tran•scend•ence

— n. Existence or experience beyond the normal or physical level.

Chapter I:

Bleary hazel eyes, hands numb and mind unthinking.

Languid, clumsy footsteps upon the fresh, white snow of a new day.

Bianco. White.

So pure.

So… innocent.

One thing Lovino Vargas knew he would never be.

He laid an unusually pale hand upon the cool bark of a petrified tree, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

Where am I?

He glanced up and observed his surroundings. How the hell did I even get here?

Tall trees of aging pine surrounded him, towering over him; there were trees everywhere he turned. And when he'd glanced up at the sky, it was the type dreary grey he hated oh-so much.

There was an unsettling and ominous calm about the forest that surrounded him. He had no recollection of how he ended up in a fucking forest of all places, but he suspected it had something to do with a very uncontrollably wild night.

…Even then, he couldn't even recall being at some dumb party, let alone the last memory he had since he passed out. All he knows is that he just woke up in the middle of the woods, got up, and started walking as if his life depended on it.

Which it probably did.

It'd really suck ass if he were stranded in the woods for the rest of his life.

Lovino patted down his pockets, alarmed to find that his phone was nowhere in his possession. Instead, he found a squished pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a Bic lighter in his back pocket. He huffed at the loss of his phone and fished the box and lighter out of his pocket.

No matter. He'd find his way out himself.

The brunette shrugged a cancer stick out of the box, holding it to his lips and lighting it. Only fools smoke cigarettes! His grandfather would repetitiously scold, slamming the empty packs of smokes onto the Vargas family home's mahogany coffee table before his eldest grandson, chocolate brown eyes glaring daggers at him with fervent disapproval and disappointment.

Lovino chuckled bitterly at the memory, pulling the cigarette away from his lips so he could exhale the smoke into the biting morning air that nipped at his bare fingertips that soon dissipated into nothingness. Where are gloves when you need them, right? He couldn't feel a fucking thing anymore. Dammit.

He took another glance down at the Marlboro box and lighter in his other hand and felt a slight twinge of guilt. Antonio wouldn't like this, he thought to himself, imagining the normally happy-go-lucky Spaniard tackling him to the ground and personally wrenching the smokes out of his possession before throwing them away. As far as possible.

And burning it into ashes.

"Don't you know that smoking kills?" He would scold him for the nth time, emerald green eyes suddenly stern and serious. "I care about you too much to let you do this to yourself, Lovi." Then his eyes would soften, taking his sunkissed hands into his own tan, calloused ones. "You should stop smoking now, okay?"

But Lovino never stopped, anyway. Sure, he didn't smoke as much. But the moment he got the chance, he'd excuse himself out of whatever situation he was in and sneak a cigarette. Plus, what Antonio doesn't know won't hurt him, right?

Lovino closed his eyes and brought it to his lips again, inhaling the smoke until it'd filled his lungs to the brim, until it felt like they were on fire, and letting it go with a shaky breath.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He discarded the spent cigarette butt by dropping it at his feet and stomping on it with his black Converse sneakers, the heel of his shoe crunching against the crisp, pristine snow.

What Antonio doesn't know won't hurt him.

He drew his foot back and unclenched the fist he hadn't realized he'd tightened up into a ball, knuckles white.

Antonio was always too nice for his own good. Too nice.

The corner of Lovino's lips curled down into the standard scowl he perpetually wore on his face, brows knitting at the thought of the Spaniard. He had mixed feelings regarding Antonio. Confusing ones that often made his knees weak and his heart and stomach all fucking fluttery and shit, Dio, those were the worst. And if there was one thing he absolutely hated, it was uncertainty.

…W-Well, there were several things he was fairly certain about, though.

One: that his younger fratello, Feliciano, was an idiot and had an unhealthy obsession with 've~ pasta!'.

Lovino decided that he would Google mental institutions for pastaholics later when he got home. B-Better stop the addiction before it's too late, right? Even though Italian food was fucking amazing and orgasmic, it was one thing to love pasta and another to devote all of your time and dedication to cultivating the pasta-making arts.

Then again, Lovino was no better; he shared that same unhealthy obsession, only with tomatoes. Y-You go, Feliciano, you pasta-breathing dork.

Two: that potatoes fucking suck.

He hated potatoes. Oh, yes. With a huge, fiery passion. It reminded him of Feliciano's wurst-humping, German bastard of a friend (fiend), L-Ludwig.

The Italian inwardly shuddered, snapping a small branch as his feet led him through the forest.

Those shifty little brown pieces of shit didn't even taste good, dammit! If they were good for anything, they were good projectiles for throwing at a certain fucking macho potato's head, point-fucking-blank.

Three: that Antonio was an idiot. True story. Lovino wasn't sure what made the Spaniard so oblivious to everything around him, or if it was just that the tomato bastard was fucking hurled at the wall as a baby. The bastardo couldn't read atmospheres for shit.

A-And four: t-that he harbored f-feelings for a-a certain… a certain Spa— I'm not telling you shit, dammit!

The Italian was lost in his thoughts, pausing momentarily when he came to a lake. Most of it was frozen, save for a part of it where the ice had cracked and gave through. Seeing the icy water and thinking of the prospect of the poor, unfortunate fuck that had probably fallen into it made him grimace. He shuffled up to the edge of the lake, the cold wintry air whipping his brown locks in all directions.

Lovino brought a hand up to run it through his hair, taking in the serene view before him. Like hell if he knew how he could stomach spending a night sleeping in the woods in weather as freezing as this, but it didn't faze him as much as it was supposed to.

I-In fact… it gave him a certain feeling of calm. Which was rare for him, admittedly.

Feeling calm, that is…

He closed his eyes and took in the fresh air...

...until a sudden pang of panic hit his gut.

Something's off.

He pressed his lips together in a grim line, forcing himself to open his eyes.

He didn't even know why he was feeling this way. He knew he should be more concerned with his predicament, but he just— he just wasn't.

And before he could even register it, his feet spun around and began to walk along the edge of the lake until he'd reached the other side. Then, he started to pace through the woods, as if his feet were moving on its own accord.

His mind was hazy. He couldn't really gather or process his thoughts, but he knew that this had importance to him.

He needed to be somewhere, and as if out of muscle memory, his feet was now leading him to that somewhere.

Maybe he would find a payphone or something, or a house. Cabin. Camp site.

Something.

Something to give him answers or clues regarding his whereabouts.

As he began to walk on, he could feel his footsteps growing faster and faster; lighter and lighter— as if he were walking on air itself.

He was going on a straight path, he soon realized, as if the trees were partitioning for him and only him.

Running.

He was running now.

He was running so, so very quickly.

His lungs ached for oxygen, but his feet wouldn't stop until he saw the edge of the forest soon approaching.

Seeing the end of the woods replenished his strength, a new determination to get back into civilization's graces once and for all fueling him.

Just as he whizzed past the last leafless tree, he suddenly came to an abrupt halt.

His heart skipped a beat as heat began to spread out the back of his neck and his flushed cheeks.

Why?

Because just a few meters away from him, there he saw him.

Antonio.

A/N: Bianco - white

Fratello - brother

Bastardo - bastard