Autumn, 1943

Italy

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Antonio was dreaming. He had to be dreaming. There was no possible way that something this wonderful, something this beautiful, something he had yearned for and craved and desired for so long could possibly be happening like this, could possibly be here in his arms.

It felt again like that long ago afternoon in his rented rooms opposite the revolutionary cantina. The world was small, silent, still; and only one person existed in it. Lovino – lovely, complicated, stunning, frustrating, perfect Lovino. Lovino, holding to Antonio's arms with light, steady hands, pressing against him with uncertain force, his eyes too dark and his breath too fast. Antonio wanted him. Antonio burned for him. For the guilty touch of his skin, for the scent of his hair, for the press of his hips and the darkness in his eyes. But no, this was not right, and Lovino did not understand; but he was so beautiful, so warm and soft and breathless, so goddamned bright and dark and alluring and Antonio did not know if he was strong enough to stop this...

But this wasn't four years ago. Because when Lovino looked up at Antonio through dark, heavy lashes, instead of the lovely fifteen year old boy of that blazing afternoon, his flushed face was that of the handsome, still complicated, still frustrating, still perfect young man whom Antonio still burned for. So this time, when Lovino moaned, Antonio did not push him away. Because if this was a dream, then it was all right to give in and let go and damn the consequences. And if it was not... oh, if it was not...

And so, Antonio gave in. He pulled Lovino against him, grasped his narrow hips and crushed them to his own. Lovino threw his head back and his moan became a word. "Antonio..." Antonio couldn't be dreaming, because this was too real, this was too perfect. He felt every touch of Lovino like an electric current, lost himself in this pulsing, building, burning need... Lovino's hair, Lovino's lips, his skin, his breath, his hands, his neck, Lovino's dark, dark eyes...

But Antonio woke the way he always did. With a racing heart and panting breath, with throbbing release and sweat-drenched sheets. With a groan of disappointment that, yet again, it had only been a dream. He lay sprawled in the tiny bed, limbs limp and languid; the last tingling pulses of pleasure fading slowly from his feverish skin. He blinked his eyes into focus and his heaving chest started to slow as early sunlight broke through the curtains and brightened the dull, dirty rented room.

Antonio ran a hand through his unwashed, sweat-soaked hair and, despite himself, felt rising laughter bubble up in his chest as he glanced down at the wet sheets tangled around his thighs. Anyone would think he was still a teenager. He giggled softly and jumped to his feet, raced to throw open the curtains and smile cheerfully out at the golden Italian morning. Today was a beautiful day. Because today, Antonio was heading south. And south meant one thing.

Lovino.

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Lovino sat against the garden wall, strumming his guitar absently, humming to himself as a light, golden rain of dark autumn leaves drifted into the garden. Feliciano had left earlier for the market and Lovino was not sure where Grandpa Roma had gone. Grandpa was always unusually sombre at this time of year, sometimes disappearing for hours at a time – it wasn't until a few years ago that Lovino had learnt this was the season his mother and grandmother had died. So here Lovino sat, alone in the garden - something he was used to by now – alone. Alone with his thoughts and his fears and his memories. All of them turning eventually, inevitably, towards the same old obsession.

It had been over a year since Lovino's lie; a year since his fake, heart-crushing, life-changing declaration to Antonio. A year of increasing German presence in the village, of escalating counterattacks, of bombs and executions and suspicions. A year in which Lovino threw himself into the Resistenza, as much as he was allowed; accompanying Grandpa Roma on every mission he could, listening intently at every meeting, watching over and trying to look after Feliciano. A year of Antonio coming and going, spending a few days in town at the rooms opposite the cantina, staying just long enough to give what information he knew and perhaps organise a bombing or a diversion. Just long enough to tear at Lovino's heart, to bring the grief to the surface once again. And yet, Lovino kept stubbornly telling himself the same thing. This little pain he felt was nothing to the pain he would feel if he gave in, nothing to the trouble it would cause between him and Grandpa Roma. And though if Antonio died tomorrow it would still break Lovino, it was nothing to the devastation he would feel if he allowed himself to love him, to know everything they might be, to feel all that he had to lose. No. This pain was preferable.

But still, Antonio watched Lovino. Still smiled at him, still asked him polite questions carefully; how he was, how he was handling the increasing danger, how he was going with his guitar. Antonio's face still lit up when Lovino entered the room; he still said Lovino's name differently. Still, after all these years, Antonio confused Lovino, and still, he could not understand this. How could Antonio be so kind when Lovino was only horrible to him? What could Antonio possibly see in him? How long would this all go on? And why did Lovino not want it to end? Lovino barely remembered what life had been like before the war, before life was only about sabotaging German soldiers and waiting for Antonio.

Lovino continued strumming his guitar, watching his fingers slide over the strings, hearing his vague humming turn slowly to words. Lovino would not sing for anyone. But sometimes he caught himself singing alone, and before he knew it, Lovino realised he was playing and singing the song he had first heard from Antonio years ago. He sang the words softly, quietly, as though even in this empty garden he feared someone might overhear and ridicule him.

"Dearest one, if you should leave me,

Each little dream would take wing and my life would be through.

Bésame mucho, love me forever and make all my dreams come true."

Lovino lost himself in the words and the memories, smiled in his quiet reverie, looked up, and for a moment he was certain he was dreaming. Because Antonio was standing before him. Standing calm and easy, leaves flying in the wind around him, smiling kindly, his twinkling eyes as green as the grass - the very image from Lovino's memory of the moment he had first left, all those years ago. Lovino fell silent, stopped playing, and just stared up at him. Moments passed in silence, until eventually Antonio spoke. "You sing so beautifully, Lovino! You put me to shame."

Lovino pushed his hair behind his ear in a nervous, embarrassed gesture. Antonio had only been gone a few weeks, and Lovino was thrown off by his sudden appearance. "Don't lie."

Antonio's eyes softened. "I would never lie to you, Lovino."

Lovino felt a flare of guilt at the words, at the memory of his own agonising lie. "You're back again." It was a pointless thing to say, but what else was there?

"Yes." Antonio looked pointedly at the ground beside Lovino. "May I?"

Lovino nodded, and Antonio sat. Lovino turned his head as he leant it against the wall, looking up at Antonio. And they just looked at each other. And it did not feel uncomfortable, or strange, or wrong, to just gaze into those green eyes. Lovino's heart sped up like it always did, but he did not feel the old frightening, dizzying rush. Just a quiet swelling, an almost comforting beat, as warm and gentle as the leaves dancing in the wind. It felt like relief - like he had been waiting for something for so long that had finally arrived. But in the end, that's exactly what this was. Lovino caught himself before he returned Antonio's smile, and looked down at his guitar. "Grandpa is not home."

"I will wait. If that is all right."

Lovino nodded and ran his hands over his guitar. The silence went too long, until he felt he had to fill it. "Feliciano is at the market."

"Oh, is he?"

Lovino nodded again. Such an unimportant, meaningless conversation, and yet this was the least lonely Lovino had felt in weeks. Lovino did not usually sit beside Antonio so calmly, but he was too filled with relief and quiet happiness to even try to snap, or fight, or scowl. Maybe he was growing tired of it. And already, he did not want Antonio to leave. "Maybe you can stay for dinner tonight." Damn it, he hadn't meant to actually say that. And did Antonio's breath just catch? He immediately covered it with a laugh.

"Lovino!" he cried delightedly. "How good of you to ask! I would love to stay!"

"Don't go getting excited, bastard," Lovino grumbled, frustrated, even as his heart sped up. "I'm just sure that Grandpa will want to speak to you."

"Well, of course!"

Oh, Lovino hated that – the way Antonio agreed with him in that cheerful, flippant manner. He hated the way those words fired through his veins, the way that laugh twisted his stomach. He hated how he still could not control the effect Antonio had on him. "So," he said distantly, trying to sound as though he did not care. "How long will you stay this time?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On you."

Lovino's cheeks burned and his spine tingled. And Antonio just sounded like he was trying not to laugh. "Oh," said Lovino, flustered and trying to hide it. "Do you have important things to do elsewhere?"

"I have important things to do everywhere. Including here. But I don't want to make you uncomfortable." Lovino's gaze finally shot up at that, but Antonio just smiled. That smile that caused everything, that flooded him with unbearable emotion; fear and confusion, want and desire. That dazzling smile that became harder and harder to bear with every one of Antonio's visits. "Have you been well?" Lovino nodded, silently. Antonio always carried their conversation in the silence. "I am sorry I just missed your birthday. To think you are twenty years old!" Antonio sighed dramatically. "The years turn faster and faster."

They did. Lovino breathed out sharply, a soft sound of amusement. The world moving on around them and yet always this feeling the same, this unmoving, unspoken something between them. This something that Lovino could not change, and did not know if he wanted to. "Where have you been these last months?"

Antonio leant down towards Lovino, wagged his eyebrows, and whispered theatrically. "To faraway kingdoms and magical lands!"

Lovino scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Fine, don't tell me. It's not like I care, you know."

Antonio frowned and sat heavily back against the wall. "Oh, you're no fun. To France, if you must know. Not nearly as interesting, is it?"

Lovino felt immediately indignant, hurt, his cheeks burning with a wave of embarrassed anger. No fun... He felt some of the calm drain away, replaced by old, familiar, offended fury. "So, I'm boring, is that what you mean?"

Antonio turned his head sharply and blinked perplexedly. "I'm sorry?"

Of course he was boring, of course Antonio had no time for him, of course he was no fun... "I'm no fun, so I'm just boring. This must be so terribly uninteresting having to talk to me. Well, if I'm so dull then you can... What are you laughing at, bastard?"

Antonio's familiar laugh was as deep and passionate as ever. "Oh, Lovino, you are many things, but boring is most assuredly not one of them. In fact I'm always waiting to see how you will react. And just when I think I've got you figured out, then snap!" Antonio clicked his fingers and winked. "You go and surprise me."

Lovino glared and opened his mouth, but he could not respond to those words, to the playful way Antonio said them. So he breathed out heavily and looked down. "Shut up."

There was a brief silence, as Antonio actually seemed to follow Lovino's sulky order for once. It did not last long, however. "I was in France for personal reasons this time."

That caught Lovino's attention and he sat up straighter, slightly concerned. "Oh. Personal?"

"Yes." Antonio's eyes glinted, his broad smile dwindled to just a tiny smirk on his lips. "I'm marrying a lovely French girl, didn't you hear?"

A sudden roar rushed through Lovino's ears. His cheeks turned cold as the blood drained from his face. He could not even think about hiding his reaction, too stunned, too shocked, too overcome. His limbs turned rigid; his throat choked closed. He could only stare blindly, frozen, horrified. The air turned hazy and hot and stifling as the world crashed, fell, broke around him...

"...vino... Lovino! Lovino, I'm joking, breathe." Lovino could hear again, and Antonio's anxious words broke through the haze. He could see again, and Antonio appeared before him, concerned, waving his hand before Lovino's face. "I was only joking, Lovino, there's no French girl, I'm not really getting married..."

Lovino took a deep gasping breath. Oh God, how embarrassing, how stupid... "It's not like I care!" he practically shouted, then looked immediately down at his guitar, twisting his hands together, mortified. "I was just... just surprised that anyone would want to marry you, bastard." Lovino took another deep breath and closed his eyes briefly. Thankfully, Antonio did not laugh. In fact, he just continued as though nothing had happened.

"I'm actually trying to track down an old French friend of mine. His name is Francis. I used to spend a few weeks every season with him and another friend of ours, Gilbert. A German." Antonio chuckled softly. "But he wouldn't like me saying that. He always considered himself Prussian." Lovino listened silently, taking the time to steady his heart and compose himself as Antonio spoke breezily, avoiding Lovino's eyes with uncharacteristic tact. "Oh, we had so much fun. Life was beautiful. Summers in the French countryside; cycling through little villages with only bread and wine in our backpacks, sleeping wherever we fell, whether on lavender-infused mountaintops or in little Parisian backstreets. Winters in Germany; drinking schnapps by the fire in Munich beer halls, sledding in the snow on the Swiss border, spending Christmas in Berlin, listening to Gilbert's grandfather's war stories and teasing Gilbert's strict, serious little brother. And Spain." Antonio's green eyes brightened, sparkling in the sunlight as he smiled up at the sky. Lovino was captivated, his embarrassment quickly falling away. "Oh, Lovino. If you could only see Spain in the springtime. There is no more beautiful place in the world. Whether it is in the south - warm days on the golden sand and crowded nights in bustling cantinas; or in the north - vast flower-filled fields and narrow twisting streets that lead to secret, centuries-old hideaways. And always, just the three of us. Making memories to last a lifetime."

Lovino found himself transfixed as always by Antonio's words, by the joy and passion in his face. Lovino could almost see what he described; almost feel his joy. "One summer," said Antonio, his smile as far-away as his sparkling green eyes, "I think it was 1935 – we decided to try and go as far away as we could possibly manage. I believe the goal was New Zealand. We got as far as Egypt."

Lovino almost gasped, but held it back. He tried not to sound as astonished as he felt. "You've been to Egypt?"

"Oh, yes," grinned Antonio. "Gilbert was convinced he could solve the very mysteries of the universe by attuning himself to the mystical energies of the great pyramids."

"Oh," said Lovino, unsure what that even meant. "And, uh... did he?"

"No." Antonio snorted in amusement. "But he did get a broken nose in Cairo after an argument with an antiquities dealer. After escaping a gang of scimitar-armed thugs and dragging Francis from a brothel, we spent the night drinking cheap wine on the steps of the pyramids. And Gilbert reached his great epiphany."

"Which was?" asked Lovino, his gaze fixed on Antonio's vibrant face, fascinated by Antonio's delight in his memories.

Antonio eyes unfocused as he answered. "That the pyramids are nothing but interesting arrangements of rock. And there is no such thing as mystical energy. And that all that matters in life is to drink deep, have fun, and stay alive."

Lovino lowered his head to hide his small smile. "They must mean a lot to you. I've never had any friends like that... or, well, any at all, really."

Antonio looked back down at Lovino, snapping to attention, his eyes focusing again. "Does that upset you?"

"No," said Lovino honestly. "People confuse me."

"People want what is easy." Antonio laughed shortly. "But nothing really worth having comes easily."

Lovino did not know what he meant, but felt hot and strangely breathless, so he reverted to his customary scowl and veered back to the earlier topic. "Well, anyway. Did you find your friend?"

Antonio sighed, his smile falling. "No. He is in the French intelligence, and therefore, very difficult to trace - even for me."

"Why are you trying to find him?"

Antonio shrugged. "I wish to know if he is alive. He is important to me."

"Oh," said Lovino, trying to ignore the prickling wave of jealousy that heated his blood. "So you and he..."

"No. Never." Antonio said it quickly, but then he tilted his head thoughtfully. "Well, unless you count that close call in Pamplona." He whistled. "I still owe Gilbert for that one."

Lovino shifted uncomfortably. He did not want to know any more of that story. "And what about Gilbert? Do you know if he is alive?"

Antonio took a while to answer, his expression slowly growing darker. "No. I don't. Gilbert..." Antonio paused, shook his head shortly, and sighed, a short exhalation of disappointment and regret. "Gilbert joined the German army. He is on the Eastern front now, I believe."

"He's... what? Holy shit!" Lovino was shocked, astounded. "Your friend is a Nazi?"

"No," said Antonio firmly. "No, I did not say that. I said he joined the German army. He would never join that hateful party. He is a misguided fool, yes. But he is a good man." Antonio fixed Lovino's eyes in an earnest stare. "Not every German is a Nazi, Lovino."

Lovino felt almost ashamed. He had never even considered things like this before. When Antonio held an opinion, or stated a fact, he did it so certainly, so fervently. Lovino really did not know all that much about Antonio, even now, almost five years after he had fallen into Lovino's life to turn everything upside down and make this strange, difficult world more complicated than it already was. "Why do you do this?" Lovino asked suddenly. He realised he had never asked. He never knew why Antonio did what he did. "You're not even Italian. Why do you risk so much for Italy?"

Antonio looked at him intently, curiously. "Because of what we are fighting against."

"Germany?"

Antonio's lips twisted in the tiniest smile. "Not Germany."

"Fascism."