Work Text:
A final gust of smoke rises into the evening air before the hunched-over man drops the rest of his cigarette into a deserted, nearly empty bottle of beer. It hisses as it hits the liquid. Chatter in Italian and English sounds out from all directions as locals and tourists alike hustle near the bar on what must be their fifth smoke break of the night.
His gaze rests on the ground, eyes heavy and limbs tired. He wants nothing more than to go home right about now. His bed is calling.
In the corner of his eye, he catches a foot impatiently tapping on the cobblestone pavement. He looks up.
Truth is, he didn't come here of his free will. He was pretty much dragged here. After weeks of trying to ignore those insistent pleas, Lovino finally gave in. He's strong, but not that strong – especially when it comes to his little brother. And he wasn't going to let him go alone.
"You done? I wanna go back inside," whines Feliciano, his hips doing small, restless movements in time with the muffled tones that seep out through the entrance door of the bar. He has too much energy. Then again, that's to be expected of a nineteen-year-old. And Lovino is not that much older himself, though he feels that way at times.
"Yes, yes." He gets up from the shabby chair and braces himself for the incoming volume that would inevitably blast out his eardrums. Feliciano scurries through the door and Lovino follows suit.
Thankfully, the DJ seems to have switched it up from that blaring bass-boosted reggaeton to languid and easy-on-the-ears bachata tunes. However, instead of an uncomfortable volume, Lovino is immediately hit with a wave of humid heat when they pass through the curtain. Ugh, just imagining all that vaporized sweat in the air has his toes curl in disgust.
Under Feliciano's lead, they push their way through the crowd and somehow find a spot that is more or less spacious to dance in. That is, Feli will be the one dancing as he promptly snatches himself a tall and handsome blond guy – just his type – to jive with. Lovino uses the opportunity to remove himself from the scene and leans against a nearby column. He'll keep his eyes on them from here. In case there's any funny business, he'll be able to step right back in.
He crosses his arms and rocks his foot to the güira-accented sound of bongos and guitars. His gaze lingers on his brother for a while before drifting off to scan the room. Foreign faces blink in and out of sight as reds and blues light up the otherwise dark dance floor.
His eyes land on a group of three men – two of whom are at an utter loss at how to dance to this kind of music. They linger there awkwardly, stomping their feet on the floor like they're toddlers taking their first-ever steps. A helpless lot, for lack of a better word.
The third man, however, doesn't seem to have a hard time at all. On the contrary – he moves his hips smoothly to the rhythm, arms loosely in front of his torso as he seems to be actively giving a lesson to his two friends, who don't seem to catch on no matter how hard he tries. The brunet drops his head in defeat and proceeds to dance with himself. Lovino almost spits a chuckle at the comical sight.
And as fate wills it, that stranger's eyes land right on Lovino's just as he is about to turn them away. The Italian startles. He averts his gaze – better late than never.
A few minutes pass of Lovino avoiding to look in that man's direction and trying his hardest to disregard the fact he felt a tingle in his chest when their eyes met. He scrunches his nose. God, he can feel that bastard boring holes into him, staring like that. Way to be nonchalant.
Hopefully, he doesn't approach. Please, don't approach.
Except fate never listens when you ask it to.
To Lovino's dismay, a palm appears in Lovino's lowered line of sight. He bites his tongue and glances up.
"Wanna dance?" the man asks, emerald eyes flashing the very same way as his toothy grin as he gazes at him with interest. His hand is stretched out in an invitation to dance. Lovino's discomfort is probably written all over his face, but it doesn't seem to suffice in shooing him away. Lovino should decline. He would.
But something – maybe it's those bright green eyes or the mussed, dark hair or those freckles he catches a glimpse of only ever in the strobe lights – something is telling him to go for it. Would arguably be better than sulking by a wall for two more hours, that's for certain.
Lovino lowers his hand into the other's, who seems so very delighted at the fact Lovino gracefully accepted his request. Any other guy, and he would've turned him down – he swears! – he just felt bad at the thought of leaving this particular one rejected.
"Sure."
The stranger beams at him, his gentle smile morphing into a cocky grin as he takes Lovino's other hand and sways left, then right with steady steps. Lovino follows. He's familiar with the basic steps of bachata from the many times Feliciano had asked him to practice with him.
Fortunately, the man is keeping a good amount of personal space so far. The thing about bachata is that, when done properly, it's an incredibly intimate dance with far more physical contact than Lovino can admit to be comfortable with. Even less so when it comes to a man he met not even two minutes ago.
Lovino's eyes have the misfortune of landing on the two men he can tell are going to be a nuisance tonight. Their faces are contorted into cheeky smirks, whispering something to one another as they point towards their friend in a manner that can only be described as utterly mocking. So irritating. He flings the cretins a side eye and that seems to successfully throw them off for now.
"What's your name?" the brunet inquires, gaze lingering loosely on Lovino's all the while.
"Lovino."
"Lovino," the man repeats, "it has a nice ring to it. Suits you." Lovino has to hold back a chuckle. So he's a flirt, too. Figures.
"I'm Antonio. Nice to meet you."
Antonio. He's not from around here, is he? He approached him in English, so Lovino highly doubts it. Probably just another tourist.
While they're dancing, he gives the brunet a swift once-over. A tan tint paints his sun-kissed skin and his scent carries a faint fragrance of perfume. He's marginally taller than Lovino himself. In terms of clothing, he's wearing a lazy button-up promiscuously exposing the uppermost region of his chest – completely disregarding its purpose that is implied by its very name – as well as a pair of baggy pants that utterly fail to make his ass look any less plump. Lovino stops himself in his thoughts. Where are his eyes going, anyway?
...
Dígame usted, si ha hecho algo travieso alguna vez ♫
Una aventura es más divertida si huele a peligro ♫
...
From one moment to the next, Lovino is swung around only to land perfectly in Antonio's arms. A gasp escapes his reticent lips. He's dumbfounded, haphazardly trying but totally messing up his following steps. Antonio only gives him a smirk. As much as he hates to admit it, that smirk will probably have engraved itself into the back of Lovino's mind by the end of tonight.
The man's palms nestle around Lovino's waist, and for a fleeting moment, Lovino debates whether to push him away or let him do his thing. He seems to be debating for far too long for Antonio leans in and whispers a gentle "Relax. Just feel the music and let me lead."
Lovino wishes he hadn't felt the warmth rising to his cheeks upon hearing his voice this close to his ear. It must be the heat in the room. There's definitely no other, far more apparent reason.
What he cannot deny, however, is that Antonio knows exactly what he's doing. He carries himself with such ease, like the very music they're hearing has taken control of his entire being – confident, but never boastful about it. And when the sound shifts from bachata to salsa, he has no problem at all adapting to the new rhythm. Lovino almost gets the feeling he's challenging him – and he's the last person to acknowledge a loss without a fight.
So his hand settles on Antonio's shoulder as they sway languidly left and right, back and forth, never so much as missing a beat with how in sync they are. For a moment, Lovino's eyes flee from that all-too-charming face before him as they search for his brother – finding the ginger returning a surprised yet encouraging glance, still half-hanging onto that blond man. Oh, God. He will definitely be asking questions later, and Lovino is less than looking forward to it.
Before long, the heat gets to him. And while he'd rather die than lose his pride and let this stranger take triumph on their unspoken bet, he also figures it would be the wise choice not to risk fainting in the middle of a crowded dance floor, if possible.
"Fuck, I need a break."
"Yeah, let's get out of here. It's hot."
A surprising reaction – Lovino was surely expecting this Antonio character to taunt his inability to keep up or grab him harder and press him to keep dancing, or otherwise equally idiotic scenarios he made up entirely in his head. Granted, it's his own fault for assuming. Feliciano keeps telling him not to judge people so harshly from one mere glance, but he can't help it. Listening to his intuition has usually proven quite effective in keeping him out of the trouble his sour personality would inevitably attract, and he'd argue that is far better than being by his lonesome altogether. It does get boring at times, though.
Antonio leads the way through the horde, stretching out a hand behind himself in what the Italian believes to be an offer for Lovino to take. Lovino doesn't – maybe it's his pride talking, but he's not about to act all touchy-feely and hold this guy's sweaty hand for no real reason.
They emerge and quickly find an empty table. Lovino plops down on the sofa that stands against the wall and fans his face.
"Want me to get you water?"
A thoughtful man, huh? A truly seldom sight.
Come to think of it, Lovino does feel abysmally thirsty.
"Yeah, why not."
He just hopes Antonio is not the type to use one act of kindness to guilt-trip Lovino into thinking he owes him something, all for a three-euro bottle of water. At least he doesn't seem like he would – but with men, you can never know for sure.
Antonio nods and pushes through to the nearby bar before returning with a plastic bottle in his hand. He smiles as he presents it to Lovino, and the latter simply chooses to ignore the way his heart staggers when their fingers brush each other as he reaches to grab it. Neither does he pay any mind to the relief he felt when he saw the familiar stranger's features pop out from the crowd a moment ago. Or the way he's still regretting not having held his hand for that brief moment.
Antonio settles beside him and glances to the dance floor – Lovino follows his gaze. He comes to regret it, however. It's those two creatures from before that he had almost forgotten about, waving at Antonio, whistling and mouthing something that Lovino would rather not find out the meaning of. How old are they – twelve? Antonio promptly gestures them away with a wave of his hand before sending a middle finger their way just to top it off. Lovino snorts.
"They're such bastards," Antonio grumbles under his breath, seemingly ashamed at their less than mature demeanour, if not evident enough from the dark red in his face. "They can't read the room for shit."
"Are they your friends?"
"Yeah, but I sometimes wish they weren't."
Lovino takes a long, filling sip of the cooled water before hissing a relieved sigh. He offers it to Antonio who gladly does the same.
"So," he starts, and something tells Lovino they're going to be sitting here talking for a long time, "You come here often?"
Lovino knows it's just a lazy figure of speech to help ease into conversation, but he goes out of his way to answer it as literally as possible anyway.
"No, I don't, actually. My brother dragged me with him. Never been before."
"Ah," nods the man, "but you do live around here, right? You seem like a local."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Lovino is amused at the statement, but acts offended. He's even more amused to see Antonio try and scramble for a response to save himself.
"I mean that in a good way! Like, Italians have such a flair about them. I don't know how to describe it. It's the way you walk and talk that is so different from everyone else."
"Uh-huh."
"Oh, you know what I mean…" Antonio averts his gaze and scratches his head. Lovino had imagined him to be a tad more skilled at this thing called small talk, but funnily enough, he seems to be stumbling over his words more than intended. He'd laugh, if it weren't for the fact he feels slightly bad.
At least he recovers swiftly. One clearing of his throat later, he's asking the next question.
"Where do you think I'm from?"
"Not from here."
"Well, obviously. Just guess! It's easy."
Lovino sighs. He fixes him with puckered brows, genuinely deliberating on the question. It's hard to find an answer when he can barely take a proper look at him as there's constant flashing lights and they have to practically yell to understand each other properly.
"You know your bachata. Are you Latino?" It's not a crazy guess – the majority of people at this event seem to have roots from somewhere in Latin America – whether raised in Rome, immigrated here or staying for a trip. The Latino scene is more present in Rome than Lovino had thought.
Antonio sucks in a breath. "I fear if you called me a Latino, you'd offend all of Latin America in one breath."
Well, that narrows it down immensely.
"Spain, then."
"Correct!" grins Antonio, and Lovino comes to realize he could've known that from the very first time he opened his mouth. It explains that faint, but nonetheless distinct Castilian accent of his.
"I'm travelling with those two," he continues, and now that Lovino took notice of it, he can't help but find the way he rolls his R's or tempers his T's quite charming. "Gilbert and Francis. We came together from all over Europe. We've been wanting to go to Rome for ages. And we finally had the budget for it."
Vacation, huh. Why does Lovino find himself strangely disappointed at the fact?
He leans against the backrest and fans himself in the face as he listens to Antonio's self-entertaining rambles. God, it's hot in here. These places should really start investing in some proper air conditioning. It would benefit everyone involved.
"You hot? Wanna got outside for a smoke?"
Lovino sure as hell won't be told twice. He rises from his seat like a corpse that just ascended from its grave and heads straight to the exit. Just in time with the music shifting back to the hard-core reggaeton Lovino can't seem to ever warm up to.
He looks around and finds all seats are taken – looks like he'll have to stand. He fishes out his smokes and clicks his lighter a couple of times until the flame sparks and sizzles down the tip of his cigarette.
"May I ask how old you are?" Antonio says as he grabs his tobacco to roll himself one.
"You may," Lovino taps the ashes off, "twenty-four."
"I'm twenty-six. I was sure you were older than me."
The Italian raises his eyebrow. "That is not a compliment, just so you're aware."
If there's one thing Lovino learned in the past half-hour, it's that he enjoys seeing Antonio panic just a little.
"Ah, my bad. You look more mature, I meant. Fuck, I'm drunk already," Antonio releases a pained laugh. "I swear I'm usually better at this."
"I'll believe it when I see it."
Lovino is well aware the Spaniard is trying to flirt with him, but as with many men, Lovino is not interested. Not in his freckles, nor in his smile, and neither in the way his messy hair falls playfully over his eyes. He's entertained, but nothing more. Antonio is nothing special. After tonight, they will most likely never see each other again, and that would be for the better.
Right?
"Got a light for me?" Lovino holds the flame to Antonio's cig. The man takes a drag and leans against the brick wall of the building. In summer, even the nights in Rome are torrid, but the breeze whistling through the street makes it at least a tad more bearable than inside.
They stay in silence for a while, Lovino listening to the background noise of drunk conversations from nearby.
"What do you do in Spain, then?" Lovino soon inquires, catching himself off guard by the sincerity in his curiosity. He brushes it off as a mere act of courtesy.
"I work as a mechanic at a car factory. You?"
"I'm studying. Culinary arts. I'm in my last year."
"Interesting. So you're a star chef, then." He chuckles as he breathes out the smoke. "I attended uni for a while too, but gave up pretty soon. I can't deal with sitting there studying all day. I needed to do something with my hands. And I don't regret it – I love my job."
"Uh-huh," Lovino absently remarks, uncharacteristically soothed by the way Antonio tends to trail off at times. His cheerful voice is not a pain to listen to, unlike most people's, Lovino thinks. "Where in Spain are you from?"
"De la mejor ciudad del país. Valencia."
"Is that so," Lovino chuckles, "I was under the impression Barcelona was more popular."
"Absolutely not. That place is overrated. You should come over someday. I'll show you around and you'll know better."
"Mm. I'm not sure if you'd want that."
"Why not?" Antonio looks at him like he just said the most out-of-pocket thing in the world.
"Most people who get to know me come to regret it after a while."
"Well, most people are not me. I'd love to get to know you."
It's been a damn long time since Lovino last felt that fuzzy warmth that is only ever referenced in romantic novels blossoming in his chest. Antonio keeps it simple, but his words still have their effect, it seems.
Lovino looks him up and down judgmentally, as though verifying his intentions. Maybe he's not half bad, after all. Besides, Lovino is not the type to get attached. What difference could a few nights of fun possibly make?
"How long are you staying?"
"Uh, we're flying back in two days."
That's sooner than expected. Lovino bites his tongue. He watches Antonio take out his phone and tap its side nervously with his fingers.
"I wanted to ask for your number," he mumbles like a dejected puppy – a total contrast to how confident he was acting when they first laid eyes on each other – and Lovino can't help but find it adorable.
He throws the cigarette to the ground and stomps it out. "You're moving fast." He holds out his hand and beckons for him to give him the phone. Antonio doesn't hesitate.
Lovino types in his number and saves the new contact before returning the device. Antonio's expression shifts into a grin as he slips the phone back in his pocket. Seems like he's back to normal.
"Grazie mille."
Lovino rolls his eyes. "Don't forget to text me."
"I won't."
Antonio straightens up and rubs his hands together. "Let's go back inside.
Bailamos bachata."