This story is rated for dark themes, including depression and graphic self-harm (at times). The possibly triggering chapters are labelled with a warning.

Main pairing is Spamano, with some mention of Gerita, US/UK and SuFin.

The story starts off a bit goofy, because of Antonio's POV, but if you keep reading you'll see it has a purpose.

Thank you for reading :)

Antonio - 27, Alfred - 21/22, Lovino - 19, Feliciano - 19

A Dancing Star

"You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star."

- Friedrich Nietzsche

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It's a little before eight when I unlock the studio, which gives me an hour before the first class: the intro to studio art. It should be primarily freshman, since it's the foundation course for the art major, so I need to be my most inviting today. I check my desk for the stack of syllabi; I hope there are enough of them. Next, I walk the perimeter of the studio, inspecting the several different stations. I check the paint table – counting off the acrylics, oils, spray-paint and watercolors – and then the utensil table – sharpening the pencils, cleaning the brushes, organizing the mediums, and laying out the clean palettes. On the other side of the room, there's the cabinet of paper and various sketchbooks, the cabinet of canvases (painted and blank), and the larger cabinet of miscellaneous materials.

Okay, great! Everything seems to be in order, and it's forty-five minutes till the beginning of class. Well, I guess I could sketch or –

"Hello? Oh, hey Toni, you're already here!" Alfred walked through the door I had purposely left open for eager students, and sat down in one of the hard plastic chairs. His all-American appearance is just as it was before summer, only slightly more sun-kissed and very much more painterly. He scratched the side of his white-dripped jeans and continued, "So what's the class I'm T.A.-ing for?"

I walked over to my desk, picked up a syllabus and said, "It's Introduction to Studio Art, so it should be mainly freshmen. It'll probably be sort of busy the first few weeks while they're getting used to the system," I handed him the slip of paper and sat down in the orange chair next to him. "But when everything calms down you can use the free time to work on your senior capstone."

I watched his blue eyes move across the Century-script, but they seemed to lack the usual Alfred-luster. Still, he put the paper down and with a flashing-white smile and continued, "So how has your art been going?"

"Ah well. I haven't been able to do much really. I was able to take some photos when I visited California this summer. But," I paused to look up. "I guess I've been sort of lazy. Most of the time, I didn't feel like taking pictures, I just wanted to take everything in. It was a very beautiful trip!"

"Did you not find your inspiration?"

"No…" I looked to the right at the Frida Kahlo poster hanging above one of the worktables. "I guess it's just that sometimes…sometimes it feels like I'm supposed to be a supporter of artists and not an artist myself." I turned to Alfred and saw he was about to argue with me, so I continued, "It's not like I don't like doing art! Or that I plan to quit or anything. But…I think my job is firstly an art teacher, and secondly an artist. I don't know," I offered Alfred a carefree smile. "Maybe I'm too content with the world to change it."

Alfred opened his mouth to speak, but paused to look away and think. He knitted his brows for a beat, then turned back and said with a confident beam, "You just need new inspiration. Once you find that you'll be an artist again!"

I looked at Alfred's optimistic, sparkling eyes and I can't help but return a laughing "maybe." But the truth is – Alfred is an artist and I am not. He doesn't understand because he thinks that I'm just like him. That all I need is a new environment, a pretty face, some new materials, and the art will come. But it's not like that for me. I did enjoy painting, sculpting, and photographing in grade school and high school; I was always one of the best and enjoyed making others happy with my art.

When I entered college however, everything changed. I thought I was good, and had been told I was talented since I was ten, but when I opened the doors to my first art class (an Introduction to Studio Art class coincidentally), I saw how truly remarkable artists could be. There was so much beauty and so many gifts surrounding me: I should have been so angry. I should have despised the others and their superior talent. And from that anger, I should have been driven to succeed and become better. But instead, I was happy. I loved the other artists and their work; it made me happy to talk to them, learn from them, and help them in any way I could. To me, artists were more interesting than their work. I thought I was the type of person that could harness my soul and recreate it for the world to see, but I'm not.

It takes a special kind of person to be an artist: the person has to love too much, feel too much, and be possessed by an overwhelming desire to express themselves. And more than all of that, they feel compelled to keep doing art over and over again, because they truly cannot stop.

Being an art teacher, I see artists and I see people who love art. While in college the distinction between the two was rather vague, now I can see it very clearly: sometimes from a first impression.

Alfred rose to pick up supplies from the table and I watched him. If I hadn't known of Alfred previously, I don't think I would have pegged him as an artist. He certainly is – he's quite obsessed actually – but he's also remarkably calm and gentle, which is rare for an artist. He picked up a pencil and sketchbook and walked back to the chair. With a creak, he settled in, and as he began pressing his pencil to the paper I noticed the time.

"Oh, I guess they should start coming in now, it's twenty minutes till nine." I get up and move to my desk to silence my phone.

"Am I okay sitting here, or do you want me to move somewhere else?"

"You're fine. I'm just going to – Hi there!" I smiled at the first student walking in. He's dark haired, and tan skinned, with wide (very wide, but that might be from surprise) brown eyes.

"Hello," he began hesitantly. His slender fingers fidgeted with his black sleeves, and compulsively pulled them down over his palms, so he could clench his fists into the fabric. His eyes shift from wide to narrow and he spoke again, "Are you the teacher?"

"Oh! You have an accent! Are you an exchange student? Oh, and yes, yes I am the teacher! Haha! I'm Professor Carriedo. But you can call me Antonio if you like, or Toni: that's my nickname. I'm from Spain, so I have an accent too! Where are you from?"

I guess I rambled a bit, because he seemed a bit overwhelmed, if also a little bit angry. His cheeks reddened a bit and he said, "I'm Italian, so yes, I'm an exchange student."

"Wait," I called after him, as he stalked past Alfred to the very back of the room at the furthest worktable. "What's your name?"

He set down his olive-green messenger bag and turned slightly in my direction to mutter, "Lovino." I don't know why, but saying his name seemed to embarrass him, because he sat down with a loud thump, crossed his arms over the table and gripped his forearms desperately.

I let Lovino be for a moment and watched him calm down. His fingers loosened their hold, and his chest heaved a quiet breath that swayed his head closer to the table. After a few moments he suddenly shut his eyes and squeezed his forearms – then in a flash, he scooted his chair out, and marched to the cupboards and cabinets. Though he walked rather gracefully, he wasn't very discreet moving things around, or opening and closing wooden cabinet doors for that matter. I figure I would take this chance to reach out to him again, so I strolled over to his side.

As I moved closer to him, he was already subtly sidestepping away, but I decided to speak anyways, and ask, "Are you looking for anything in particular?"

"No," he answered immediately. But he seemed to second-guess himself, because he knitted his eyebrows together harshly, squeezed his eyes shut for a split second, then asked, "Where are the sketchbooks?"

"Oh," I backed up a few steps to the first cabinet and opened the door. "They're right here. What kind of texture do you want? There's smooth, ro –" Lovino interrupted me by abruptly moving close – I noticed he smelled of roses and oil paint – shoving his sleeve into the cabinet and pulling out the closest sketchbook. I think I heard him mumble something, but it sounded sort of vague so it may have been Italian. Then he backed up to the other cabinets he was previously disorganizing and continued hunting.

My lips twitched a little because I knew what he was looking for; he just didn't want to ask. He seemed very shy. So I silently moved to the other side of the room and began sharpening pencils. I looked around absent-mindedly, sharpening pencils that were already past pointy, until I saw brown hair and black sleeves close in from the corner of my eye. I tilted my chin down a little to see Lovino better, and observed his very red face, and molten brown eyes, intently focused on the pencil selection in front of him.

I was a bit insulted, because he made an obvious point to stand a foot away from me, and stretch his right arm across the table to reach for the materials he wanted. Once he found what he needed, Lovino turned on his heel and walked back to his seat. I lingered near the table, blatantly staring at him, as he looked up once, then to the side, then to my direction – upon which he immediately turned back – and finally started sketching. I stayed a bit longer, somehow hoping that he would look up with a smile and ask, "Toni, would you like to see what I'm drawing?" But…

It appeared that's not Lovino's personality. So I let out a frustrated breath and walked past oblivious Alfred – still very much absorbed in his drawing – to my desk. I sat down, and soon after new students began to file in. I offered each of them hellos and they all smiled and exchanged greetings with me; I was even able to earn laughs from some. Why wasn't Lovi as open as them? Wait – Lovi? I chuckled quietly at the thought. That's such a cute nickname! Maybe he'll smile if I call him that!

With that happy thought loitering my mind, I check the time and it's nine o' clock. The class is a gentle hum of cheery conversations, and I stood up to pass out the syllabus. But as I move from my desk to the walking path from the doorway, my back is tackled from a very hard, and very loud, body yelling, "Oh scusa! I'm sorry! I didn't see you there!" He moved around me to look up at my face. "Oh, but you're really tall! I should have seen you. Hmm, I wonder why I didn't. Well, you're not hurt are you?"

This rapid-fire way of talking seemed strangely familiar, but I'm not sure how. More noticeably though, was the boy's familiar tanned skin and dark hair. I wanted to pause and think, but he was expecting my answer with honest eyes so I said, "No, I'm fine! You didn't run into me that hard haha."

"Oh good! Are you the teacher? My name is Feliciano; I'm an exchange student from Italy. You can probably tell from my accent though. People say it's very noticeable. But they also say I'm better at English than my brother though. Oh, where is he?"

"Where is who?" I asked, a bit clouded by the sudden onslaught of information.

"My brother! His name is Lovi and he's – Oh! There he is!" Feliciano shouted and skipped to the back of the room. I followed his trail to the back of the room, and found that my Lovi is his Lovi! Oh, well that makes sense. They look so alike. Although, watching Feliciano hug a very reluctant Lovi – who was elbowing Felicano's invading body away – I don't suppose they're alike in many other ways.

"Okay, class! My name is Antonio Carriedo, and I am your professor for Introduction to Studio Art." I offered a reassuring smile, slightly deviating my equal gaze to the back of the room; but unfortunately, seeing the other Italian meeting my gaze instead. I turned around to pick up the stack of syllabi, "I'm going to pass around the syllabus for the class. Most of you are probably experienced artists, so this will be an easy basic class; and for those of you who are beginning, I'm sure this will be a useful foundation course."

I walked around to each worktable and offered a differing amount of papers. "You'll have five major projects this semester. One two-dimensional piece – which can be pencil, paint, pastel, etcetera. One multi-media piece, which can combine the various materials in some way." I walked to the worktable nearest to the cabinets and pass their stack to the closest person. "And one unconventional-material piece, which is pretty self-explanatory."

I reached Lovi's table and he was still sketching meticulously in his sketchbook. I tried to subtly peak at his drawing, but just as I began to stretch my neck, Lovi's head shot up, and his black sleeves unfolded to shield the drawing. I met his sparkling brown eyes (no doubt sparkling from anger) with an innocent smile and dropped two syllabi on his table. I continued to iterate the last two pieces – a wooden one and a freeform – distinctly aware of the hot gaze following me the rest of my turn around the classroom.

When I reached my desk I made the final announcement, "So, for this class period you're free to start sketching ideas, talk to me, or do some research for inspiration. We have art history textbooks in the cupboard here, near my desk. Or you're free to go to the library and do some research there." I feel rather confident allowing my students to roam the campus since after all, art is free, and binding them to the classroom seems unfair. As long as they complete the work with the maximum-possible effort then I'm satisfied.

Slowly the class began to disperse. A few asked my permission to go to the library (still too timid not to make me aware), some came to me to bounce off ideas, and the others scatter around the room ogling and picking at supplies. Alfred received some questions, and he enthusiastically offered his opinions. Soon a small line wrapped around Alfred's chair, all of the students talking at once to catch his attention.

The whole class seemed so active and chaotic, and then, in the very back of the room, there is Lovino quietly sketching. Even Feliciano dashed off somewhere (which I sort of doubt is the library), leaving Lovi as the single movement in the back of the classroom.

What's strange is that, although Lovi doesn't make a sound, I can't help but notice him. Somehow, his presence is the loudest: like he is yelling or something. But each time I turn around, he is still sitting there, one hand pressed down to keep the paper still, the other gripped tight to the pencil. Every so often his eyes will flick up, or if I'm lucky, they flick in my direction and I catch a flash of golden-brown. Then at around 10:30, Lovi let out a sigh and clawed his fingers through the waves of his brown hair. But that was the only audible activity he did.

At 10:50, students began putting away materials, packing up and leaving. And at eleven it was only Lovi and I. Even Alfred left to get a hamburger because he was just "dying" without one. Lovi isn't wearing headphones, so he must have heard everyone leave. Maybe he's waiting for Feliciano to return?

I'm sitting at my desk, but I don't know if I should go over to Lovi and ask why he's still here. That sounds a bit rude, doesn't it? I mean, I don't have a class until 12:30 so there's no reason he can't be here. Still, maybe I should mention something in case he's forgetting about another class.

"Hey Lovi!" I called out from across the room. His head whipped around in surprise; I don't think he was expecting me to call him that. "You know the class is over right?"

I smiled inwardly at his reddening cheeks and furrowing eyebrows. I can see he gripped the pencil tighter. "Are you going to kick me out or something?"

"Of course not," I said easily, and laughed softly at his reaction. "I was checking to make sure you wouldn't miss your next class."

Lovi's shoulders dropped slightly, and he turned his head back to his drawing. "My next class is here."

"Oh really? You're in my painting class? Oh, how wonderful! We have two classes together Lovi!" I cupped my face with my palm and reminisced the thought. But my daydream was short-lived, because immediately I heard a loud wooden thump from across the room.

Lovi had slammed his left fist onto the table, and was leaning forward to the table, heaving heavy, controlled breaths.

I observed his outburst silently, but made a note as I asked, "So are you perchance in my life study class?"

"Fuck!" Lovi gripped his forehead with his right hand, balancing the pencil above his fingers. His eyes were closed and his fingers dug into his scalp – I wish he wouldn't do that.

"Haha, oh Lovi, are you only taking art classes?"

He grazed his fingers through his hair before turning to me with a fierce glare and red cheeks. "That's all I want to take."

"Ah, well. Lucky me then!" I laughed as he rolled his eyes. "So… what other classes are you taking?"

Lovi turned back to the table and pinned his elbows to the table. He looked down intently but made no move to draw again.

"Are you not going to tell me?" I teased, watching with amusement as his emotions danced across his strained muscles. Lovi flicked his eyes to me for a half second, was quiet for another minute, before finally (finally!) speaking again.

"I have…" he began quietly. "3-D desi – fucking dammit!" He slammed his fist to the table as he saw my broadening smile. Then Lovi started muttering Italian obscenities and waving his left hand in the air. His eyes look so wonderful when they're angry.

"Come on, what else do you have?" I stifled a girlish giggle. Lovi rolled his eyes at my outburst, but made his usual movements to talk: turning his eyes away and seizing grip of his arms.

"Then I have…sculpture?" Lovi reluctantly met my gaze, but I couldn't hide my expression quickly enough. "Y-you're not teaching sculpture?" Lovi's eyes widened and he examined my crestfallen face.

I felt like I was about to cry. Why? Why wasn't Lovi in my sculpture class? Oh yeah, I don't teach sculpture. Oh, why didn't I learn? But my depression was abruptly ended by the most stunning thing I had ever seen: Lovi smiling. His dark brows were uncrossed, and his eyes were gleaming like burning amber. Although I was a bit hurt by the reason he was smiling, the vision of his red cheeks rounded by a perfect, reckless smile – I was caught breathless.

"Ha! Damn Spaniard! How do you like that?" He pointed his pencil at me. "What? No comeback? No stupid comment? It's about time."

I brought my hand to my mouth, but I couldn't find my voice anywhere. I couldn't even feel my skin. My whole body felt paralyzed, and my eyes stunned.

For the remaining two hours, I left Lovi alone. I observed him the entire time, but I couldn't speak to him. Every motion he made fascinated me, every breath he took drew me in, but I didn't dare approach him. My racing heart made it painfully plain to me what happened, but I don't know what to do.

I'm in love with Lovino.

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This is my OTP so I'm going to try very hard to make this as good of a story as it can be.

Thank you for reading! It means so much to me! And reviews and suggestions are always welcome!

Until next time! :D