Antonio always sees that boy at night.

When he walks home from his low-income job as a janitor in a small high school, he sees him. When he drags his feet to his evening workplace at a rundown coffee shop, he sees him. When he stumbles back to his crummy, aged apartment complex from the bar with his two best friends, he sees him.

He sees him, but he never actually talks to him.

He doubts the boy's ever even given him a second glance. Why would he?

They're complete strangers, after all.

But at the same time, Antonio can't help but be intrigued by the young man with the dark, chestnut hair and an odd errant curl on the left side of his face. The young man with reserved olive eyes and a scowl forever plastered on his soft lips.

He doesn't know why this boy captures his attention.

Perhaps it's because of the mysterious aura that always seems to hang around him. Perhaps it's the peculiar way he acts as he waits impatiently for the same black car that picks him up everyday, in a small isolated area behind a shady motel. Perhaps...

Perhaps he catches Antonio's eye simply because he is the only constant in his life.

The Spaniard knows about sudden, abrupt changes—be it for the better, or for the worst. (To him, though, it is always the worst.) He's lost several jobs in that manner, and several thousand dollar bills, too. He's lost friends, lost possessions, lost his dignity.

But he never loses this boy.

Every day, he fears another sudden change, whether in the form of eviction or termination from one of his jobs. He fears running short on cash, he fears getting too much.

There is none of these terrified feelings when it comes to that boy.

Because he is always there. Always waiting for his black car, always waiting with a cigarette on his lips, always leaning against the same brick wall with his shoes scuffing the ground.

He is always around, at the same place and time everyday.

And Antonio appreciates it.

One day, he decides to talk to him.

Antonio is chipper and friendly. He's lighthearted, oblivious, always up in the clouds. He's very open and caring and charming.

But dirt poor.

And from the way he acts around people—radiant, sociable—it's hard to tell.

He's poor, but he doesn't really let that bother him.

His friends tell him that he should at least worry.

He doesn't.

"Hi!"

The boy with the curl looks up, and now that Antonio is right in front of him, he can see that his eyes have golden flecks within the captivating olive.

It's gorgeous.

"I'm Antonio!"

He receives no response other than an annoyed glare. Smiling goofily, he extends a hand out anyway. "And what's your name?"

"Fuck. Off," coldly replies the boy, crossing his arms and looking away. Antonio is unfazed (he works with rude high school kids on a normal basis) and simply laughs amusedly.

"My, my, what language, young man!"

"Che cazzo? Hey! I am an adult!" snaps the boy angrily, eyes furious, cheeks flushed completely tomato red. "Don't treat me like a kid, bastardo!"

"Oh! Are you Italian?" Antonio grins and joins him on his spot next to the old motel wall, ignoring the enraged spluttering. "That's wonderful! I'm from Spain!"

"And who the fuck cares?"

"We are both from Europa! That's wonderful! I used to live in Madrid and—"

"Go away, asshole!"

"—so nice, and pretty! Very pretty! And you! Where in Italia are you from?"

The boy stares at him disbelievingly for a few seconds, before sighing warily and shaking his head. He glances away, his profile illuminated by the moonlight, and darkened by the night. There is silence for a moment. And then, "South."

"Is it nice there?"

"I don't remember. I left as a child."

"Was that a long time ago? You look so young..."

The nameless Italian lets out a short bark of laughter, eyes dulling instantly. "You have no idea."

Antonio wishes to make the boy angry again...because his eyes are much more livelier when he is, and more passionate.

A black car approaches.

The boy leaves him without a backwards glance.

They meet again the next day.

This time, the boy speaks first.

"What the hell are you talking to me for?"

Antonio only smiles softly, his emerald eyes burning with intense Spanish passion. "I what to be friends."

"No."

The Italian boy turns away, but murmurs, "Lovino," before leaving.

It's a beautiful name, Antonio thinks.

"Why are you always here?" the Spaniard asks one day, and Lovino only rolls his eyes and pulls out cigarette from his pocket. He pauses for a second, then offers the pack to Antonio, who quickly shakes his head.

"Me, I work," Antonio blabbers on, heart pounding against his ribcage a bit too erratically for his tastes. He tugs on the collar of his worn-out work shirt, wondering why on earth his cheeks feel warm. Lovino wrinkles his nose at his mention of the last word. "I work all day long and all night long!"

"Me, too," is the dry response. The Italian crosses his arms protectively over his chest. Only now in the light of a lone streetlamp does Antonio realize that Lovino wears the same clothes everyday.

A black sweater clung onto his skin, accentuating his very slender form. Grey skinny jeans adorned his legs, a pair of coal sneakers on his feet.

Simple and icy.

Another lovely constant.

"I'm a janitor and a waiter!" Antonio exclaims two days later, his voice muffled by a scarf he received from the local church. He shivers despite wearing a thick coat—a combined gift from his two best friends several years ago—but his grin never fades.

Lovino, who is still clad in his bleak attire despite the freezing weather, smirks beautifully. "Are you now?"

"Yup! ¿Es bueno, no?"

"Sì, stronzo, è buono."

"And what do you do, Lovi?" Antonio loves the nickname he's assigned this lovely boy, no matter how annoyed the other becomes. 'Lovi' is just one letter short of 'love,' after all! He thinks that Lovino secretly enjoys it, too. In fact, he's sure of it.

"Public relations."

The conversation ends there.

A minute later, the black car approaches.

Antonio does not think much of Lovino's job.

Public relations seems nice enough, and the paycheck is probably generous. He wonders if he can do that. He wonders if they'll pay him enough to keep his tiny home, which he may lose next month.

He wonders if Lovino could tell him.

He asks. Lovino freezes halfway through lighting his cigarette. The fire from the lighter burns brightly in the quiet night, and Antonio finds himself captivated.

The fire burns out.

"You don't want my job," Lovino whispers in a strange voice, with an emotion the confused Spaniard cannot comprehend. "My life is shit."

"Don't say that, Lovi!" Antonio cries, surprised at the dark words from his beloved's lips. He reaches out and pulls the boy closer, until their bodies are pressed up against each other. To his shock, Lovino does not pull away.

But he does laugh bitterly.

"It is, bastard. You have no idea."

"It can't be as bad as mine! I have no money and I'm going to get evicted in three weeks!" Antonio says this brightly, as though announcing his appointment as supreme emperor of the universe. Lovino shakes his head, both from his exclamation and his unusual optimism.

"Oh, yeah? How about your body? Ever lost that?"

"My body...? What do you mean, querido?"

"I'm a hooker, Antonio!" finally snaps Lovino angrily, set off by the loving Spanish endearment. His blood boils, his eyes see red. "I'm disgusting! Men use my body, and they pay me for it! Don't go fucking calling me that—that word! I can't be that to you!"

"What do you mean?" Antonio blinks several times, tilting his head to the side. He tightens his hold on the boy when he tries to push away. Lovino growls weakly. "Mi amor, what do you mean?"

"That! I can't be your amor! I'm—I'm not capable of being in a relationship... I... Antonio, bastard...I..."

"Te amo."

"Here is one hundred dollars."

Antonio learns that Lovino has been 'bought' by a sadistic old man who he is indebted to.

Apparently, the boy's grandfather had owed the man money, before his sudden death rendered him unable to pay off his loans. It had been a large sum, and Lovino's nonno had nothing left. Not even for his two grandsons, who were his only family.

So Lovino took up the debt. He sent his little brother away to a nice Austrian family. And at seven-years-old, the cruel old man began to train him for a life of prostitution.

Lovino is still in debt.

"Why?"

"So you don't have to sleep with more weird guys! This is all I can find for now, amor. But I'll find another job, so it's okay!" Antonio smiles goofily, presenting a handful of crumpled bills to the younger man. He may get evicted, but at least Lovino will have more money to pay off that terrible debt. And when he does, Antonio will be sure to sweep him off his feet. They'll be able to start a new life, a new beginning for them both. Together.

"Bastard. I don't want your money. I don't take charity," Lovino sighs, rolling his eyes at the Spaniard's enthusiasm. Admittedly, though, he's also flattered, if not a bit puzzled. He eyes the notes with distaste. "Oh. Unless you want..."

"Ah?"

"Sure, I guess I can do that..." Lovino quickly gets on his knees, his eyes lifeless. Expertly, he reaches out for Antonio's belt, until a calloused, tan hand stops him.

He looks up.

"No, Lovi, please. I don't what that. I just want to give you this..."

"I don't need pity money!"

"Okay. Fine. I do want one thing..." And now Antonio's smiling again, tugging Lovino to his feet easily. His hands rest on the boy's full hips, his nose nuzzles the boy's cheek. He gazes into his love's expressive olive eyes with the golden flecks, and he hopes his own emerald ones burn with the passion he sees in darling Lovi's.

Then, he makes his request.

"Dame un beso."

When he gets home that night, his lips tingling, his eyes watering, Antonio sees a note taped messily on his apartment door.

It tells him that his entire year's rent has been paid for by a mister Lovino Vargas.

His number is enclosed.

A/N: Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of the characters.