Antonio arrived at practice fresh-faced and energetic from his day. He managed to talk to Lovino successfully, and go through his classes just as easily. It sounded simple, but sometimes the most minute things were the most astounding. And after the brief talk with Francis, he could say he was quite proud of himself. He felt…normal. Happy even.

The rest of the team soon gathered in the field, and Antonio vaguely noticed that Lovino was running late: that wasn't quite like him, but anything was possible. He went through the usual stretching routines, just as the rest did, this time just a bit more dreamily, and a bit out of touch. He was zoning out, dreaming, and wondering where Lovino could have gotten himself caught up on.

Then, the familiar tan body was jogging towards the field. Lovino was sweaty, red-cheeked, and looking a bit down-trodden. But he got into line as if nothing was the matter or out of place, and only the coach dared the glance at him with a look that said We'll talk about this later.

Antonio tried to steal a glance at him, but Lovino was looking everywhere else, perhaps at nothing, just stretching his limbs and staring into the blank blue sky.

Those minutes dragged on for hours.

The run started, and as usual Lovino was separated to the front of the pack. Antonio eagerly followed, tripping a bit on his footsteps as he caught up on the footing of the rougher terrain.

"Hey," he called gently, picking up speed until they were side to side. "Where were you?"

Lovino miscalculated his steps and stumbled, but it only lasted a second until he self-corrected. "I was running late. Just lost track of time."

"Oh," Antonio replied. He wasn't expecting such a simple answer, yet considering it was Lovino, perhaps it shouldn't have been too much of a surprise.

They kept running, Antonio felt a bit out of breath, and the familiar feeling of nausea returned to his stomach, but he kept going, trying desperately to keep up with Lovino.

And then, as if reading his mind, Lovino said, "You shouldn't push yourself too hard, you know? Just run at your own pace."

Lovino continued to run ahead, as Antonio fell further and further behind. Somehow it seemed to signify something more.

At the end, Antonio crossed the finish line with the median group, but still ending with his back hunched over his knees, straining to catch his breath. It was harder than expected getting his endurance back.

"You just have to take it slow," Lovino stated wisely, his voice like an echo above him.

Antonio lifted his head and offered a weak smile.

"It takes a while to build your stamina, you just have to keep at it," Lovino continued, and he sounded so secure.

"I guess so," Antonio coughed, catching his breath and leaning against one of the light posts.

Lovino frowned, a bit frustrated. "I know so."

Antonio laughed and hobbled over to his pile of belongings, aiming for his water bottle.

"If I said that running got easier with practice, would you believe me?' Lovino asked dryly.

Antonio smirked, and wiped his mouth of the water. "I would. I remember that feeling. It just takes a while to get there."

Lovino nodded with no expression. He just grabbed the jacket he chucked to the floor and swung it over his slim arms. "Quite so," he muttered.

The walk back to Antonio's apartment was quiet. The sun was beginning to set, and the grey-green color of campus glinted yellow and orange under the squint of the sun. He didn't know if it was beautiful but he did know he liked the colors it reflected in Lovino's eyes. They seemed alive and full even as they stared at the grass ahead.

"So," Antonio began awkwardly, a nervous laugh trickling through like habit. "Do you know what you're studying yet? I know you're a freshman, so there's no pressure. I was just wondering."

Lovino blushed and shook his head, plunging his fists deeper in his pockets. "No, it's fine…" he murmured. "I don't really know though. I like art history and studio art. I like just normal history too. I don't know, I'm torn."

"Really?" Antonio questioned, very surprised. "For some reason I thought you'd be majoring in math or something. You're so good at it."

"Not really," Lovino replied. "I'm good with numbers, but I don't particularly like math."

The statement puzzled Antonio, and he mediated on it for a few minutes. When they reared the corner of the senior dorms, he said, "I'm majoring in art history. I quite like it. I think it suits me."

Lovino fidgeted with his backpack and snuck a small glance at Antonio. "Yes, I think it does," he whispered.

Antonio smiled, and they continued walking in the soft, warm light.

They arrived at the door of Antonio's apartment, and Lovino was noticeably apprehensive.

"Are you sure it's okay I come over?' he asked, looking nervously behind his shoulders, possibly debating an escape route.

Antonio turned to him and grinned reassuringly. "Of course, it is. Don't' worry so much. My roommates are so easygoing. They'll love you."

Antonio swiped his keycard over the box and the door unlocked. He pushed it open with a heavy force and led Lovino inside. It looked the same as usual: the living room meticulously put together by Gilbert's deed, and the kitchen looking quit the same and scattered thanks to Francis. But it echoed quiet, so it seemed as though no one was home. Lovino trudged inside, tentatively after Antonio.

"Do you want anything to drink?" Antonio asked as he made his way to the counter.

Lovino stayed near to the exit, fussing with the sleeves of his jacket. "Just water is fine," he replied and eyed the couch. "Is it okay if I sit down?"

"Of course!" Antonio replied, perhaps too enthusiastically. It wasn't his apartment, but he didn't want Lovino to feel uncomfortable in the slightest, he wanted to reassure him everything was okay.

Lovino perched himself delicately on the couch, not disturbing any cushion or pillow. He looked very awkward, but at least he was sitting.

Antonio busied himself with the two glasses of water, and quickly walked back, balancing the weight in his two hands. "Here you go," he said as he offered Lovino a drink.

"Thanks," Lovino responded and sipped at the drink eagerly.

Antonio smiled at him and began retrieving his textbook from his backpack, along with his notebook and pencil bag. With all of it laid out before him he suggested, "Should we get started now?"

Lovino nodded, and they started working through the statistics review, one problem at a time. It wasn't easy—math never was for Antonio—but Lovino had a calm voice, and he explained the problems simply, but never condescendingly. His slender hand pointed at the numbers and gestured over the graphs and formulas, and the way he did so was hypnotic, and Antonio found himself following along, and actually understanding how they arrived at an answer. He still felt that nervous itch underneath his skin when he encountered something difficult and a bit too complicated, but it never lasted long: the frustration passed as soon as it came, when Antonio heard Lovino dictate what to do next. It was kind of miraculous actually. Lovino was so in control.

At some point there came a pause in their work, and a low stomach grown echoed into the quiet room. Lovino glanced at Antonio curiously, and Antonio just laughed and blushed.

"Um, I guess I'm getting kind of hungry now," he said and bounced his knee. Then he stood up and walked over to the kitchen again. "I think I'll make some macaroni and cheese. Do you want anything?"

"No, I'm good," Lovino replied, as he slipped off his shoes and brought his legs onto the couch.

Antonio finished breaking off an easy-make package and looked at him. "Are you sure? I can make something else if you prefer. Or I think we have granola bars or chips or something. I'm not sure what we have."

Lovino shook his head and swiped his phone from his pocket. "It takes a while for my appetite to return after working out. I'm fine for now."

"Ah," Antonio hummed and resumed preparing his meal. "All right, then. Let me know if you change your mind." He stuck the package in the microwave and hit a few noise buttons, soon a gently whirring played in the background. Antonio crossed his arms over the counter and began daydreaming, but a few minutes into it, he felt a pair of eyes watching him. He turned around and met Lovino's stare. "What is it?" he asked.

Lovino didn't look away, he just pursed his lips and replied, "I was just wondering. How old are you? You don't seem like a freshman or anything. And you're living in a senior dorm."

"Oh, well," Antonio blushed and leaned against the counter. He knew these questions would come up sooner or later. He just wasn't quite sure how to explain himself yet. But he began saying, "I'm twenty-one. I've been in college for a while, but very few of my credits transferred when I came here." Not that there were many at all, he thought idly to himself. "And my roommates are juniors, but I think they have senior credits or something. They should be back soon. You'll meet them then."

Lovino turned to the door, and then back to him. "Why'd you leave those colleges?"

The microwave timer rang and Antonio literally jumped from the startle. He stumbled to pick up his food and forced a breathy laugh. "That's a bit of a long story," he said, his voice slightly wavering. Then he stood up and placed his food on the counter. "Maybe I'll tell you another time."

Lovino watched him, his eyes very sharp and cautious. Antonio felt scrutinized under the gaze, so he turned away.

"Okay," Lovino replied casually.

Antonio heaved a sigh of relief, and began unpacking his dinner.

Later in the night, Antonio had finished his dinner and again asked Lovino if he wanted anything. Lovino explained to him something about endorphins and nerves killed his appetite, and he'd just eat something late when he got back. Antonio felt guilty for not feeding him, especially after all the help he was getting, but there was only so much he could say on the matter. Soon, they were back to solving problems, and those thoughts flew away, and he was concerned with math once again.

The clocked ticked on, and at some point, when Antonio's gaze had begun to linger too long on Lovino's lips as he was talking, the front door swung open. And his face heated up as he flung himself against the couch.

Francis and Gilbert barged in already engulfed in a loud conversation.

"And I was talking to him the other day, you know, just trying to be a decent person and all—but it was the same old thing! I swear to god, that person only talks to me so he can just blab on and on about his life," Gilbert groaned, and he tossed his backpack to the side. "I fucking hate people like that. I need to just cut him off."

"You're one of his few friends," Francis placated delicately, and he set his messenger bag down against the wall as well. "I'm sure if you drifted away for a bit, Roderich would realize how important you are to him. Perhaps you should try it."

"Fine, fine," Gilbert shrugged, massaging his shoulders. He finally noticed Antonio and Lovino's presence in the room and blurted, "Who are you?"

Antonio glanced between him and Lovino, and noticed how Lovino's cool shell grew warmer and warmer, and he shrunk against the couch.

"Um," Antonio piped up. "This is Lovino. He's from my statistics class—and cross-country. He's helping me study for the test."

"Oh, well how wonderful!" Francis cooed and he strolled forward to perch himself on the arm of the couch next to them. "You're a freshman, right Lovino?"

"Yeah…" he murmured, and his fingers clung tightly to the fabric of his jacket.

Francis closed his eyes and grinned. "I knew it. Such youthful innocence and beauty. Typical freshman features," he proclaimed, and gave Lovino a once over. "And I can't help but feel that they get smaller and smaller every year."

Lovino tensed up and said, "I am not small."

Francis paused and chuckled softly. "Of course not, my dear. I was only teasing." He turned to Antonio and asked, "So have you all been studying the whole night long then?"

"Yeah, just about," Antonio murmured, and he watched as Lovino checked the time on his phone again and again. "I'm sorry I've kept you so long. Do you need to go?"

Lovino flinched, and shoved the phone in his pocket. "Um, yeah. I should probably head back to the dorm. I'm sure Feli is wondering where I am." He began shoving books and notebooks in his backpack rashly, and zipping up with uncoordinated hands.

"Oh, okay," Antonio said and he stood up, because that was what he should do. "Do you want me to walk you back?"

"No, no," Lovino replied hurriedly, kind of embarrassedly. "It's a small campus and a short walk," he mumbled and scratched at his jacket. His eyes flicked up and down, surveying everyone in the room before falling on Antonio again. "I guess I'll see you in practice tomorrow then."

Antonio smiled and he debated whether hugging him—he wanted to, but the way Lovino had his arms crossed over his chest, it didn't feel like it was wanted. Perhaps there were too many people. "Of course," he said, and he shuffled away from the couch and Francis's prying eyes and towards the door with Lovino.

Antonio opened the door, and they stood awkwardly with one another. It was nighttime and dark, and the cicadas were singing in the background, some bugs were also flickering in the air, but Antonio could only see the warm, dark depths of Lovino's eyes. They were looking right at him and it made him feel hot.

Lovino bit his lip and it seemed he was trying to work up the nerve to say something. "Um, you don't need to worry about the test so much. You'll do fine," he whispered softly, trying to hide his voice from the others.

Antonio laughed and rubbed the frame of the door. "Oh, thanks. I sure hope so."

Lovino shook his head. "I know so," he reaffirmed sagely. "And just remember that I'm always right." He gave one last look to Antonio, one that was heavy with an undecipherable emotion, and then he turned on his heel and skittered away, following the dimly lit pathway away from the senior dorms.

Antonio was left wondering about those eyes and that stare—he adored it. He really, really did. And part of him knew it was an inclination for the romantic, but he kept choosing to ignore it because he wasn't good enough for Lovino. He was strange, and anxious, and violent…and different.

He ended up closing the door with a heavy sigh and returning to his regular company.

"Did he say the name Feli?" Gilbert questioned, as he snagged a juice from the fridge. "I think my brother mentioned the name actually. It sounds familiar."

"Yeah," Antonio coughed and he leaned against the door. "That's his brother, I think. I haven't met him though."

Gilbert nodded his head once as a sign of understanding and poured some liquid into his cup.

Francis was still poised on the arm of a loveseat and then leaned his full weight into the couch. "Lovino was interesting. I liked him."

Antonio smiled to himself and maneuvered back to his place on the larger couch, settling in not as comfortable as before.

"What do you think of him, Toni?" Francis asked curiously. (He liked to ask questions. Antonio guessed it was the psychology major in him.)

Antonio tilted his head down and let his curls fall in front of his face. "I'm not sure. But I like him. He's very calm, and kind. I don't know, he seems very opposite of me, I guess."

"Hmm," Francis thought and he looked up at the ceiling. "That's an interesting way to put it. Though they do say that opposites attract," he mused and lifted an arm behind his head as support. "But I theorize that you two aren't quite so different as you seem."

"And there he goes again," Gilbert sighed playfully, and he lifted his glass to them as a salute.

Francis rolled his eyes. "Oh please. I may do this often, but you know I'm usually right. I think there's something peculiar about the young freshman. Even having known him for thirty seconds."

Antonio giggled and crossed his legs a bit more casually. "I don't know about that. He's very….cool. As in quiet, I mean. I don't know, I get the sense that even though he's a freshmen, he's just very—like—in control or something. I don't know how else to put it."

Francis ruminated on the words, and he breathed and exhaled in deep thought. "I see what you mean," he replied. "But that's not always a good thing, Toni. Sometimes that indicates a deeper level of problems."

"Jesus," Gilbert grumbled.

"But I know what I'm talking about," Francis insisted. "Sometimes that means there's something going on deeper. I don't know how else to explain, but keeping everything inside isn't always a good thing."

Antonio listened and brought his knees to his chest as Lovino did. He mediated on it.

"Aaah," Gilbert sighed and he swigged a good bit of his drink. "Don't take what Francis said to heart. You know how he is. He likes to read deeper into everything. I say go with your gut instinct. You can rarely go wrong with that. It's scientifically proven."

Antonio accepted that too, and he pondered both of their statements as deep and deliberately as he could. But he decided that both were right. Francis said that there was something deeper, and Gilbert warned to go with his best instinct.

Antonio always thought there was something going on with Lovino that was secret and unspoken, so perhaps this was just validating his suspicions all along.

He dreamt about it.

Dear journal,

Dr. Manon said to record my dreams here, though I don't know why. I mean, I have a vague reason why—to show what's really on my mind. But it seems strange nonetheless.

Usually I dream of food: like searching for it, consuming it and so on. I think it's from all of the cross-country practice, it's getting to me. I eat a healthy dinner, and a snack after that, but it never seems to be enough! I don't know, perhaps it's my metabolism that's catching up with me. I'm just always hungry.

Aside from food, I dream about reality quite a lot. And part of that is that boy I mentioned: Lovino. He helped me with my statistics review the other day: we both have a test on Friday, and I needed the extra help so I asked him to study with me. It went well! I really enjoyed it, and there's something about Lovino's presence…it soothes me. I don't know how else to explain it. But he's so tranquil, and put-together, in a different way than Francis or Gilbert—not that their way is bad.

But Lovino is very humble. He realizes how young he is, I think. He's very unassuming about his intelligence. I don't know quite what that means, but sometimes I wonder if he even believes in himself.

It's different than Gilbert and Francis. Gilbert is very proud, he worked hard to become a strong and prolific engineering major. He knows what he's good at, and he carries that pride with him.

Francis too: although he's a bit softer about it, he likes to offer help and analyze other people's situations. He's very smart and very intuitive. He's very eager to help.

Lovino's different though. I feel like I have to drag it out of him. I don't think he realizes his talents outside of cross-country. He's very specific, and he tends to think of himself completely defined by running. But he's so intelligent. He really, really is. And I love how ignorant and humble he is of his talents, but at the same time I worry about him, because I don't know if he has that that much self-confidence.

Francis met him that day. He said there might be something else. Gilbert countered and told me to trust my gut instinct.

There is something else though. I can feel it. I've felt it for a while, but I just don't know what it is. I'm completely in the dark. I just can't think what he has can be darker than mine, so perhaps I should share with him?

I don't really know.

I'm afraid.

I'm always afraid. I really, always am.

The test went well. Antonio breezed through it better than he'd ever planned. He looked to Lovino to see what he thought, but Lovino was preoccupied with turning his pages over and over again. There were numbers scribbled, and it looked like it was completed. He was just checking everything twice and thrice over, as one of his hands clawed at his scalp neurotically.

Antonio felt almost protective over him. He wanted to touch Lovino and tell him that it's fine. That he did well. Of course he did well.

But they were in class. And the teacher's sharp eyes gazed over the room knowingly. Antonio was forced back into his bubble as Lovino stayed trapped in his. They continue working.

Eventually, Lovino rose and turned his test in. Then he fled out the door.

Antonio finished about five minutes afterward, but predictably, when he went outside, Lovino was gone, so he just walked to his next class alone.

Lovino caught the caller ID on his cell phone and quickly answered the call. He tried to restrain the excitement in his voice (his dad was actually calling), and answered as calmly as he could.

"Dad, um hi. What's up?"

His dad's rough and accented voice rang through. "Lovi! Good to hear from you. I just wanted to check in and see how you're doing."

Lovino felt his face flush from his cheeks to his ears. "Oh, I'm doing fine. I'm done with classes for the day. I'm about to go for a run and—"

"Good, good. I'm glad to hear that. Have you been exercising recently? And staying in shape? You know your health is important, right? It's easy to slack off in college," his father warned easily, and his voice was as casual as ever.

He always sounded like that. He dropped bombs as carelessly as the wind, right on Lovino's fragile heart.

Lovino coughed, before replying, "Yeah, I, um. I'm running everyday. Our season doesn't start for a month or so, but I'm trying to stay in shape until then."

"Ah, excellent, that's my boy," he complimented, and his deep voice echoed in pride. Lovino let himself indulge in the sound for a moment, but then his father continued, saying, "So how's your diet been? Is the food any good at the school? Remember to stay healthy, because that's just as important as your fitness."

Lovino laughed, but the sound came out more breathless and bitter than anything else. "Yeah…" he agreed. "Yeah, I know. I'm staying careful."

"Good, that's my Lovi," he cooed, and it sounded so lovely. Lovino adored his father. He'd do anything for him. But why did anything have to be everything and more? The expectations were so much to fill, he didn't know if he was ever going to be able to do it.

Lovino swallowed his nerves, and asked, "So, um…how's Germany?"

"No, it's France now. Business has been crazy. Just traveling all over, you know," his father chuckled, and it was so nostalgic and warm.

"Ah, I see. Well maybe we can—"

"Oh, hold on, Lovino," his father cut him off shortly, and there were some faint murmurs on the other side. "Okay, I have to go. But it was wonderful to talk to you! Take care, all right? And keep exercising and stay healthy! Say hi to Feli for me!"

The phone hang up before he said goodbye.

Lovino was going to stay healthy for his father. He was going to be the damn healthiest anyone has ever seen.

Dear journal,

A lot of time has passed since I last wrote here. A few weeks even. But nothing much has happened really. School tends to paint days in a blur—I hardly even remember them. I don't know how I keep track of time really. I'm either studying, sitting in classes, or running. That's what it feels like anyway. It's different than my life in school before. I'm trying to be healthy, but so often that just proves to be boring.

The only things, or people really, that keep me grounded are my roommates and Lovino. I have other friends—people I've met from class and my teammates from cross-country, and they're all very nice and all…but I tend to be the type that's friends with everyone. I don't like having enemies or foes, contrary to what my record might state. I try to keep good relations with everyone. It makes me feel better.

But Francis, Gilbert and Lovino are my truest, closest friends: they're the ones that I tend to associate on a deeper level anyway.

Francis has been fine for the most part. He tends to ruminate a lot, I wondered if it was part of his personality, but really…I don't think he's a very happy person. I don't know why. There's just something about him, and the way he talks, and the way he looks into and tries to help other people's lives. I feel like people only do that when they're trying to escape themselves. He hasn't said anything about himself though, which makes me all the more suspicious. But he does tend to talk about that English professor from time to time: I'm starting to wonder if it's my professor he talks about. Francis is so often vague about his own life. It remains a mystery, and it worries me.

Gilbert is very much the same, and just as stable as when I first encountered him. Francis proved right in his theories of him. Gilbert is very much the perfectionist, and when tests or exams come around, he does tend to tap into his OCD tendencies. I suddenly find our apartment in perfect order when it happens, and the kitchen and refrigerator are meticulously organized too. It's actually a bit disorienting, ahaha, but I understand.

In some ways, I feel like I can be closer with Gilbert. He isn't as guarded with Francis, and is a lot easier to talk to. I like him a lot. He's like a kinder version of an older brother. He asks me a lot about Lovino, and I tell him pretty much all of what I feel about him on a regular basis. He's not gay, but he's very open-minded and nonjudgmental, and he offers good advice all the same.

So finally, that brings me to Lovino…

As I've said so often before, he's a very particular person. Even more so than Francis and Gilbert, but perhaps that's because I live with him, I'm not quite sure. But I feel like…the longer I know him, the less I know him. We hang out. We attend cross-country practice with each other five times a week, and have classes with each other three times. I don't know though. He's so cool, so calm and collected during those, but when we hang out with each other one on one, he's different. He's warmer, and more nervous—just more raw. I think the blushing, stuttering version of himself is actually truer to the way he really is. So I feel privileged to know that side of him, and yet…

I think he's uncomfortable around me. I think he's far more uncomfortable around Gilbert and Francis – especially Francis, since he's the type to ask far more questions – but even around me. And I don't know quite the reason for that. I can only assume that he has a secret. Like me, he has something he doesn't want known. And that makes sense, because everyone has secrets, everyone has a past they'd rather left unsaid; yet, Lovino seems so much more apprehensive. It makes me think that his dark past is actually his present. But I can't figure what that is.

I can't figure it out at all.

But, I think I have come to some other conclusions.

Gilbert helped me come to this. I think I may like Lovino. Like really like him. I don't want to say love, because that implies I know him better, but…I do really like him. He's beautiful, and smart, and kind, though I don't think he even means to be. He's very shy. Like very, very shy. He says some bold things, like constantly, he tells me, "Just trust me," and, "I know so," and, "I'm always right," but I know he's in fact very insecure about some other things. Why else would he work so hard in class, and run so fast during practice? I think he's trying to escape something. Perhaps his mind. That's always the hardest thing to shake off.

And I should know. I used to do that.

But, I like Lovino. And…I think I want him more than just a friendship. So I want to run after him. He has his barriers, and they seem far and wide, but I think I can break them. I've done quite a bit of breaking in my past, so it's all to my strength. But instead of breaking bones, rules, and regulations, I'll be breaking Lovino's gates: and maybe I can reach him.

I make it sound so dramatic, but I guess that's what writing in a journal does. I know real life isn't like a movie. The biggest difference is that there isn't a soundtrack to play against your greatest achievements and downfalls.

But even without the music, I'll do it.

Lovino had a lot of strange habits. They developed over time, and as he did them more and more they stuck, and they became ritual.

For instance, he always ate a prematurely early breakfast: somewhere between four in the morning and five. He figured this would give him more time to burn the calories off before nighttime.

He began eating cereal and fruit – just normal things – but as time went on, milk seemed like a nuisance, so handfuls of cereal from the box seemed okay. He ate more fruit than anything else though: grapes, apples, strawberries…it didn't matter really. He hardly even tasted it anyway. He inhaled it.

Afterwards, he would lift up his shirt and feel his stomach. He'd let his hands slide over his ribcage and count over his ribs, feeling how much weight he'd lost—he didn't like looking in the mirror, it was far too depressing, so he preferred to count his weight loss this way. He'd also feel over his collar bone and arms, and the places he knew where he could keep track of his progress best. Usually he was mildly satisfied with what he found; but there was always room for improvement.

Lovino didn't eat lunch. It seemed like a waste, and he never really needed it. Most of the time, he was sedentary until then, so he never deemed it an appropriate meal.

Once in a while, usually before a meet, he would treat himself with a snack of prepared and pre-calculated Wheat Thins—just the proportional amount listed on the box. And although he savored every bite, it still left him achingly guilty, and he worked harder afterwards to work it off. (He had the calories memorized for every item of food he ate, so he always knew what he was consuming.)

During practice, Lovino ran as though his life itself depended on it. He was the star-runner. The very best. And he proved it at every practice, and at every meet. But four out of the five practices in the week, that wasn't enough, so he worked out on his own in the gym. It was usually late at night, when the gym was quieter, and he was free to use the elliptical machines as he wished. He never remembered what happened during those some one to two hours, he checked out, just staring at the vague cooking channel playing in front of him, and suddenly he was done.

Lovino never ate dinner. Back in who knows when, his family never ate dinners together anyway, so he was accustomed to missing the meal. Once upon a time, his father had professed to him that the fastest, easiest way to lose weight was by going to bed hungry. Lovino went to bed hungry every night.

But before that, he did his homework and took extra care that everything was done perfectly, and that he had completed all of the reading assignments. And afterwards, he would reward himself with a shower. He liked to pretend that during which, he was cleansing his body more than its dirt and grime. He liked to imagine that he was washing away his fat too, and that when he stepped out with a red back (because he always liked the water scalding), he was walking out thinner. He liked to indulge himself in that fantasy.

Then he would salute his brother good night, perhaps share a joke or two, before retiring to his cube at around ten at night. It was early by college standards, but he was tired. He was exhausted. It was all he could do to climb onto his bed and lie on the sheets. But his job wasn't over. He practiced some leg lunges to tone his hateful thunder thighs, and did at least one hundred per leg. When he finished, he closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath. The day was over. He could sleep. So he somehow managed to drag himself underneath the covers and close his eyes. He was too tired to have dreams anymore.

He always let the window open in his room during the winters, and he set the air conditioner on high at degrees far cooler than anyone would deem comfortable.

People burned calories more when they were cold.

Lovino made certain he was cold every night of his life. And hungry too.

At some point in the night, Antonio overheard a loud banging noise from outside his room. He thought something may have fell, but the noise continued just as consistent. So finally, Antonio jumped off of his bed, and shuffled into the hallway. One door was partially open, it was Gilbert's, so he walked to the room and knocked on the already ajar. "Um, hello?" he called.

The noise stopped, and Antonio continued inside. Gilbert was against the wall, chest heaving, and both of his hands clenched and red.

"Um," Antonio drawled, looking around the room. "Are you okay? I heard a noise."

"Yeah," Gilbert snapped. "I was punching the wall."

"You were…punching the wall?" Antonio repeated carefully.

"I had to punch something," he replied very roughly, and then twisted sideways so that he could point to his computer. "Especially after talking to my ASSHOLE OF A FRIEND ONLINE FOR AN HOUR."

Antonio jumped, not expecting the scream. He opened his mouth to say something, but Gilbert swiftly continued.

"I swear to god, Antonio. If he ever comes back to the states, I might kill him," Gilbert warned and his red eyes flashed. "He is the most goddamn self-absorbed, asshole, fucking prick of a man I have ever met. How did I ever live a semester with him and not punch him, I'll never know."

"Oh," was all Antonio said. He began to feel calmer when he realized Gilbert was frustrated. It was like looking into a mirror: Antonio understood the anger and the violence, and he wasn't afraid of Gilbert for it. "What happened this time?" he asked.

Gilbert sighed and leaned against the wall. Antonio could see the scratches cuts on the knuckles of his hand. "It was the same as always, really. I don't know why I'm surprised every time. We were messaging for like an hour. I asked how Vienna was, what he was doing, how the weather was, homework, friends, blah, blah blah…And he answers each question—thoroughly. Like really detailed, because it's fucking Roderich and he always has a lot to say."

Antonio stifled a chuckle. He didn't quite understand this relationship, but it was funny to overhear.

But Gilbert's eyebrows drew together, and his lips turned into a violent frown. "And as usual, he never asks me a goddamn thing aside from a brief 'Oh, and how have you been?' and then I answer, 'fine,' because what else are you supposed to say to that? And he never pushes it, because he never cares. And that's fine. Because I'm used to it," he explained through clenched teeth. "But then today, after I had to listen to him rant about a book he read, he paused and asked me, 'Oh, hey Gil, can I borrow some of the lines from that history paper you worked on a while ago? I haven't had enough time to work on mine, and yours was decent.'" He waved his hand at me. "Like what the fuck? I shouldn't be surprised anymore, but goddamn it. I hate being used, and I hate selfish, self-absorbed people." He sighed, and let himself slump from the wall to the floor.

Antonio's lips turned up in a small smile and he sat beside him. "I'm sorry," he said earnestly.

Gilbert shrugged tiredly. "It's whatever. I'm used to this. I'll probably still talk to him tomorrow, because fuck it all to hell, I miss him."

Antonio laughed and shook his head. "Love's funny like that."

Gilbert grimaced and faked the motion of vomiting in front of him. "Ew. Please don't say the words love and Roderich so close together. It makes me mishear things."

"I mean, I think it's still some sort of love. Like best friends," Antonio prompted.

Gilbert rolled his eyes, and muttered a shaky, "maybe…" He looked to his side, at the light of his computer, and then to the bruised part of the wall he had punched. "Hey, um I didn't scare you—when I did that—did I?"

Antonio patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry. I could never be scared of you for that," he said. "It'd kind of make me a hypocrite, anyway," he added snidely to himself.

Gilbert heard him though and his face cleared up to wise concern. "You never talk about that. I mean, Francis and I know, because they told us when we accepted you as our roommate, but…you never talk about it."

"Yeah," Antonio muttered and he ran his hands over his jeans. "I don't know. I guess if I never talk about it, I can pretend like it never happened—or something."

Gilbert didn't nod or shake his head, he just kept his still, orderly face and watched him. "Do you ever feel like you did back then?"

Antonio was quiet for a moment. Then carefully, he said, "Sometimes. Usually when I'm in class or around a lot of people. But it's…not like before. I'm a lot better, and," he paused. "I've never had people I like so much around me. That really helps. A lot more than I thought it would."

Gilbert's face softened and he regarded Antonio kinder than before. "I'm glad to hear it," he said. "Francis and I like you a lot, you know. A lot more than our dickhead ex-roommate Roderich."

Antonio laughed and rested his arms on his knees.

"And Lovino likes you too, you know," Gilbert added. "I mean, I've only met the guy a few times, and he's as skiddish as shit. But I can tell. You don't have to be Francis to see that."

Antonio could feel his ears warm, but he accepted it, and smiled too. "Thanks. I like him a lot as well. Though I do worry about him."

"Really? Why is that?"

Antonio shook his head. "I don't know. I can't figure it out. I just think something's been bothering him for a long time."

Gilbert hummed and tilted his head back until it touched the wall. "Well, you could ask Francis. Though that'd probably feed into his ego too much," Gilbert jeered.

"Yeah," Antonio admitted playfully. "But maybe I will anyway. Who knows?"

They sat together in silence. The gentle buzzes of the interior space and all its appliances bounced off the walls and they listened to them. Startling silences like that can be comfortable, and it harmonized well with the light and heavy falls of their breath.

After a while, Gilbert said, "Thank you."

Antonio smirked and replied, "Thank you, too."

It was the last practice before spring break. Many of the students were long since on their way to home by now; whether plane, car, train, or otherwise, the campus was dead and ghostly. It was comforting though. Antonio liked it, because it was quiet, and he very much liked the serenity in comparison to the bustling populated sounds it usually was.

They stretched the same as usual during practice. Lovino was next to Antonio, as was their routine now. They lunged and flexed as the coach instructed, but was more habit now: they were so accustomed to it. Lately, Antonio focused on Lovino when he was doing so. He watched the way Lovino's body moved forwards and backwards, and God. He looked so, so beautiful when he stretched. He looked beautiful always, but only when they were stretching did he look more still. Even during class he was bouncing his leg or jiggling his pencil.

But when Lovino was still, Antonio could appreciate his beauty more. Like the gently curves of his face, and the sharper curves of his body. He was so delicate, and so agile. Everything about him was perfect, Antonio wouldn't change a thing. When they arced their arms over their back and tilted forwards, Antonio could see the semblance of ribs protruding from Lovino's stomach…perhaps that was the only thing. Lovino was very light. But he was a runner. It was part of the trade.

When they finished, the coach called them to line up and Antonio and Lovino remained side by side (like always, like comfort), and when he called the order, they left in tandem, jogging consistently and steadily, until they reached the crux of the course, when the cement pavement met the rocky, forest one, and the pack was separated into advance, intermediate and beginner. Antonio had improved a lot and very fast: he'd always been very athletic. He was now capable of keeping pace with Lovino. And they ran together most of the way.

"Hey," Antonio called gently. He knew now to keep his voice soft, and not startle Lovino.

Lovino, red-faced, and only slightly panting, flicked his eyes fast to Antonio and back to the path. "What is it?"

Antonio licked his lips, he felt his heart racing, but ignored it. "I heard there's going to be a meteor shower tonight. Do you want to watch it together?"

Lovino then turned face forward to him. He hadn't expected that. "Really?" he questioned breathily.

Antonio pretended to not be affected by that voice. "Yeah. So there'll be like shooting stars and all that," he trailed off, a bit more unsure. "It could be fun. I don't know. Like a send-off before spring break."

Lovino was watching him while he spoke, Antonio could feel it. He was so attuned to him now, he knew even when Lovino began to talk.

"Um, sure," Lovino replied, a bit hesitantly.

Antonio gulped, now a little afraid. He wasn't forcing him, was he? "You don't have to if you don't want to!" he insisted hurriedly. "It was just a suggestion. I mean, I heard about it from my roommates, and I was thinking, so I thought I may as well suggest i—"

"No, no," Lovino stopped him, his voice warm and rough. "It's fine—I…it sounds like fun. I'd like that."

Antonio grinned, and his strides became bolder. "Okay," he said.

Lovino tilted his head down, but Antonio didn't miss the turn of his lips or the flush of his cheeks. He pretended it was for him.

And they ran.

Antonio finished practice about a minute after Lovino: he was fast and strong, but still not as speedy, so he had a lag. Still though, he was proud when he managed to finish and see Lovino still recovering his breath. Lovino, though proud as he was, gave him a once over, and then a subtle smirk.

"You're getting better," he said.

Antonio wiped the sweat from his brow and returned the smile. "Thank you."

Then they collected their things. Lovino never brought much. He slid on his jacket, and almost sighed from the warmth: he was always cold. Antonio put on his jacket and felt too warm, then slid on his backpack too, and he was overwhelmed. But with their things intact and the team scattered, they walked away from the field together. They passed through one of the dining halls and out into the lawn of the sophomore dorms.

Antonio glanced at Lovino, who was puffing at his hands, despite the dawning of spring. "Are you cold," he asked.

Lovino shook his head, and replied. "I'm fine. It's just the run."

He always said that, Antonio noted. But Lovino was always, always cold. Antonio turned forward however and looked at the dewy grass below them. "We can stop here. I think this would be a good place to watch them."

Lovino looked around, Antonio knew now it was a check for strangers, or just people in general. But there were none. The campus was empty. So he murmured a soft, "okay," and they settled themselves in the grass. It was a bit wet, but they didn't mind. Lovino sat cross-legged as Antonio preferred to stretch himself out. They tilted their heads to the dark sky in wait of brightness more than the still stars above them. Most were obscure by the city's pollution, so it wasn't much of a contrast.

It was quiet. Almost eerily so, except that it wasn't. Antonio liked the quiet and he liked Lovino. Being with Lovino was comfortable, he knew that, and he appreciated the desire for tranquility Lovino had. But there still existed that itch under Antonio's skin that compelled him to babble.

"I was expelled," he blurted randomly. Antonio's voice ripped through the air, though it wasn't loud, and he saw the glint of white from Lovino's eyes. He continued anyway. "That's why I was transferred," he clarified. "I was expelled from three colleges before."

Lovino's figure leaned forward, analyzing the darkness of Antonio's face—who knows if he could make it out. "Why?" he asked.

Antonio laughed. "Well, that's…I mean, that's a long story," he said and offered Lovino a crooked grin. "But I know you already heard that excuse. Really, it was just me being stupid. I used to be very stupid. Like foolish really. I got into a lot of fights once upon a time. I don't know. I was young and reckless, and I didn't know how else to handle my problems…I was very stupid," he finished weakly, and his eyes darted from Lovino's face to the blank sky above.

The darkness hid the details of Lovino's expression, but the quirk in his forehead was noticeably. "That doesn't seem stupid," he muttered. "I mean, it's not good, but I…I understand." It wasn't much, what he said. But it also said a lot. That was all Antonio wanted to hear. He didn't want people to say much when he talked about himself. He just wanted to hear enough.

He smiled softly. "Thank you." His hand stretched behind his back and he was vaguely aware that he brushed against Lovino's skin. "That's nice to hear."

Love readjusted himself so that he hugged his knees. His eyes weren't watching the sky anymore, just straight ahead. "Is that why you see the counselor?" he asked gently.

Antonio blinked. "How do you know that?"

"I saw you in the lobby that one time. You came down from the counseling offices," he pointed out simply. "It wasn't hard to figure out. I told you I know everything."

"I guess so," Antonio murmured, and he unconsciously leaned forward. "And yet I don't know anything about you."

Lovino whipped around, and if he had thorns, he would've raised them. But he could only stare like a scared child and dig his heels into the dirt in preparation of a bolt. "Yes, you do," he defended.

Antonio shook his head, his curls bouncing with him. "Not really," he corrected. "I mean, I know what everyone else knows. But you don't talk much about yourself. Like if you have any problems, or a bad day, or a really good day…"

"No one wants to hear that," Lovino countered bitterly. "They just want to talk about themselves." He breathed harshly and glanced to the side. "That's why I hate people, damn it."

Antonio chuckled. "That's not true."

"It is though."

"But what about your brother?"

"I hate him and I love him."

"And what about me?"

Lovino paused, and slowly, a centimeter per second, he shifted his gaze back to Antonio. Then he sighed and slumped his shoulders. "I don't hate you," he admitted. "That's because you're nice though. You're a bastard, and weird, but you're nice." He gnawed at his lip. "I think you care a lot."

Antonio's heart raced and he sat up in the grass, leaning closer. "I do! I swear, I do!"

Lovino's eyes sparkled. "I meant about people in general, you idiot."

"Oh," Antonio said, and he caught the hint of a dry smirk ghost over Lovino's lips. He tensed his shoulders resolutely and leaned forward again. "But I care about you a lot more, you know."

Lovino's smile dropped and he gaped.

Antonio faltered, but reminded himself it was Lovino's shyness. "And you should know that I'd like to hear more about you. I would like—love, to hear about your days. Good or bad. And how you're feeling. And all of that. Because I want to know, I really, really do."

Lovino didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, so he settled for wrapping them around his knees and clutching them tightly together. He didn't seem to know what to say either.

Then, something flashed overhead, and their heads faced about-forth in a half of a second.

"It's the meteor shower," Lovino whispered.

"They're shooting stars," Antonio said hurriedly. "Watch one and make a wish. Fast!"

The order didn't quite make sense, because it didn't make sense to follow through either. It ended up with the two of them gawking at the sky, and their eyes following the few-second flash of a light splitting seams in the black. They disappeared as soon as they came. It was fitting that way though: beautiful things never lasted for long. It would be too indulgent otherwise.

Antonio made his wish.

I just want Lovino to be happy.

And when another meteor fell, he made another.

And I'd like to be happy too, I think. No, yeah. I do. I do. Most Lovino more.

And a few others fell, so he thought he'd add more to the list.

And I'd like my mother to be healthy. And Francis and Gilbert to do well. And good grades would be nice. And…

If Lovino and I could end up together—I would love that.

I think I love him.

Lovino was silent as stone while he made his wishes. They were the same each time.

I want to be thin.

I want to be thin.

Dear god, I want so much to be thin.

Spring break. A week of hell-raising, breaking the rules, breaking lose, or perhaps just breaking…

Lovino liked the idea of break. He ached for it all the time, it wasn't as though he ever did well in academic institutions to begin with. They never suited him. He felt stifled, controlled—and he didn't even know from what. It was a very strange feeling.

It's not as though he didn't have hobbies. He had them. They mostly consisted of doodling or writing, usually both, but never to the degree of seriousness Feliciano did them. He was trying to unleash some of the chaos within his mind, he just didn't know quite what to say.

And something about the break tortured him.

So he ran. Constantly.

His father approved, of course. His father always approved. His father always approved of physical activity. And his mother didn't really say anything on the matter. She was very kind, but also a child—she didn't know what to say to address Lovino's pain. So he ran more.

It's not as though he didn't like running. Running was hard. Especially at first, when you were still getting used to it. But it got easier as your body adjusted, and you became more trained: and soon enough, running was an escape. Lovino hardly even remembered his runs—they were just like a dream. He'd remember the start, and he'd be climbing the steep hilly street near his house, and then there was nothing. A blank in his memory. And a few seconds later he found himself ten miles later running down a hill near a field of flowers, near two miles home. He didn't even remember getting there.

Sometimes he stopped at that field. He looked out at the roads he traveled so many times before and paused in the grass, picking flowers and lounging; he was too tired for thoughts, but he still liked to sit there. It was nostalgic and peaceful.

Contrary to the day before school returned, when his body tensed with too much anxiety and he didn't know at all what to do. Sunday morning and he was staring at his computer screen reading articles of God knows what—fitness, health, sports, running, nutrition, etc. It was all the same, and he didn't want to see it. He didn't want to think at all: not of the competitions to come, or the tests, or the constant, everlasting battle in his head of what and when and if to eat. It was exhausting. It was terrifying. It made him want to scream.

Feli: Looooviiiiii! :D I'm at the grocery store now, but how about we drive back to campus around 2 or 3? Sound good?

Lovino glared at that message. His phone put him on edge; he was usually afraid to even glance at it, but if it was Feliciano, he did. However, it was the day before school picked up again, the day before being confined into more restrictions than he already bestowed on himself. Lovino panicked. And he ran. (That was the only thing he seemed to know how to do anymore.)

He was already wearing his running gear because he was always wearing it, so he trotted down the steps of his house on his tip-toes—disguising the noise—and he raced for the door, plugging in his headphones and adjusting them into his ears. He was already out the door when Feli sent his second text message. But this time Lovino was too terrified to look at it, and he kept going down the road.

Following the curves and divots, up and down, forever and always—a small part of him hoped that he would be led somewhere far away, not in America or Italy or any other place—just somewhere unknown and peaceful where he would be happy.

Time: 2:00 hours. Distance: 10.30 miles

Lovino was at a cross-roads. He was at the fork where he always turned left, knowing it led down the steep hills of Sunset Street, until he passed the park, and neared his house.

This time he went right.

Time: 2:33 hours. Distance: 12.12 miles

Lovino didn't know where he was. He was nowhere. He was in limbo. He was in the middle of some neighborhood, miles from where he knew, where people were mowing their lawns and retrieving their mail, and going through their daily lives as he neglected his.

The sun was very, very bright.

Time 3:01 hours. Distance. 12.15 miles.

He didn't move any, or he didn't move much. Lovino didn't know where to move. He dropped on a curb and sat there, staring at the people and the houses and the children and the dogs simply hating all of them. He hated them for their normality, and for their perseverance, and for their ability to continue doing what was necessary when Lovino could never face it.

He was always running. It used to be that Lovino was running to catch up to the world, and everyone in it. He felt so lost and behind, and never good enough. If he lost fifteen pounds, then it'd be okay. If he lost ten pounds, then he'd have friends. If he lost five pounds, then his father would be proud.

If he was skinny, slender, slim, and perfect, he'd be happy. He knew it. And he ran for it.

But as time went on, and he lost the weight he was trying for, he felt just the same. Then he felt even worse—because why couldn't he do it? Why couldn't he just be perfect? He just wanted to be beautiful enough so that people liked him, so that he could move on with his life. But it was impossible.

And after that, Lovino felt as though he was constantly running away from the world. Everything was cruel. Everyone was cruel. Eyes constantly watched him—he felt them on him—and they scanned his body, analyzing every pudge, every dimple, every inch of skin, and every flaw. They taunted him with their snacks and lunches, whilst still being so thin and relaxed on their couches. They teased him with every whisper, every word Lovino couldn't properly hear, and it was worse like that, because when the voices were hushed Lovino was convinced they were talking about him.

Lovino was still trying to run away.

But the world was gaining on him.

And he didn't know how much longer he could make it.

Time: 3:54. Distance: 12:5.3

Ring!

Ring!

Rin—

"Lovi? Lovi? Where are you? Dad and I've been trying to call you non-stop and we—"

"I'm at Crescent. In between Crescent and Sunset and I…I don't know where I am. I went for a run and got lost," he said, his voice very dry and tired. "Can you pick me up?'

There was a pause and an exchange of voices, then Feli replied, "Yes, of course. I'm going to take the care out right now. Just stay where you are, okay?"

"Yeah," Lovino muttered, and he hung up the phone. He didn't know where to go anyway, and it's not as though he had the energy. He was stuck. And he waited.

One hardboiled egg: 78 calories.

One slice of toasted wheat bread: 75 calories.

A side of butter—no a Feliciano-side of butter: 93 calories.

A side of strawberry jam: 86 calories.

One glass of Feliziano-sized orange juice: 124 calories.

Total: 457 calories.

Lovino ogled them hungrily, jealously, though still somewhat proud, because he'd put a meager five calories of black coffee in front of himself. It wasn't often he went out to breakfast with his brother, but considering the stunt he pulled after spring break, he thought he owed him.

Feliciano glanced past his exorbitant breakfast and frowned at him. "Are you sure you don't want anything else, Lovi? Coffee isn't enough…"

Lovino stiffened, feigning confidence as he took a hearty sip. "It's plenty, don't worry. I already had breakfast before we left. You know I eat early."

"Yeah," Feliciano conceded, and he gnawed his lower lip. "Yeah," he said again.

Lovino sat stoically in his chair, sipping his strong coffee sweetened with false sugars, and eyed the strangers about. He didn't know any and he didn't care to know them. He didn't want them to see him until he was perfect. And he'd get there one day. He knew it.

Lovino hadn't seen Antonio since the end of break during the meteor shower. He thought of him. He did. Because he liked him. Antonio was different than people he'd met before: he didn't dismiss Lovino because he was quiet or aloof, or imperfect or whatever. It seemed—he said, that he genuinely cared about him. And Lovino believed him, because he had little else to believe in, but also because Antonio was very genuine, and it appeared as though he meant what he said.

Lovino didn't trust people very much. People were cruel and critiquing, and judged whatever he did, whatever he looked like, whenever they pleased. But Antonio…he seemed to understand. At least on the smaller sense. Because Antonio had gone through some pain—some indistinguishable, unplaceable pain. Lovino assumed bullying and retaliation. He didn't want to be mean, but he could see how Antonio was the type to be bullied: he was vulnerable and far, far too kind. And he see how Antonio could be the bully. It wasn't hard to figure out. Just one glance at his statuesque, tall and strong appearance would figure that out. Antonio acted all meek and shy, but he was from that. He was weak on the inside, but built like a horse on the outside; he wasn't anything like Lovino. He was strong. And fast. And so, so, so beautiful. He was a god. Or a demi-god. Or whatever you call it. He was simply perfection. Everything a human should be—kind and strong, and graceful, and just perfect.

Lovino wished he could be like him.

But he wasn't. And because of how he was, Lovino didn't deserve him. He liked him—as more than a friend. And although Antonio seemed to think he liked him the same way, it could never be. (Never.) Although he was a bit flawed, Antonio knows better. He's so good, because he's touched bad and come back from it. Lovino hasn't gotten there yet. He's still working on it, and he wants to get there, and maybe, maybe when he does…something could happen.

But one glance at the mirror told him that was a ways away from happening.

During the course of spring beak, Antonio did some thinking. Quite a lot of it, and dreaming too, as they went hand in hand nowadays. He thought mostly of Lovino, because that was the current statistics problem of his mind.

He liked him a lot. He dared to say that he loved him, because he believed he did, but was afraid to utter the words until they became closer. But really, in actuality, because of Antonio's impulsive nature, he did love Lovino. He had for a while. It was a quiet, subversive love, because it wasn't a hot passion. Their attraction wasn't built upon sex, or appeal—though it's not as though Antonio wasn't attracted to him. (Because he was, and quite a lot. Perhaps too much.)

It was built upon emotion though. A quiet, unspeakable emotion that passed between them whenever they were together, because they were the outsiders in their own way. They were watching the rest of the world fly by at high, soaring lengths, as they flapped inconsistently, and tryingly in between. They were the tryers in a world of doers, and secretly, through wordless, subtle sub context they understood that about one another. And Antonio liked to think that was why they were so attracted to each other, and why they found company together so often.

But there was still the problem. Lovino's problem. He had a few theories, but he didn't know if any was accurate. So he thought, once spring break had ended he was at college once again, he could ask Francis. Only if he was unsure.

But Lovino skipped their one class together, and that practice too. So that solidified his decision.

"Francis," he blurted at dinner the same Monday. It was just the two of them. Gilbert was out—maybe studying—and the two of them preferred to eat in the apartment for whatever reason. "I think Lovino has a problem."

Francis, his eyes very glazed (but they always were), looked up sharply. He stared at Antonio with a rarely seen attentiveness. He only looked that way to people that weren't himself. "What do you mean?"

Antonio sighed, and it was from stress. He'd been meaning to ask this for a while, perhaps he should've asked this long ago, he just didn't know how to phrase it. "Lovino…I think he has a problem. I'm not sure what it is. I have some theories. But—he's sad. Or anxious. Or mad…about something. I just don't understand, and," he cut himself off, grabbing at his scalp now, and clutching to his ringlets of brown hair. "Something's wrong."

Francis's dark blue eyes twinkled, and Antonio could see the wheels turning—he was thinking now. He was analyzing their few, brief encounters and checking the signs for who-knows-what? After a too-long-break-of-silence, he asked, "Before I say my theories, what to do you think is the problem?"

Antonio paused. Yes, he's thought of this before. He spent his week-long break reading articles and who knows what else. He was trying to solve a problem he wasn't smart enough to solve. He didn't know anything. But for the sake of Francis's meaningful stare (because he knew it was genuine), he tried. "I think he's very anxious about something."

"Anxious, hm?" Francis repeated, and he poured his first glass of wine for the evening. Perhaps it wasn't his first, but it was the first one Antonio was there for. Francis raised it to his lips and questioned, "I have a theory, but do you mind if I ask a few personal questions?"

"What do you mean?"

"Questions about when you two are together and such. You two have been together far more time than I've known Lovino."

Antonio blushed, though he didn't know why, and replied, "Oh, sure. Yeah. Go ahead."

Francis minutely nodded and resumed his ruminating. He stirred his wine and stared at a space untouchable to anyone else. He was thinking now. "So when you two are together, what do you do?" he asked, then corrected by adding prompt, "study? Talk? Eat? Watch movies?"

Antonio didn't take long to answer. "When we're together, we're usually in class. We have statistics class together—you know. Or we're in cross-country," he replied, recalling his memories. "We talk quite a lot during those. I mean, Lovino's a shy and quiet person, but he talks too. We've gone to some of the general assemblies together. Some of the movie nights. Yeah. I think…" Antonio exhaled and gathered his thoughts. "I think that's it. We also watched a meteor shower, but I don't know how that fits it."

Francis offered him a demure grin. "How very romantic of you, Toni. I'm proud."

Antonio smiled and flushed under his gaze and picked at the corners of his mostly-eaten mac-and-cheese. Francis's eyes seemed to follow that movement.

"You didn't say anything about eating together though," he pointed out gently. And quickly reassembled and clarified, "I know this is delicate. But let me just ask this. have you two ever eaten together? It's an innocent question. Reply however you like."

Antonio didn't expect all of the clarifications. That was the least of his expectations. What struck him was the Have you eaten together part of the question. It stung his heart because he'd thought of this. That was what hurt. "Um," he began clumsily. "No, we haven't really. I mean, we've been together during meal times, but he's always been. I don't know. He has a lot of strange habits. Or something."

Francis nodded, not implying or denying anything. "All right," he said placatingly. "When I saw Lovino, he seemed rather small. Not unhealthy or anything, but delicate. Has he changed at all appearance-wise?"

Antonio didn't curse out loud, but Fuck if he didn't hate that question. "Well," he murmured. "I guess, he looks smaller every time I look at him. He is petite though. Like slight in build."

Why was it that saying the phrase out loud was scarier than any of the times he rehearsed it in his head?

But Francis was calm. He gestured Okay, with a tilt of his head and moved on. He took a sip of his glass. "All right. So have the two of you ever talked about food with one another. Like meals you're going to eat after class, after practice? Or just food in general?"

The question weren't especially odd, but it as uncalled for. Antonio remembered some of their previous, unaccounted for reunions, he did talk about the food he was eager to eat. Antonio was always starving during and after their practices. He always wondered how Lovino wasn't. "I guess…I did talk about food—sometimes," he quickly clarified, though he didn't' know why. "Lovino's always preoccupied about something. He says he gets nervous, and that he's a light eater."

"I see," Francis replied, always as calm, always as dignified. Then he waited a few moments, before stating, "So what are your theories about him? You said you had some?"

Yeah, he did. He just hoped he was as wrong and stupid as ever. Antonio turned his gaze away. "W-well, I…" he stuttered helplessly. "I thought he might, have a problem…eating. You know." He didn't' know what else to say, so he didn't.

Francis gulped his wine and stared Antonio dead in the eyes. He was serious. He wanted Antonio to know that. "I think so too."

Someone said it out loud.

It was real now.

So what did that mean?

Dear, journal,

Lovino has a problem. Like I've always said, but this time, I think I might know what it is. I don't know. I'm not that smart, and I'm not a professional, so I can't know. But I've had my suspicions, and I've talked to Francis, so I think…I may have…maybe figure it out.

He has a problem.

I've talked to him since spring break ended. He wasn't at practice Monday, or statistics for that matter, but I saw him again Wednesday during class.

He's so fragile. Why have I never realized that? I saw how tranquil he was. And how turbulent. I saw the contradiction and the fight. I saw the beauty and I saw the imperfection. I even saw the desire, and the passion.

But I never saw how weak he was. Not in the physical sense, though maybe that applies now. But really—he's so small. So fragile, so thin. He's not unhealthily thin…I think. I wouldn't know, but I don't think so. It looks as thougb he's on the border though. I wonder how long he's been there. How long did it take to get there?

Lovino is very, very strong, and strong-minded. It doesn't surprise me that he's capable of doing this to himself. But nonetheless, it makes me sad. I'm not sure why. Somehow, the contradiction of me hurting others and Lovino hurting himself puts some things in perspective. I don't know how he deals with things—or why—but the fact remains: the two of us have very different instincts.

I attack those guilty.

He attacks himself.

Dear jounal,

I didn't say this last time.

I love Lovino.

I'm going to help him somehow.

Practice Wednesday afternoon was very different versus practice Friday afternoon. Antonio was there both times; he was probably there Monday too. But the way he acted each time was suspiciously inconspicuous: which was very much keeping to Antonio's character. Wednesday, he was fidgety. They talked—briefly. But that was about it. When they ran, Antonio purposefully stayed behind, when Lovino knew very well that he could keep up with him, at least for the most part. And when it ended, Lovino waited, but Antonio said something vague and parted ways far too soon.

Lovino thought he did something wrong. He thought there was something wrong with him. He was convinced of it. He saw it himself all the time, but he figured Antonio finally caught up to everyone else's idea. It scared him. He was terrified.

But Friday was different.

Antonio talked to him. Not casually, but upfront, as they were running.

"Hey," he called a bit too loudly, they were only fifteen minutes into the run, the pack had barely begun to separate.

Lovino turned to him anyway—perhaps a bit too eagerly. "What?" He preferred to ask generally, not broadly. It posed for less problems.

Antonio was in stride with him now. His strong thighs shortening to match his pace. "Do you want to come over to my apartment after practice?" he asked casually. And without needing to, he clarified, "You know, to hang out and stuff."

Lovino rolled his eyes slyly to himself. He didn't know quite what Antonio meant by the addition, but he preferred to think less of it and account it to Antonio's bashfulness. "Sure," he replied breathily, accidentally miscounting his exhales and inhales. "Sounds good."

Antonio's grin was blinding and it was catching enough to reach Lovino's face-forward eyes. "Great," he said.

Lovino bit back a smile. "Great," he repeated.

This time, Antonio and Lovino finished at the same time. Antonio was at the same pace when they crossed the finish line, and when Lovino had to stumble over his knees in breath, Antonio remained standing, but poised nearby as a comfort. It was…a subtle sense of accomplishment to have surpassed Lovino. But at the same time—it spoke to something larger. Lovino was an excellent runner. The best. He was the star cross-country runner: everyone knew that.

But, he was weaker now.

And only Antonio and Francis seemed to be aware of the fact.

"Are you okay?" he asked lightly, careful not to sound too scared or too condescending: it would hurt Lovino's pride.

Lovino coughed, and wiped his mouth. Then he stood up to his slight, but respectably height. "Yeah, I'm fine," he replied, and slyly offered Antonio a cocky grin. It looked tired. "You've really gotten good at this, huh?"

Antonio smiled slightly in return. "I learned from the best," he offered gently, and rested his hand on Lovino's back as he still recovered his breath. Lovino blushed from his cheeks to his ears, but he didn't reject. They stayed close, even as Lovino left to pull on his jacket.

Once again, Antonio watched how Lovino's expression changed from tiredness and fear, to a pleasurable sigh of relief. He was finally warm now.

"Do you want to go?" Lovino asked, shrugging his hands into his pockets.

Antonio shook himself away from his thoughts and remembered to smile. "Yeah, sounds good."

They walked away from the field, and through the formerly-abandoned dining hall. Students were bustling now, but Lovino didn't even glance their way—Antonio noticed that now. His eyes were open to everything.

And when they stepped into the lawn where they'd watched the meteor shower, he slowed his steps, hoping Lovino would correct with him.

"What did you wish for?" Antonio asked wistfully. "That day, with the shooting stars," he continued.

Lovino offered him a sidelong glance from the corner of his eye as the corners of his lips turned up teasingly. "I can't tell you that."

Antonio sighed, but it turned into a laugh. "I know," he admitted, and they started walking again. They were still on the lawn, and the dew of the grass was still flying onto their bare legs, so he added impulsively, "But I…wished for you to be happy."

Antonio stopped, and Lovino did too, just a foot away, his back against him.

Antonio clenched his fists at his sides, willing the strength from his thousand fights to help him now. "Lovino…I tried to tell you this before spring break, but I wasn't very good at it," he began roughly, and stepped closer. His hand grasped Lovino's elbow and he turned him towards his face so they were staring at each other eye to eye. Their breaths mingled so close. Antonio's probably smelled of sweat and mint. Lovino's smelled of nothing. "I love you," he said.

Lovino's eyes were wide. Impossibly, beautifully wide, and Antonio fell right into them. He was always looking at them, but this time he fell. Those deep, dark, and hot eyes engulfed him and he was victim to it like he always wanted to be. They were silent but so goddamn loud and it made him impulsive and he leaned forward…and they kissed. Well, Antonio kissed. Antonio struck forward and locked their lips together tight and passionately, and with a strength he had chosen to forget about. He would've stopped, but Lovino didn't push him away. He didn't do anything for a while. He just appreciated the kiss, but then his delicate hands reached forward and tugged at Antonio's hair and suddenly, they were making out. Antonio wrapped his arms around Lovino's waist, and Lovino stepped forward, and stood on his toes so that his hands could intertwine in Antonio's hair. And god, was it glorious. It was right. It was perfect.

But it wasn't.

Because although it was wonderful, Antonio wasn't as dim as before. When they held each other tight, Antonio felt the bones underneath Lovino's clothing: he realized from close, physical contact, how small Lovino was. Francis was right. Antonio was right.

Lovino was fragile.

He had a problem.

They finished kissing, and Lovino was misty-eyed. He looked at Antonio so hopefully and vulnerably, it almost made Antonio feel guilty. Except he couldn't be. He was doing the right thing.

Antonio smiled, broadly and glitteringly—like he'd been taught. "Let's keep going, hm?"

They arrived at the apartment, and Antonio slid his card over the box near the door. There was a beep and they were let in. Lovino wasn't as tense as he was the first time, they'd done this a good amount of times by now. It wasn't routine, but it wasn't new either. It was okay. Lovino felt okay.

They walked in, Antonio was leading the way, and at once, they were hit by the smell of a wonderful perfume of lasagna. It wasn't overpowering, but it was welcome and Antonio found himself leaning into the scent as he strolled into the apartment. Lovino followed afterwards, seemingly uninhibited.

Both of them spotted Francis and Gilbert by the kitchen counter.

"Look who it is. The kings of great timing it seems," Gilbert announced, and he crossed his arms over his apron.

Francis was bending over the oven, inspecting the assumed lasagna in question.

Antonio feigned innocent and exclaimed, "Oh, hey guys! What are you making?"

Francis popped his head out of the oven, an intact lasagna in the hands of gloved mittens. "Lasagna," he said, and his eyes sparkled. "From a cherished Italian recipe passed down to me from the vice president of the cooking club."

Under his breath, Lovino muttered, "Fucking Feli."

But it didn't escape Antonio's ears, and he pressed a hand to the small of Lovino's back. "It smells so good!" he continued, and forcefully led Lovino towards the kitchen table.

"It better be. Francis has been working on that thing for hours," Gilbert remarked with a playful frown. "I've been like his manservant since classes let out."

"Perfection needs attendance and help Gilbert. You've been of invaluable assistance," Francis reassured and he set the lasagna down carefully on the cool stovetop. He swiped the mittens off and held them in one hand; then he turned on his heel and faced Lovino and Antonio together. "Are you guys hungry?" he asked.

Antonio didn't have his hand on Lovino's back anymore, but he felt it in the air when Lovino tensed at the question. "I am," Antonio initiated enthusiastically, and he turned to Lovino just the same. "I'd love it if you stayed and tried some. I know you have a small appetite after running, but just a little, please." He ended sounding very pleading and weak.

Lovino's eyes changed from small and darting to wide and afraid. But he eventually settled on a debated fear. "O—kay," he murmured hesitantly, and trailed on Antonio's heel to the table. He sat at Antonio's right-hand side. And they settled into their seats. There was clanking of pans and silverware on the horizon, and it was like Antonio could hear Lovino's heartbeat pick up.

He was attuned.

He was involved.

He was in love.

So he did what he planned to: what he discussed with Francis, Gilbert, and kind of—almost—Feli. He grasped Lovino's hand from under the table and held it tight. Lovino flinched, and turned to him questioningly. Francis and Gilbert were busy cutting up the lasagna. (Though Antonio would be lying if he couldn't feel at least one pair of eyes watching them.)

Antonio's eyes were soft and tender. He looked at Lovino directly, and whispered, "I know."

Lovino's forehead scrunched, but he didn't say anything. It was his habit to opt for silence when he didn't understand.

Antonio didn't mind, and continued, "I know this is going to be hard for you. I know…at least on some small level, I know what you're thinking." He felt the prick of cold sweat from Lovino's hands, but he didn't need it. He could see the fear etch across the wide eyes.

Antonio squeezed his hand reassuringly, and added, "But, I would really appreciate it—actually I would love it—if you would eat some of the lasagna Francis made."

Lovino bit his lip, he didn't look away yet, but he was fighting the impulse to.

Francis maneuvered before them, presenting an exquisite and superb lasagna. He smiled with his kindest, plushest blue eyes and said, "I hope you like it."

Lovino's gaze darted from Francis to the lasagna to Antonio and back and forth and back again.

Antonio rubbed his thumb over the top of Lovino's hand. "I love you," he reassured quietly, and leaned forward enough so he could murmur, "you're too beautiful to let yourself starve. Please eat something."

Lovino shuddered from the words. (Antonio didn't take it personally.) Then, Lovino turned to the lasagna. It was a moment for a century. It might've lasted that long. Antonio waited in baited breath, and for all he knew, Francis and Gilbert did too.

Lovino held his fork tight. His slender hand turned white. but then slowly…like milliseconds, he lowered his to cut off a bite. And he brought it just as slowly to his mouth. He chewed. His face even relaxed. He enjoyed it.

And Antonio laughed from relief.

He knew it wasn't the end.

But it was something.

It was something.

His first wish was really his truest desire. What he wanted most of all, right now, was for Lovino to be happy.

He was going to work hard until that came true.

He knew it'd take a long time.

But he'd work for it.

Lovino glanced at him shyly, and his cheeks were red with embarrassment.

Antonio squeezed his hand again.

He'd work for it until the very end.

It was love.

A/N: Somehow, in my semi-long stay in fanfiction, I've avoided writing about an eating disorder fic until now. I suppose it's something I wasn't ready to talk about until recently, since I'm fairly sensitive to the subject. If it's not obvious through the context of the story, I wanted to say that all of Lovino's experiences/thoughts/situations are based off of my own. I was as realistic and sensitive to the situation as possible.

And as for Antonio: he's loosely based off a few friends of mine and some encounters I've had. I thought the two of him here played off well as opposites but also too similar for their own good, and all that jazz.

Anyway, this has been a load off my chest. Thank you for reading! Please review :)