you know. He knew. He loved you. And he wouldn't want you to come there trembling and crying," Antonio explained very passionately. "He'd want you to come of your own will. When you're ready."

Lovino openly stared at him, mouth quivering. "Do you think so?" he asked quietly.

"You knew Feliciano better than anyone else. I think you probably know so," Antonio said sagely.

Probably so.

Tears Lovino didn't know he still had welled in his eyes, and the next minute he was crying. Again. Like not too long ago.

But this time, it felt…good.

Antonio was holding him. Lovino couldn't remember when the exchange happened, but suddenly, he was in Antonio's arms, being rocked in his lap, and surrounded by warm and strong arms. And he felt full. That tight fullness of having too much inside you and around you, but he decided that Yes. Fullness was better than emptiness.

And there was the scent and sense of fresh roses washing over him all the while.

"I don't want to talk about Feliciano tonight," Lovino declared.

They had moved onto the balcony—Lovino's balcony—and Antonio was tuning his guitar on the rickety seat while Lovino stay curled on the floor, smoking a cigarette.

Antonio peered over his strings, measuring Lovino's dark, pensive eyes, and the melancholic set to his lips.

"That's fine," he replied easily.

Lovino relaxed and dragged his cigarette long and slow. Like it was luxury for him.

"Let's play music instead," Antonio offered kindly, and he began strumming his usual anonymous chords. Lovino offered a smile of silent approval, and Antonio continued. He played those broken record songs he always played for Lovino's lullaby. But he played them closer, with no space between them anymore.

And the hours drifted by. Lovino's eyes melted more and more by the caress of Antonio's music. They turned that nostalgic molten brown Antonio longed to see again, and they were looking straight at him.

He wanted more of him. He wanted to hear more.

"Can you sing something for me?" Antonio asked gently, his fingers steady on the guitar. "It doesn't have to match the tune, or the tempo. Just—just say whatever you like. Any lyrics at all."

Lovino was curled against the iron railings of the balcony. He felt the cool metal lick his back through the shirt, but it hardly seemed to matter. Because somehow, the warmth of Antonio's smile – the one he always kept so secret and tucked away – it sparked a little fire in Lovino's heart (where there used to be wildfire).

Lovino's eyes traveled over his favorite planes of Antonio's face, then to the soulful green depths, and then to his hands. The most tender hands in the world.

"Antonio," Lovino began, and his lips were very careful. "I know, you know I know…your heart."

Antonio's hands halted, and he loitered in the silence. The words sounded nostalgic, though he'd never, ever heard them.

Lovino's eyes flickered down, and he finished even quieter than before, "You know, I've seen you know, my heart."

Antonio didn't say anything to that—what was he supposed to say to that? He couldn't even manage to procure another tune, because music couldn't compare to the few simple words Lovino set free in the air. Because he was never smoke and mirrors. He was reality. He was the unapologetic truth of being imperfect.

And Antonio didn't look away.

He dropped his guitar to the floor, let it clang and spring, before lunging, and pulling Lovino forward: locking their lips, mingling their breaths, and grabbing locks of his soft, dark hair hair. All the while muttering the words he never wanted to say again:

"Ti amo. Ti amo. Ti amo, Lovino Vargas."

And they tasted so much sweeter in Italian.

A/N: Long-ish author's note. I'm so sorry! Bear with me for a sec.

And my second-coming is here! *ahem* So for those of you who didn't keep up with my other story "Breathless," and didn't read my brief apology at the end of the story, I'll reiterate here how sorry I am for not being consistent with my stories. Without going into detail, I'll just say that I was too overwhelmed with life to keep up with any of my creative outlets.

Thank you so, so much for reading. It means a lot if you stuck out the wait, and were patient for the completion of the story. You guys are the reason I came back to it at all. If you are still interested in "Breathless in the Atmosphere" and would like to catch up on it, rest assured it is complete now. So I only have one ongoing story left *weak laughter*.

And last, but not least, The Goliath Beetle and I are sharing a prompt, and are working on stories independently from one another. So, stay tuned for that little game-we're curious to see how different they turn out, because we know they will. And at least in my case, this will most likely be my last hurrah in the Hetalia fandom, so I'm going to try and make it good.

Thank you again! You're all so wonderful. Please review and let me know what you think of the story :)