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Midnight.
Something wet slid down Antonio’s neck.
Tears…?
He didn’t know why that was the first thought to drift through the fog of sleep, but it stuck. It clung to him, persistent, like the chill that had settled under his skin.
He tried to roll over—to shift, to blink, to move even an inch—but his body felt pinned. Heavy. Like someone had dumped a crate of overripe tomatoes on his chest. He couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Just lay there, caught between the thickness of sleep and something colder.
It was summer. He remembered that. The fan in the corner had been humming earlier. He’d only thrown a thin sheet over himself before bed. But now…
Now it felt like the windows had been thrown open to winter.
Another drop slid down his jaw, cooler this time, and then another.
And then—he heard it.
Soft, trembling, barely audible over the rush of blood in his ears.
Crying.
Someone was crying.
Not loud or hysterical. Just quiet, steady sobs. Like grief that had been held in for too long, now leaking loose in the dark.
He didn’t know who it was, or why it was happening, but his heart clenched in response. Some part of him—deep, irrational, and stubborn—ached to reach out. To open his eyes, find that trembling figure, and pull them into his arms. To hush them gently, wipe their tears away with his sleeve, and whisper something stupid and soothing like “It’s okay, cariño.”
But just as his hand twitched beneath the covers, just as the weight pressed harder against his chest, another thought surfaced.
Wait…
…He lived alone.
Didn’t he?
___
Somewhere deeper in the night—
An abandoned chapel stood beneath the bones of a forgotten hill. Its stained glass windows had long since shattered; ivy choked its walls; the crucifix above the altar leaned, ever so slightly, toward collapse.
Gilbert marched ahead with the smug swagger of someone who’d never once regretted a bad idea.
Antonio followed behind, face half-caught between amusement and resignation, while Francis trailed carefully at the rear, trying not to let his expensive shoes sink into the damp dirt.
“Gil,” Francis drawled, ducking under a low-hanging branch. “Remind me again—why exactly are we here?”
“What, getting cold feet already, Fran?” Gilbert tossed the flashlight beam dramatically across the rubble. “Kesesese! Don’t tell me you’re scared of ghosts!”
His boots crunched noisily over dead leaves. The sound was too loud in the stillness around them.
Francis sighed, long and theatrical. “I never said I was scared. I just fail to see why we’re wandering through a haunted ruin on a perfectly good Saturday night when there are bars within walking distance and decent whiskey on tap.”
Antonio chimed in, ever the peacemaker. “Come on now, it’s not so bad. I heard this place is kind of famous. Might make for a fun story to tell back on campus, no?”
“That’s not why I came!” Gilbert snapped, puffing out his chest. “I came to prove there’s no ghost here at all! And if there is one, I’ll punch it right in the face! Not that I care whether you two sing my praises afterward, but hey, if you feel like telling the world about my heroic deeds—I won’t stop you.”
He stomped forward triumphantly—
—and stepped on a dead branch with a crack that echoed like a gunshot through the hollow ruin.
All three of them froze.
The silence that followed was too still. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
The only light came from the moon overhead, and from Gilbert’s so-called “ultra-long-lasting” flashlight.
It flickered.
Twice.
Then held steady.
Barely.
“…Great,” Francis muttered under his breath.
He had stopped beside a half-collapsed pew, one hand braced against the rotting wood as his eyes drifted—uneasy—to the marble statue that still stood at the far end of the chapel. It was cracked but upright. A rendering of Christ, arms open, gaze empty. In the moonlight, its blank eyes seemed to glint faintly. As if watching them.
Francis swallowed hard.
“I do hope you’re aware,” he said, voice low, “that this is exactly how horror films begin. Lonely woods. Ruined churches. Faulty lights. And us—three idiots with no weapons. There could be wild animals, you know.”
“Wild animals?” Gilbert scoffed. “It’s not that remote. It’s just behind the school!”
Antonio raised a hesitant hand. “Still… maybe Francis has a point. If a bear jumps out, we’re kind of screwed. None of us brought weapons.”
Gilbert made a noise somewhere between a growl and a sigh. “Et tu, Toni?”
But after a moment, he threw up his hands. “Fine, fine. We’ll do a quick lap around the place. Can’t go back without at least walking the perimeter. I’ve got a reputation to uphold, you know. My adoring fans would be devastated.”
Francis arched a brow but said nothing.
He considered asking “What fans?” but thought better of it.
Gilbert still held the only flashlight.
___
Fortunately, they hadn’t encountered anything. Unfortunately, they hadn’t encountered anything.
The three stupid college students had done nothing more than trample a circle around the edge of a ruined chapel and get their shoes dirty. That was it. No ghosts. No curses. No chilling shadows or blood-smeared walls. Just dirt and disappointment.
As Francis bemoaned the tragic downfall of his once-pristine shoes, and Gilbert barked half-hearted insults back at him, Antonio laughed with a kind of weary resignation. The group turned a corner and slipped into a dim bar just off campus, drawn by the promise of something—anything—stronger than the night’s anticlimax.
Gilbert threw himself into a chair and slapped the counter.
“Three whiskeys, please! Make them strong!”
Francis exhaled a dramatic sigh. “So that’s it? That’s what we came all the way out there for? We didn’t see a single ghost, and now my shoes are ruined.”
“You’re the one idiot who wore nice shoes to a ghost hunt in the first place,” Gilbert shot back.“What were you expecting, a fashion show in the woods?”
Francis’s smile twitched sharply. “Excuse me, but all my shoes are expensive.”
“Alright, alright, knock it off.” Antonio passed the glasses around. “Isn’t it a good thing nothing happened? If there really had been a ghost, well… I doubt any of us would’ve been laughing right now.”
“Fair point…” Francis sighed again, softer this time. “Thank god we have whiskey. I’d have no will to live through tomorrow’s lectures otherwise.”
Gilbert leaned sideways against the bar and rolled his eyes at both of them.
“You two are seriously no fun.”
Francis raised a hand, fingers flicking loosely. “What do you want from us, Gilbert? Group projects are killing me. One of my partners hasn’t responded in days—”
“Nope. Nope!” Gilbert cut in, raising his hand. “No school talk while we’re drinking!”
He turned toward Antonio then, frowning. The Spaniard had gone oddly quiet, head bent, fingers toying with something in his hands—something small. And silver?
Gilbert’s curiosity prickled instantly.
“Oi, Toni. What’s that?”
Antonio flinched. Not just startled, but as if something deep and faraway had been torn from him mid-thought. His eyes were unfocused at first, lost in some haze that didn’t belong to the room, and only slowly drifted back to awareness. Then, quickly, almost guiltily, he closed his fingers around whatever he’d been holding.
Gilbert couldn’t quite make it out. Just the briefest flash of silver, glinting between his fingers. Maybe a chain?
“Ah, well… it’s nothing. Just—a trinket. A little necklace. Really, it’s not important…” Antonio stammered, the way only someone with something to hide ever did.
Gilbert narrowed his eyes.
Francis leaned in, intrigued. His voice went soft and teasing.
“Oh là là, Toni. Keeping secrets from your dear friends? Has someone special given you a little token of affection, hmm? Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Come on, we won’t judge.”
“What—no! Wait, how did we get there? It’s seriously just a necklace!”
“Then why’re you hiding it?” Gilbert lunged forward with zero finesse, trying to pry open Antonio’s hand.
“Wait, wait, fine—fine! I’ll show you! Stop grabbing me, for god’s sake!” Antonio lifted his hand over his head, laughing nervously. “You guys are impossible.”
Reluctantly, he opened his palm.
The silver cross caught the bar’s warm lighting and sparkled faintly. It was beautiful, simple. But the light—
It shimmered oddly.
Francis stared.
Something about it was… off. The glint fractured his vision for half a second. His stomach twisted, sharp and inexplicable, and for a breathless moment he felt like he was falling into something slow and cold.
The sound of a glass set down by the bartender jolted him back.
“Toni,” he said sharply, frown creasing between his brows. “Where did you get that necklace?”
“Huh? Why?” Antonio blinked at him. “Is something wrong with it?”
“No, I just—” Francis rubbed his chin. “It’s probably nothing. Just… it feels strange. Don’t you feel anything weird when you look at it?”
Antonio stared at the necklace, then slowly closed his fingers around it again.
“If I had to say…” he murmured, voice lower now, more thoughtful. “When I look at it—really look—it hurts. Right here.” He tapped his chest lightly. “Like something’s squeezing. It made me feel really, really sad. So… I took it from the church.”
Gilbert made a noise somewhere between a squawk and a shout.
“You what? You took that thing from the church?! That could’ve been my proof! My evidence!”
Francis shook his head, one hand pressed to his temple. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Toni. Taking something from a place like that? If a ghost latches onto you, don’t expect me to help.”
“Eheh…” Antonio laughed sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “It just looked lonely, you know?”
___
Francis was right.
That was the first thought that surfaced, distant and dissonant, as Antonio stared at the shape before him.
It trembled.
The pressure on his chest, invisible but suffocating, still hadn’t lifted. He couldn’t tell if it came from within or without. His limbs were slow to obey. But after a few seconds—or hours, it was impossible to say—his arms moved. Reached forward. Slipped through the cold between them and wrapped around the shaking figure.
He held it close.
___
“I’m telling you, Toni’s been acting weird lately.”
Francis kept his voice low as he nodded toward the bench ahead, where Antonio sat, completely absorbed in his phone. His hands gestured animatedly midair, face alight with laughter—genuine, maybe even joyful, if you didn’t look too closely.
Gilbert barely glanced up from his own phone. “Weird? Looks pretty normal to me.” He squinted toward Antonio, then smirked. “If you ask me, he’s clearly talking to a crush. Or at least a spicy situationship. Who knows? You’re overthinking it—he just hasn’t been hanging out with us as much. Not exactly a crime.”
“I know, but…” Francis frowned. “Something’s off. He keeps turning us down, saying he has to go home early. He’s always tired lately. And that smile of his—it feels… strained sometimes. I can’t explain it.”
Gilbert rubbed his arms with a dramatic shiver. “Okay, stop. That’s enough! I didn’t sign up for a full psychological analysis of our friend. That’s gross.”
“What’s gross about caring for a friend?” Francis sighed. “No, wait—don’t answer that. It was rhetorical.”
He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ugh. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m just overthinking it. He’s sunshine incarnate. He’ll be fine. I should be worrying about how to charm the newest transfer student instead.”
Gilbert grinned. “Now you’re making sense. Come on, it’s Antonio. He’s like a walking good mood. Sure, he’s been a little… I don’t know, off, lately. But look at him now—”
They both turned to watch him again.
Antonio had just laughed at something on his screen. The kind of laugh that bent his shoulders forward, that made his hand cover his mouth.
And yet—
Something about it felt… hollow. Just for a moment.
Gilbert shifted uncomfortably. “Okay. I’ll admit. That is a little creepy.”
___
“I’m home!”
The lights flicked on with a cheerful click. Antonio stepped out of his shoes and into the small, quiet warmth of his apartment. He dropped his bag by the door, inhaled deeply.
Warmth hit him in a wave. Olive oil, tomatoes, cheese. The unmistakable aroma of Italian cooking wrapped around him like a hug, filling the small living room, clinging to his clothes, his skin, his senses.
Ah… this must be what people meant when they talked about home.
The light was on in the kitchen, soft and golden. A silhouette moved behind the counter, barely visible through the narrow opening. Antonio made his way over, leaning against the doorframe with a grin.
“Smells amazing. Need any help?”
A hand flicked dismissively toward him. “Shoo. Don’t get in my way.”
Antonio chuckled. “But I want to help. Is that lasagna?”
“I don’t need help from the living,” came the reply, sharp with mock arrogance. The figure folded its arms with a huff.
The kitchen light fell squarely across his head, but there was no shadow beneath his feet. His form was thinner than it should’ve been, edges soft, as though the air itself couldn’t quite decide whether to let him exist.
Antonio didn’t flinch. Didn’t falter.
He smiled.
“Alright, alright. I get it.” He raised his hands in surrender. “Then let me stand here and admire you. I want to see you a little more.”
“You—y-you idiot,” the figure sputtered, cheeks blooming faintly red despite the pallor of his skin. “F-fine. If you must. But only if you stay quiet. Don’t mess anything up.”
“Promise,” Antonio said, hand pressed solemnly to his heart.
He watched with reverence. Every motion. Every flick of a wrist, every irritated pout, every unnecessary flourish added for the sake of being dramatic—he watched it all like it might vanish if he blinked.
The curl that sprung defiantly from his hair, the greenish tint in his eyes when caught just right by the kitchen light, the faint blush that reached even the ghost-pale hollows of his face.
Even the dark circles beneath those eyes—shadowed, heavy, unhealed—looked beautiful.
So beautiful it hurt.
Antonio felt as if his heart—his whole body—existed only to witness this creature.
Lovi.
His little Lovino.
He still remembered the first time he saw him—that flash of fear, that aching trace of sorrow—but it had all vanished the moment he was pulled into Lovino’s arms.
Cold. That was the first thing he noticed.
Lovino’s body had been cool to the touch, not unpleasant, just…cool.
But it fit so perfectly in his arms, like it had been carved to nestle there.
Like Antonio had been made to hold him.
“This is my necklace,”
Lovino had said. His very first words.
Antonio still remembered the way the words fell from his lips, crisp and certain.
He had stolen that cross necklace from the church. That was true.
But maybe—just maybe—it hadn’t been theft at all.
Maybe it had been fate.
Yes. Yes, of course.
If he hadn’t taken it, they would never have met.
That little silver cross had led Lovino to him, hadn’t it?
What else could it be but destiny?
Their meeting was written in something older than time.
A heavenly design. A miracle.
…Even if he couldn’t quite remember when it happened.
His memories had been hazy ever since Lovino appeared.
Dates blurred. Days slipped sideways.
But that was fine. That was normal.
Lovino was his roommate, after all. They lived together.
It was because of the necklace.
Yes, that was it—he found the cross, and Lovino came to retrieve it.
And after that, they began living together. That was how it happened.
Right…?
Why did it feel so… jumbled?
His thoughts were drifting again when Lovino’s voice called him back.
“All done! Are you just going to stand there like an idiota? Get your lazy ass over here and bring yours to the table!”
Lovino’s arms were full, balancing a steaming dish of lasagna with practiced ease. He jerked his chin toward the counter, where Antonio’s plate still waited.
“Ah—oh, sorry,” Antonio blinked and moved automatically, legs carrying him forward before his mind caught up.
They sat across from each other at the little round table Antonio had bought.
Lovino had hated it at first sight. Said it looked like a tomato.
Said only an idiot would buy a tomato-shaped table.
Antonio thought it suited them just fine.
“Hurry up and eat,” Lovino said, eyes fixed on him. He hadn’t touched his own plate.
Antonio’s fingers hovered near the fork.
Lovino’s gaze was intense. Urging. As if something depended on it.
Antonio picked up the fork and took a bite.
Warm. Savory. Melting layers of pasta and cheese.
His eyes lit up.
“It’s—amazing! Lovi, this is the best lasagna I’ve ever tasted!”
Only then did Lovino lean back in his chair, arms crossed with smug satisfaction.
“Hmph. Of course it is. You think just anyone can cook like this?”
He reached out a hand and toyed with his own fork, rolling it absently across the table.
“Eat that one too later,” he muttered. “I’m not hungry anyway…”
The last part came so quiet that Antonio barely heard it.
He paused, fork halfway to his mouth.
He wanted to ask.
Wanted to ask why Lovino never ate.
But some part of him already knew.
Or maybe didn’t want to know.
So instead, he just smiled, soft and helpless.
“Ah, what am I going to do with you, Lovi…? If you keep feeding me like this, I’ll get fat.”
“Then go run, dumbass!”
Lovino shot him a glare. But a second later, he looked away, cheeks faintly flushed.
“…If you go night running or something, I might go with you. Maybe. Just so I can watch you wheezing and dying halfway, obviously. Don’t get the wrong idea.”
Antonio laughed, the sound light and delighted.
“You’re so mean…”
Lovino snorted.
But before the sound even finished, Antonio leaned forward. His voice dropped, tender and eager.
“Feed me. please.”
“What—what the hell did you just say!?”
Lovino turned crimson. He stared at Antonio.
But Antonio’s green eyes were wide, bright, hopeful.
So soft they shone.
Lovino bit the inside of his cheek. Looked away. Looked back.
Then sighed.
“…Idiota,” he grumbled.
Still, he reached for Antonio’s plate.
The fork clinked gently as he lifted a piece, guided it slowly across the table, and slipped it into Antonio’s waiting mouth.
His fingers, pale in the warm light, looked almost transparent.
Antonio smiled as he chewed.
A smile too full, too sweet, too radiant.
A happy smile.
___
Lovino loved Antonio.
He loved him deeply—desperately, recklessly.
If one wished to know how much, one had only to look at him now.
Ah… what a pitiful sight.
His head had struck the wooden pew; blood bloomed and trickled into his hair.
The once‑bright hazel eyes—those eyes that had glimmered with shades of caramel and green—were dull now, emptied of all light. The small silver cross at his throat had snapped during his frantic struggle; no one knew where it had fallen. His blood had darkened the floorboards, mingling with the dust of prayer.
All because he ran.
And why had he run?
The priest—his godfather, his teacher—had discovered the young novice’s secret.
Discovered what should never have existed between two men of faith.
A forbidden love: that was the name for it.
Nineteenth‑century Europe—two Christians, two men. One of them sworn to the Church, the other a mere parishioner. In such a world, to flee together was not a wise choice, but it was the only one.
Lovino had fallen in love one month after the young Spaniard arrived.
Antonio Fernández Carriedo.
From the first day, he had come to the chapel almost daily, always—by some cruel design—at the same hour Lovino cleaned the nave or knelt to pray.
They had prayed side by side once.
That hour had been the longest of Lovino’s life.
His hands were folded; his lips moved; his mind refused to be still. He cracked one eye open again and again, stealing glances at the man beside him—the one with his eyes closed, lashes trembling faintly as though from the effort of silence.
Sunlight poured through the stained glass, gilding Antonio’s brown hair, turning it the colour of warmth itself. That warmth reminded Lovino of spring mornings, of the gentle heat of a fireplace in winter. When he was a child, his favourite indulgence had been to doze beside the hearth; Antonio’s presence offered the same comfort—dangerously so.
It made his cheeks burn.
It made him bite his lip until the taste of iron bloomed on his tongue.
It made him hate Antonio—hate him for the unbearable gentleness that he inspired.
Then, just as Lovino’s thoughts began to drown him, a voice broke through.
“Did I… do something wrong?”
He startled.
His head had turned entirely toward the Spaniard; his eyes had been fixed on him the whole time. Antonio, embarrassed, rubbed his cheek with a shy, uncertain smile.
“Is my posture wrong? Or—did I disturb your prayer? I’m sorry if I did.”
“N‑no—no, you—stupido!”
The word burst out before he could stop it.
A curse.
In the house of God.
His face went crimson. He looked wildly around, half‑expecting the priest to appear from the shadows and condemn him to a week of confinement. But the chapel was empty—silent, save for the faint rustle of candles. Perhaps by grace, perhaps by fate, they were alone.
Lovino exhaled shakily, turned back toward Antonio, and stumbled over his words.
“I—I didn’t mean—uh, I wasn’t trying to—I just—”
He groaned inwardly. How could he be so useless at speaking? He could hold his own with anyone else, but one look into those olive‑green eyes and his tongue betrayed him completely.
Antonio laughed softly, a sound too bright for the shadows of the chapel.
“Don’t worry,” he said, lips curling upward. “If anything, I’m the one intruding. Tell me how I can make it up to you. Should I help you clean the nave as penance?”
Lovino blinked. “Wha—how did you—”
He bit his lip again. “No! You don’t need to help me! I can do it myself!”
Before he could puzzle over how Antonio had known his duty at all, an idea struck him—sudden, desperate.
“Your name!” he blurted. “Tell me your name. That’ll make us even. Quickly—before I change my mind.”
Antonio tilted his head, a half‑smile touching his lips.
“If that’s all it takes,” he said, “then very well. Antonio Fernández Carriedo. And you?”
Lovino hesitated, his pulse a steady roar in his ears.
“…Lovino Vargas.”
___
Antonio had been waiting for a long time.
The moon was bright, the air cold with something that felt older than nightfall. And yet still—no sign of Lovino.
Had he been left behind?
Abandoned in this vast, indifferent world?
Left in this meadow that looked, under shadow, like a drowned marsh, in this forest that clawed at the sky with skeletal limbs?
Perhaps Lovino had simply been afraid.
Yes, that seemed plausible. His little Lovi had always been timid beneath the sharpness, always someone who needed to be protected.
It was natural to fear such a leap.
If Antonio were honest, he too didn’t want to leave just yet. Not this place. Not now.
After all, this was where they met. That had to count for something. That was romantic, wasn’t it? Their first words to one another had been exchanged beneath that crucifix. Antonio could still hear them. Still taste the weight of them.
But they couldn’t stay.
The priest—Lovino’s godfather—was no fool. He had noticed something. He had seen the silences. The lingering glances. The way Lovino flinched when Antonio stood too close, and the way Antonio always lingered just a moment longer than propriety allowed. The way they became quiet when the chapel emptied, only to fill that silence with trembling, stolen things.
Maybe he had caught them once, without their knowing.
Maybe he had simply sensed it. Love, even forbidden, is rarely subtle.
They should have been more careful.
Yes. They should have.
But caution had never been Antonio’s word.
Still—Lovino hadn’t come.
Antonio didn’t panic. He didn’t pace.
He simply waited, standing as still as the trees, waiting for that familiar voice to cut through the dark with a muttered “idiota.” Waiting to see that figure—slim, stubborn, crowned with a single defiant curl—come running toward him across the grass.
And for a moment, he did see it.
The shadow of him, the memory of him.
But when Antonio blinked, there was nothing there. Just the black, the hush, and the silver mouth of the moon above.
Maybe this was how it had to be.
Lovino was a novice, after all. A boy promised to the cloth, to the church, to something holier and greater than Antonio could offer. How could Antonio ask someone like that to run away with him—to give up everything, to follow him into some unknown place, poor and faithless?
If Lovino had turned back, it was for the best.
Perhaps, without Antonio, he would live a better life.
Antonio could almost picture it:
Lovino bathed in light, the Word of God in his hands, standing beneath stained glass like a painting come to life. He would be radiant. Unreachable. His anger softened into solemnity, his loneliness filled by something divine.
And the other version—
The version who fled with Antonio, who shared a stranger’s bed in a stranger’s town, who endured hunger and cold and dirtied boots and days that never quite brightened—that version would be dimmer. He would suffer. He would hate it.
And one day, Antonio feared, he would begin to hate him.
That thought stung more than Antonio expected.
The contrast between the Lovi cloaked in holiness and the one crouched beside a campfire with a torn blanket and wet shoes—it was almost unbearable.
Would Lovino be better off without him?
Antonio didn’t want to answer.
Because the answer was obvious.
Yes.
Yes, he would.
Still, he could not stop the memory from returning—
The moment Lovino suggested running away. The way his eyes sparkled when he said it, even if he tried to hide it behind a scoff.
Lovino’s eyes had always undone him.
That strange color—green when the sun hit them, but soft brown when he cried.
Antonio loved every part of him, but if he had to name just one thing, it would always be the eyes.
Especially when he kissed him by surprise.
Lovino usually closed his eyes tight when they kissed, lashes trembling, cheeks red. But if he caught him off guard—mid-complaint, mid-insult—Antonio would press his mouth to his and watch those eyes fly open. There’d be shock there, always, and fury, too, but behind it all something else—something that shimmered and trembled and made Antonio feel like the world was briefly, impossibly good.
He smiled to himself.
Lovino still hadn’t come.
Antonio tilted his face to the moonlight, its coldness sharp against his skin.
He would not come. Antonio felt it now, deep in his ribs, heavy like snow. He would not come.
But that was alright.
If that was what Lovino needed, then Antonio would accept it. He would protect him, even like this. Even by letting go.
It hurt. Dios, it hurt.
But Antonio told himself it would be enough.
That he could carry the memories.
That he could spend a whole life warming his hands over the flame of what they’d shared, even if the fire itself was gone.
Antonio breathed in.
He turned.
And stepped into the distance, alone.
___
It was heavy.
That familiar weight in his chest—the kind that made getting out of bed feel impossible.
When had it last been this bad?
Antonio thought, vaguely, that it might’ve been high school. Back when he hadn’t done a single assignment for any class, and the thought of facing teachers, classmates, the world—was too much. Even then, it had been rare. Antonio wasn’t the type to wallow.
Now, as a university student, it certainly wasn’t something like homework that kept him in bed. He was past that.
Eyes shut, he lay motionless, desperately combing through his mind for a reason to rise.
Bread.
Yes. Bread.
He remembered now—he’d bought it yesterday for Lovino. That one kind he liked. But Lovino hadn’t eaten it. So Antonio had stored it away in the fridge, telling himself he’d finish it the next day.
That thought gave him the slightest push, just enough to nudge the idea of movement. The bread really was good.
Was there anything else?
No.
Nothing came to mind.
What was strange, though—he had just thought of Lovi.
And yet, that didn’t make him want to get out of bed.
It made him want to stay right where he was.
He wanted to see Lovino. Wanted to be near him.
But somehow, that desire only made it harder to move.
He curled deeper into the sheets.
“Let’s run away.”
The words came like mist, soft and slurred at the edges.
He couldn’t tell if they were memory or dream, hallucination or echo.
Run away…?
Antonio frowned faintly beneath the covers.
Why?
Did Lovino… not want to stay here anymore?
But the dream version of himself—the one in that otherworldly haze—had smiled. Had held Lovino’s hand and looked him straight in the eye.
And said “yes.”
His eyes snapped open.
He heard crying.
That sound—
He knew it.
That sobbing, thin and trembling, broken and wet.
Then, as if drawn into a half-lit memory, he saw him.
Lovino.
Straddling his waist, palms braced on either side of his chest, his face twisted in silent anguish as tears slipped down his cheeks and onto Antonio’s skin.
Right.
This had happened before, hadn’t it?
Vaguely, Antonio reached out—his arms moved without thinking—and pulled Lovino down. Held him tight. Pressed him against his chest, against the crook of his neck.
Tears gathered at his collarbone.
Lovino was crying, truly crying, as if he couldn’t stop.
“Don’t cry… come on, Lovi, cariño…”
Antonio ran a hand through his hair, breathing into the space behind his ear.
“Please don’t cry… it hurts. My heart hurts…”
“But I—I hurt you.”
The words caught him off guard.
Lovino said them with so much pain that Antonio blinked, dazed.
Hurt him? How could Lovino ever hurt him?
Antonio believed, with a deep certainty, that Lovino loved him.
Even if he’d never said it outright.
“Why would you say that…?” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of Lovino’s ear.
Lovino could feel the warmth of his breath—so human, so alive—spilling against his skin.
“I—I shouldn’t be like this,” Lovino muttered, biting his lip. “It’s your fault. You’re the one who found that damn cross. You’re the one who woke me up—!”
His voice cracked.
“If you hadn’t… if you hadn’t taken that necklace, I wouldn’t still be like this. I wouldn’t still exist like this. I wouldn’t be here—crying in your arms, haunting your bed, clinging to you like some pathetic ghost. You idiot—!”
“I know, I know—it’s my fault,” Antonio said quickly, breath hitching. “I’m sorry, Lovi. I’m sorry…”
He didn’t understand half of what Lovino was saying.
Or maybe—maybe he just didn’t want to.
But it didn’t matter.
Lovino said it was his fault. That was enough.
“It’s not okay!” Lovino shouted, voice ragged, fresh tears spilling down in furious waves. Antonio could feel the wet warmth soaking into his skin.
“If only—if only this were real. You and me. Living in this cursed age, like two stupid roommates, two living, breathing idiots just trying to figure life out—”
His voice broke into something quieter, almost a plea.
“No goddamn curses. No death. No distance. Just us.”
And then, it slipped out—
“Why… why is it only you who gets to be real?”
His voice trembled.
“Why are you the only one who got to become human again, while I… even after a hundred years, I’m still like this—”
Antonio cut him off.
“Don’t say it… Lovi…! Please—don’t say it.”
His breath trembled as it brushed past Lovino’s ear.
Antonio was afraid. Nervous. And Lovino noticed.
He almost laughed—
What did Antonio have to be afraid of?
Then again… maybe he really should be afraid.
After all, Lovino was this kind of thing now.
“…You bastardo.”
Lovino bit the words off, falling quiet again, replacing truth with profanity.
Why was Antonio so unwilling to face the fact that Lovino was dead?
Lovino didn’t know.
Maybe—maybe it was his fault.
Maybe it was always his fault.
He couldn’t cast spells or curses—not like the ghosts in folklore. But he’d done something far more insidious. He had warped Antonio’s mind. That part, at least, was real.
He didn’t know when it started—
Maybe it was the first night he’d cried while sitting on Antonio’s chest.
Antonio’s first reaction hadn’t been fear or horror. He’d just pulled him into his arms.
And somehow—because of that moment, or because of some buried echo of a memory from another life—Antonio had invented a story for them.
He had told himself they were roommates.
That Lovino was alive. That Lovino belonged there.
And from then on, he’d treated him like one. A living person. A friend. A flatmate. A boy who cooked and slept and breathed and sulked and swore.
Lovino had wanted to scream.
He’d wanted to rage at him, hit him, grab his shoulders and shout: Look at me. I’m dead. You idiot—I’m dead!
But…
Cooking for Antonio felt too good.
In their past life, they never got to do things like this. They never even held hands without looking over their shoulders. And now—
Now Lovino could lie on top of him, could sleep in his arms, could watch him eat lasagna and complain about classes like this was the only life they’d ever known.
Lovino pressed his lips together, fingers curling tight in the fabric of Antonio’s shirt.
His tears kept falling, slow and constant, slipping down Antonio’s collarbone and pooling in the hollow between them.
“I hate you,” he muttered.
Antonio exhaled beside him, barely a breath. “I know.”
“You don’t know anything,” Lovino snapped, suddenly bristling.
“I do,” Antonio insisted, tightening his hold. “I do, Lovi. I know everything.”
“…”
“What if I disappear?”
The question came after a long silence.
Antonio opened his mouth. Hesitated.
Then, finally, with a strange kind of certainty, he said, “You won’t.”
“How the hell would you know that, dumbass?”
Lovino shoved at him weakly, his voice cracking.
“I just know.”
And for once, Antonio didn’t sound like he was bluffing.
He pressed his forehead gently to Lovino’s, feeling the soft brush of his hair against his skin.
“Even if you did… I’d follow you.”
He said it like a promise.
“You absolute idiota!” Lovino sat up with a start, eyes wide. “You can’t say stuff like that!”
But when he looked into Antonio’s eyes—those warm, olive-green eyes—he realized he meant it.
He really, truly meant it.
“If you don’t want me to follow,” Antonio said quietly, “then don’t disappear.”
“I can’t control that!”
“I’d rather have you yelling at me every day for the rest of my life than lose you again.”
Lovino almost laughed.
Not because it was funny. But because it was absurd. Stupid. Ridiculous.
And because it hurt so much he didn’t know what else to do.
“Fine! Then I’ll yell at you every day! I’ll call you a dumbass, an idiota, a fucking bastardo, you hear me? Every single day—dumbass, dumbass, dumbass!”
They glared at each other.
Both stubborn.
Both furious.
But in the middle of that furious stare, Antonio’s expression began to crack.
A smile crept in.
“Ahh, Lovi…”
He laughed, the sound unsteady and breathless.
“To be called a dumbass by you—that makes me the happiest man alive.”
“You—! I—!”
Lovino gritted his teeth, shaking, unable to form a full sentence.
That was just like Antonio.
Even in their last life, Lovino had never met someone more impossible than this damn sunshine-for-brains bastard.
“You want me to yell at you, don’t you? That’s it, huh? You sick bastardo,” Lovino muttered, turning his face away.
“Yeah,” Antonio leaned in again, his forehead brushing against Lovino’s.
“Te amo. I want you to yell at me every single day.”
Lovino bit down on his lip, face burning, refusing to meet his eyes.
Te amo.
He used to say that all the time, back then.
Antonio had never been stingy with his love.
He gave it like sunlight—warm, abundant, constant.
Lovino was the opposite.
He rarely said it out loud.
He said hate far more often than love, whether he was alive or dead.
“Ti am—yeah, right!”
Lovino slammed his forehead into Antonio’s.
“Ow—Lovi!”
Antonio clutched his head, pretending to tear up, but the grin on his face betrayed him. He couldn’t hold back the laughter.
“There. Got the message now?” he said, still smiling.
Lovino knew what he meant.
He knew exactly what Antonio understood.
Of course Antonio must’ve wondered—why didn’t Lovi show up that night?
Lovino sometimes wondered, too—
Had Antonio hated him for it? Even just a little?
Had some small, bitter trace of resentment stayed in his heart?
But no.
Antonio had answered him with everything he’d done since.
With every word, every gesture, every quiet moment they shared.
He had never hated Lovino.
Not even for a second.
How could Antonio’s love run this deep?
Lovino didn’t know.
He only knew he was about to cry again.
___
Francis and Gilbert were both watching him with the kind of worried expressions one usually reserved for seeing a friend lose their grip on reality.
Antonio didn’t understand why they looked like that—or, no. That wasn’t true. He understood. He just didn’t think he’d been that obvious.
So he asked.
Right there. In front of Francis and Gilbert and their absurd little exorcist kits.
“Of course you’ve been that obvious, hermano!” Gilbert barked, brandishing a wooden crucifix like it was a weapon. “You talk to air every single day!”
“Oui, Toni,” Francis added with a sigh, shaking his head. “You pretend you’re on the phone, which—fine, clever—but you do it too often. And your screen? It’s your lockscreen. Not even a fake call screen. Just your wallpaper.”
“Ahaha…” Antonio laughed, rubbing the back of his head with a sheepish grin. “You two sure pay close attention to me. Honestly, I’m kind of flattered.”
“I’m kind of disgusted,” Gilbert muttered. “But Fran said it’s what friends do—”
“Shut up, Gil,” Francis kicked him lightly. “That’s not the point. The point is: how long have you been haunted, and why haven’t you done something about it?”
“Done something?” Antonio blinked, puzzled. “Why would I do anything about it? I’m not haunted—I just… have a boyfriend now. That’s all.”
Francis let out a groan in French, one hand absently swirling the holy water bottle in his grasp.
“Please don’t tell me we’re about to break up some beautiful supernatural romance.”
“There’s nothing beautiful about dating a ghost!” Gilbert snapped. “Come on, man, human-ghost relationships never work. Trust me. Just break up with Casper already and I’ll introduce you to my brother’s friend—Feliciano. Super cute. Still breathing.”
“Gilbert,” Antonio frowned. “Don’t talk like that. Lovi’s already upset. He heard you.”
He turned toward the empty air beside him.
“Don’t be mad, Lovi… Gil’s just joking, okay? Even if he did introduce someone, I wouldn’t go. You know that, right? I only want you…”
The way he rushed to explain, brows furrowed and eyes soft with worry—it almost made Francis believe there was someone standing there. Pouting. Arms crossed. Jealous.
“Okay…” Francis said slowly, glancing toward Gilbert, who looked like he’d just seen a ghost—or rather, was watching his friend flirt with one. “This might be less of an exorcism situation and more of a… psychiatric one.”
Gilbert swallowed. “This is so cursed. He’s literally flirting with air.”
“I told you your friends would try to break us up!” Lovino huffed, flailing his translucent arms in frustration. “And you still thought it was a good idea to introduce me to them!”
“I’m sorry, Lovi…” Antonio looked genuinely devastated. “They’re just not used to it yet, that’s all. I’ll explain everything again, and maybe—”
“That’s not the issue, dumbass!” Lovino snapped. “You explain it one more time and they’ll drag you off to a psych ward! Or find some priest to banish me! What if they succeed? What if I disappear?!”
“They won’t,” Antonio said quickly, stepping forward and reaching out. His fingers wrapped gently around Lovino’s hand. “I won’t let you leave me.”
“Idiota…” Lovino mumbled, his face turning faintly pink.
Francis felt a chill crawl across his skin. Watching Antonio—eyes wide, voice tender, hand curled lovingly around nothing—made him feel like he needed to leave. Immediately.
He turned to Gilbert.
“Gil. You know, everyone has their own definition of happiness. And the best thing a friend can do… is not interfere with that.”
Gilbert blinked at him, confused. “Why are you suddenly being philosophical—?”
He stopped.
Then understood.
“Oh, for—fine. Let’s go. I’m not third-wheeling a séance.”
He raised his hand in a lazy wave.
“Later, Toni. Enjoy your ghost boyfriend or whatever.”
Francis and Gilbert left side by side, not looking back.
And behind them, Antonio remained—smiling gently, sunlight falling across his chest, the silver cross at his neck glinting faintly in the light, still caught in conversation with the empty space at his side.
So, so happy.