Quiet Nights

It's on quiet nights like these that Lovino strums the guitar that Antonio has in his study. It's really Lovino's guitar, but no one seems to believe that. They assume it's Antonio's because it's a Spanish guitar (stereotypical, but understandable). Yet, it's Antonio who has not a melodic fibre in his being. Yes, he likes music, but he cannot create it. Not like Lovino can.

He strums no particular tune, just picks at the strings in a pleasant melody that comes to him as he plays. His eyes are lost in thought, staring into the flames dancing in the hearth. He prefers to sit on the soft rug in front of the couch when he plays, table shoved to the side, guitar in his lap.

Antonio likes to watch Lovino on such nights, more so than he already likes to do. There is a quiet beauty to him when he plays guitar, a peace that can only be obtained via the soft sounds he produces.

Lovino pauses, blinking as if breaking from a trance, and turns to look up at Antonio. His gaze holds nothing of its usual acidity, just this earnest glint that is meant for Antonio and Antonio alone.

Antonio reaches for the wine bottle, smiling. After pouring two glasses, he lowers one toward Lovino and waggles his eyebrows.

"Imported from Italy," he says.

Lovino scoffs, taking the glass from his fingers deftly. "Naturally."

"Though, Spanish wine is perfectly fine as well," Antonio continues, sipping his glass insipidly.

Lovino sighs, rolling his eyes. He turns back to the hearth and mutters, "But Italian is better."

Antonio laughs, leaning back against the couch. He reaches forward to run a hand through Lovino's soft hair, relishing the rare lack of hair products.

Lovino simply sips his wine until the glass is empty, reaching toward the table to set it away. He moves his fingers across the strings, resting on particular notes, but never actually playing them. Not until he finds the right ones.

Antonio waits patiently, retracting his hand from Lovino's hair in favour of supporting his head as he leans forward. This way he can catch the side of Lovino's face, the way emotion dances in the flicker of the fire.

"You're beautiful, Lovi," Antonio says, because on rare nights like these he can. Without sputter, without bitterness, without a cruel rebuttal from Lovino.

A smile, small and sweet, and the first notes of a carefully planned melody is what he gains in return. It's Lovino's way of speaking when the words are hard to find. It makes Antonio's heart swell and his head float.

He sighs and leans back, sipping his wine. His hand finds its way back to Lovino's hair as the music swirls around the room, enveloping them into another world.

Quiet nights are never really quiet for them, but it's nights like these that Antonio loves the most.

I should've been studying but guess what