We've just been introduced,
I do not know you well,
But when the music started
Something drew me to your side. So many men and girls,
Are in each others arms.
It made me think we might be
Similarly occupied.

Two suitcases. Not for the first time did it occur to Antonio, that his whole life amounted to two suitcases. Both of them were scruffy and worn, covered in travel stickers, scratches and tears. They didn't even belong to him; Vash had given them to Antonio, out of generosity (pity). The suitcases contained nothing special. Five sets of clothes and underwear. A toothbrush and razor. Some socks, an extra pair of shoes. His official documents. The last of his money.

Antonio didn't dare take a taxi, he needed all the cash he had. Instead, he hauled his two suitcases—only one of them had wheels—and walked from the train station to the apartment. By now, he'd read the address so many times he had it off by-heart. The pavements were glistening with residual rain, the sky was overcast. There weren't too many people about, and the few who were, had grey faces and solemn expressions, all hidden underneath identical black umbrellas.

They mirrored his mood.

This city was as dreary as they came. But it was a cheap place to stay, and that was what mattered. He sighed, wincing as the suitcase he was wheeling twisted sideways and almost slipped out of his grasp. His arm—tanned, muscled, scattered with burn scars—managed to straighten it in time. Once or twice, the twenty-eight-year-old stopped a passer-by to ask them for directions. They responded in cold, distant tones.

Antonio got lost a couple of times, but found the apartment building in the end. His arms hurt from lugging the suitcases, and his feet were starting to ache, but he ignored them for the quiet thudding of his heartbeat. The building itself was white, with symmetrical windows and charming little balconies decorated with flower pots. But Antonio was more preoccupied with the fact that this was it. This was his new beginning, and he would not—could not—screw it up. If he didn't survive here, he had nowhere else to go. He had no family to help him, and no friends who would bother sticking around. And he couldn't keep freeloading off Vash…Vash had his own problems to deal with.

He walked up to the building's front door, and his finger hovered over the buzzer. He debated; would they be home? Of course they would, they knew he was coming. They'd even promised to have a specially laid out meal for him, which was awfully nice, considering he was technically a total stranger. Antonio bit back a frown and took out his mobile phone. The iPhone was on the verge of complete breakdown, but he couldn't afford a new one. Indeed, this was the only thing that had really survived the fire. The only relic of his old, happy life.

The phone took five whole minutes to start, and was still rather slow and iffy when Antonio opened his contact list. He had over two-hundred numbers saved here. Only Vash had finally come to help. The Spaniard shook his head. This was his second chance. He wasn't going to waste his time mulling about the past.

Instead, he found Francis Bonnefoy's number, and dialled. The Frenchman answered at the first ring. "H-Hola, Senor Bonnefoy. I think I'm outside your building. Do you mind buzzing me in?"

At the other end, he heard a laugh. "How many times have I told you? Call me Francis! We're going to be flatmates now, oui? And of course, I'll come downstairs."

"There's really no need—" but the Frenchman had cut the call. Antonio swallowed, nervous. He'd heard about Francis Bonnefoy through an advertisement Vash found in the newspaper. Apparently, he was a chef at a fancy restaurant in this city, but was in need of a flatmate, since the last one had left unexpectedly. Francis lived with another man, Gilbert something, and expected the rent to be divided three ways. Several emails had been sent back and forth between the trio, and now, Antonio was finally moving in.

The door opened, and an extremely good-looking blonde man with pale blue eyes appeared before him. He was well-dressed…almost excessively well-dressed…but had an inviting smile on his face. "Ah, you must be Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, oui? Pleasure to meet you. I'm Francis. Comment ça va?" he reached out to shake Antonio's hand.

The Spaniard lowered the suitcase he was carrying and took Francis's palm. "Hola! Si, I'm Antonio. Thank you so much for having me, you have no idea how much it means."

"It's not a problem," Francis smiled, "I'm sure we're going to be good friends." Turning over his shoulder, he hollered, "Gilbert! Come help him with his suitcases!"

From behind Francis came the face of a grinning albino. He had a very playful glint in his red eyes, but seemed mostly non-threatening as he brushed past the Frenchman and walked up to Antonio. "Sup, Toni!" he greeted, before taking Antonio's luggage from him.

"Let me help—"

"Nope, don't need it. You don't have much stuff, do you?" Gilbert gave Antonio a sideways glance, and the Spaniard blushed, embarrassed.

"Well, um…most of it got destroyed in the fire, haha."

If he'd expected pitying glances—he'd received a lot of sympathy lately—Antonio was sorely disappointed (and yet, pleasantly surprised). "That's fine," Francis said, "We have everything you could possibly need, anyway." He waved his hand dismissively, and stepped aside for Gilbert (and the suitcases) to pass.

Gilbert laughed as he carried the suitcases. "Yeah, we're all good, here. Just make sure you don't use Francis's hairbrush, and you'll be fine. Mein Gott, he behaves like a teenage girl when you touch his hairbrush."

"It's simply not hygienic to share hairbrushes," Francis stated, in a way that made Antonio think that this was a fairly regular argument between the two. Turning to Antonio, he added, "Ignore him, he's just a child, really. Are you going to come inside, or what? You'll freeze to death. It looks like it might rain again."

"Oh," Antonio exclaimed, realising that, yes, he was still standing outside the building and it had started to drizzle. "Haha, lo siento, I guess I was just a little…" but then his voice trailed away, and he quickly followed Gilbert in. Francis shut the door behind them, and led him up a flight of stairs.

The apartment was larger than he'd imagined it. Francis had sent him pictures over email, of course, but now that he was seeing it in person, Antonio was thoroughly impressed. The door opened up to a spacious living room with what looked like a real leather couch, a kitchenette and a dining area, a plasma TV and a bathroom. There were three bedrooms—Antonio's was the furthest from the toilet—and the white walls were dotted with large windows. The place looked chic and modern. While Antonio preferred the rustic, antique style personally, this seemed like a nice enough place to stay.

On the dining table was a full meal. Antonio recognised roast chicken, boiled eggs, some sort of gravy and bread, mashed potatoes, and what looked like a bowl of paella. Well, wasn't that nice of them?! Gilbert deposited the suitcases on the floor of Antonio's new room before saying, "Franny was starting to get worried that you were lost."

"Understandably so," Francis argued, "He's new here, and he was taking so long! Didn't the taxi driver recognise our address?"

"I walked, actually," Antonio admitted, scratching the back of his head with a nervous laugh. The other two men looked at him, and then at each other.

Gilbert said, "No fucking wonder. It's a pretty long walk. You must be ravenous. I know I am."

The food was spectacular. Francis took all credit for it, and there was no doubt in Antonio's mind about the Frenchman's cooking abilities. This fellow was definitely a professional chef. The paella tasted a little odd, but Francis argued that Spanish cuisine was not his forte, and Antonio pacified him with a smile and a cheerful, "It's amazing, Senor Bonnefoy."

Gilbert snorted. "Senor? Wow, Francis, he's probably the only one to call you that. Ever." Smirking at Antonio, he said, "Can I be Senor Beilschmidt?"

"I thought you were," Antonio blinked. When Gilbert snickered, the Spaniard said, "Oh. Ohh, I think I get the joke, haha!" He really didn't feel like laughing. And the joke wasn't even that funny, anyway.

As the meal progressed, conversation went to more general topics.

"I'm not exactly clear on what you do, Gilbert," Antonio began, rolling the Rs on his tongue.

"Basically," the German replied, "I'm a historian. I'm doing my PhD on the Kingdom of Prussia. That was an old German state. The Allies dissolved it after World War Two. I'll actually be moving to Germany by the end of the year, to complete my thesis, you know?" Gilbert outstretched his arm and motioned towards Francis to pass the mashed potatoes, and that was when Antonio noticed the ring.

"Oh, are you married?"

"Engaged," Gilbert corrected, grinning a little. "Matthew, my fiancé, he's Canadian. And a novelist for children. Have you heard of the book Kumajirou and the Forest? All the kids love it. We're getting married in eight months, can you believe it? And then, we fly to Germany! We've pooled all our assets and everything, and we've bought this cute little apartment in Berlin. We're leaving right after the wedding."

"That's amazing," Antonio said with a grin. "Congratulations!"

"Oui," Francis muttered, but he sniffed in apparent disapproval. Gilbert rolled his eyes, but the blonde just said, "It'll be the end of an era. Gilbert and I have been living together since college!"

"Oh mein Gott," Gilbert muttered, taking a generous helping of mashed potatoes on his plate, "Don't be so dramatic. It's not like I'm dying. There's always Facebook and Skype. And anyway, we're only a train ride away."

"Whatever," Francis muttered, but then his face melted into a warm smile. "But isn't l'amour the best? One day, I hope to find someone as perfect for me as Mathieu is for Gilbert."

"You can start by not sleeping with everything that moves," Gilbert offered. Sure, the tone was helpful, but there was a smirk in his red eyes. Francis slapped his arm. Antonio laughed. So did Gilbert. The German then turned to Antonio and said, "So, Francis is a chef, I'm a historian. But what do you do? You were pretty vague about it over email."

Antonio felt himself blush. "Um…well…I actually used to teach Spanish at a high school. But I couldn't find the same kind of job here. I start work at a café tomorrow. You must have heard of it…it's called The Hungarian Café?"

"Oh, yeah," Gilbert suddenly said. "My ex-girlfriend runs that place!"

"Oh," Antonio whispered.

"Nah, it's cool," the albino grinned. "We're actually pretty good friends."

Antonio relaxed. "That's great. I don't want to cause any conflict of interest…"

"Lighten up, mon ami," Francis smiled. "Don't worry so much. If it's any consolation, I've met Elizabeta, and she is a really lovely girl. In fact, if she knows you're staying with us, she actually might be even nicer to you."

Conversation flowed some more, but then came and rested on the one thing Antonio did not want to talk about.

"So, um, Toni," Gilbert began, "What exactly happened, man? This fire…?"

"Gilbert," Francis snapped.

"No, no, it's fine," Antonio lied, offering them one of his trademark grins. "The building I was staying in…well, how do I explain it? The lady living underneath my apartment…I'm not sure what happened, but there was a gas explosion. And the whole building caught fire. And the banks sort of…stole…our insurance money. I mean, I'm one of the lucky ones, really. I got most of what was owed to me. It's been months now, and the police have managed to return our money to us. But…" but things are not the same anymore. Nothing is the same. "But, you know, it's too little, too late." Antonio shrugged like it wasn't a big deal, but by the looks on their faces, Francis and Gilbert weren't buying the act. Antonio quickly continued, "Most of the remaining tenants just moved away, to stay with their family or friends."

"Didn't your family take you in?" Francis questioned, broaching the topic with the most delicate tone he could possibly muster.

"My parents have been dead for two years now," Antonio explained. "We used to have this beautiful tomato farm out in the country, but my father had to sell that to settle his debts. It broke his heart. He didn't live very long after that. Mom followed shortly after."

"Oh," Gilbert sighed, and that was all that was said on the topic. Francis was quick to move the conversation on to lighter things. Halfway through some story of how they played a prank on someone in college, the Frenchman snapped his fingers and declared that it was time for dessert.

Towards evening, Matthew Williams dropped in. Antonio took an instant liking to the shy young man, who'd bought some maple syrup and pancakes especially for the Spaniard. All of them were going out of their way to make him feel welcome, and Antonio was glad for it. He really, really wanted someone to just take care of him. Not that he would ever say that aloud, of course.

Deep down, Antonio knew he'd have to learn to heal himself.

Ludwig Beilschmidt sighed as he scraped cold, uneaten pasta off the plate and into the dustbin. The kitchen was uncomfortably quiet, save for the drip-drip-dripping of the leaky tap and the monotonous hum of the refrigerator. He heard the slight swish as the door opened, and his husband's soft footsteps entered the room.

"Is that Lovi's lunch?" Feliciano asked as he pulled up a chair at the dining table and sat.

Ludwig turned slightly to look at him, and offered Feli an apologetic smile. "Ja. If it's any consolation, though, he did eat it. Some of it, I mean." From the look of unhindered concern on Feli's face, the Italian didn't seem even the slightest bit pacified.

"It's been two months," Feliciano said, his voice so soft that Ludwig almost didn't hear him. "It's really starting to freak me out, Luddy."

"Break-ups can be hard," Ludwig commented, putting the dirty plate in the sink and sitting down opposite his husband. "Lovino and Heracles were almost married. It's quite a painful shock to find that Heracles was cheating on him the whole time. I'm sure he'll be all right."

"That's not the point, though," Feliciano muttered. "You know how Lovi has trust issues. It took him two years to warm up to you. And you're the most dependable person there is!"

Ludwig blushed at the compliment, but said, "Actually, I still think he hates me."

Feli cracked a small smile. "He doesn't hate you. He claims to hate you, but he doesn't. Trust me, I know."

"Really? That's good to hear."

At this point, Feliciano stood and stretched, the hem of his shirt rising up a little and exposing his slender waist. Yawning, he said, "I'm going to make hot chocolate. Would you like some?"

"Sure, I wouldn't mind. Are you going to make some for Lovino as well?"

"Of course. He needs to get some food into his system." Feliciano busied himself in the kitchen, the familiar sounds boiling milk and the clatter of cups and saucers making the room seem a little less threatening than it did before. Ludwig loved watching Feliciano work. His Italian was always the most relaxed when he was in the kitchen, finding extreme joy from turning raw ingredients into delectable meals.

"You know what, I think we should take him out to dinner tonight," Ludwig said.

"Who? Lovi?"

"Ja. Some fresh air would do him good. He's been locked in his room for three days now. The last time I even saw him in the living room was when he fell asleep on the couch after watching Titanic three times over."

Feliciano smiled. Despite how much they didn't seem to get along, it always heartened him to see Ludwig so concerned about his brother. Lovino was so suspicious of everyone, Ludwig included, and it just broke Feliciano's heart to see his brother so completely shattered. Never before had Lovino broken down like this, not even when their beloved grandfather died. Feli had been sobbing through the last weeks of his illness, but Lovino just kept a stiff upper lip. And when the old man finally passed away, Feliciano had actually fallen sick. It was Lovino who quietly handled all the funeral arrangements. He'd held together like iron.

Now, though…

He'd never expected a simple break-up to have such a profound effect on Lovino. In fact, it was only a month before the wedding date that Lovino had discovered Heracles in bed with some random girl. His brother had driven through the night, all the way to Feliciano and Ludwig's house, and collapsed in a heap of tears. At that point, he'd been so beyond hysterical that Ludwig had to put a sleeping pill in his tea to get him to calm down. In the weeks that followed, Lovino had completely dropped all pretence of strength.

His brother and his trust issues. Secretly, Feliciano was terrified that the whole ordeal had damaged Lovi for good. By the looks of things, he was never letting anybody get close to him ever again.

"Yes, that's a good idea," Feliciano muttered as he placed a steam cup of hot chocolate in front of Ludwig. "Not someplace too fancy. Somewhere we can call relax."

"Ja, of course. I'll make a reservation." Ludwig reached for his mobile phone.

"I'll try to get Lovi to drink this," Feli muttered, taking another cup of hot chocolate and heading to the guest bedroom.

His brother's room door was shut, but unlocked. When Feliciano opened it, the unsavoury stench of sweat and unwashed clothes hit him in the face. Lovino was wearing a three-day-old t-shirt and jeans, lying on his stomach with his face buried in a pillow. The lights were all switched off, and when Feliciano dared to turn on the bedside lamp, his brother let out an involuntary groan.

The room was a complete mess. Clothes, books, and untouched plates of food lay scattered across the floor. The curtains were drawn and the windows were shut. It was stuffy and smelly and airless.

"Lovi?" Feliciano began, putting the cup on the nightstand and sitting down on the bed beside his brother. "Lovi, I've got you some hot chocolate. Won't you drink it?"

Lovino shifted to look at his brother without actually lifting his head. One half of his face was buried in the pillow, but Feliciano noticed a single golden eye gazing right at him. Lovi had always had the most intense stare.

"I'm not hungry," his brother stated. His voice was a little muffled because of all the bedding, but Feliciano heard him clearly enough. This statement had become Lovino's standard response to everything.

"You have to have something. You didn't even touch you lunch."

"I ate."

"Not enough."

"Fuck off, Feliciano." His voice was so tired, so defeated, that Feliciano almost burst into tears right there. This was not how his brother was supposed to be. Lovino was always the angry, fiery, fierce one. This was simply not normal.

"Fratello, please. Just have a few sips, come on? I made it just for you. And we're going out tonight, the three of us. Why don't you have a shower? Trust me, you'll feel much better!"

"I don't want to go out."

"Ludwig's already booked a table," Feliciano said. "It's going to be fun, I promise."

"Nothing's ever fun with that Potato Bastard."

Feliciano bit back a sarcastic comment. Swallowing a slight touch of irritation, he said, "Lovino, come on, sit up. This simply isn't healthy. Just have half a cup of hot chocolate. That's not too much! It tastes so good!" Feliciano placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. The man's shirt was sticky with dried sweat, and Feli almost recoiled. But he didn't. Lovino had been more than patient with him when their grandfather died. It was time Feliciano returned the gesture.

It took fifteen minutes of coaxing before Lovino finally sat up. He'd lost weight. His clothes hung off him. His face was pale and sallow. He looked seriously ill. By the time Feliciano had convinced him to drink some hot chocolate, a layer of cream had formed on the surface and the milk had become slightly cool.

Lovino drank quietly. Feliciano desperately wanted to break the silence, but he just didn't know what to say. He hated it when he just prattled on about something, without any sharp-tongued responses from his older brother. Really, even a 'Shut the fuck up!' would have been welcome.

The elder Vargas got through only one-fourth of the drink before wordlessly handing the cup back to Feli and lying right back down on the bed.

"Oh, Lovi, don't. Come on, finish this! And then take a shower."

"Don't feel like it."

"Please? For me?"

"Feliciano, just get out. I don't want to go anywhere. I don't want to talk to you. Leave me alone." His voice crack on the last word—'alone'. "Everyone leaves in the end. Just…stop pretending like you give a shit, okay? I don't have the strength to deal with your pathetic lies right now."

"You know that's not true. I care about you very much. Both Luddy and I do. And you're starting to scare me. Please…please, just finish the hot chocolate?"

"I said fuck off!" Lovino shouted. Sudden strength made him sit up. Hands curled around his hair. "Leave me alone. Just like everyone else. Just like Heracles. Just…go." Tears spilled from his eyes. "I can't…I can't…"

"Oh, Lovi," Feliciano whispered, setting the cup down on the nightstand again. "Oh, my sweet Lovi…" he pulled his brother into a hug, and was shocked to find Lovino sink into it. What scared him even more was how easily he could wrap his arms around Lovino. The elder brother had become practically skeletal. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise. Will you please, please finish your hot chocolate?"

It did take a little more coaxing, but in the end, Lovino not only finished the drink, but also agreed to have a bath. Feliciano made a big deal of it, filling up the tub with bubbles and a rubber ducky, much to Lovino's annoyance. Feliciano took out a fresh set of clothes, and while his brother bathed, proceeded to square up the bedroom a little.

He picked up all the stray plates, binned the untouched food, and changed the bed sheets. He threw open the windows and swept the room, spraying it with air-freshener. Making a large pile of Lovino's dirty clothes, he even put them in the washing machine and started the cycle. In only about half-an-hour, the room looked far more inviting. It even smelled better, which was a relief.

Feliciano was in the kitchen talking to Ludwig when Lovino tentatively entered. Both of them smiled at him encouragingly.

"Are you feeling any better, Lovino?" Ludwig questioned.

"Yeah, fine," Lovino deadpanned. His eyes were red again. Either he managed to get soap in them, or he'd been crying. Still, it was nice to see him with freshly washed hair and a smart black shirt and trousers. "So, where the fuck are we going?"

"Oh, The Hungarian Café!" Feliciano replied, "That cute little place with the open-air seating and good food."

"Never heard of it."

"Well, it's a nice place," Feliciano replied mildly. "You'll like it. Luddy's older brother's ex-girlfriend—" but his eyes widened in horror and he stopped dead in his tracks. Even Ludwig looked slightly panicked as Lovino's knuckles tightened over the doorknob. Quickly, Feliciano said, "They have nice pasta, and they'll even serve it with extra tomatoes! Lovi…? Lovi, wait, come back!"

His older brother had already left the kitchen, marching up to his room and slamming the door shut behind him.

Antonio's new room was white-walled, like the rest of the house. Francis had made his bed with cream-hued sheets that had yellow frills on the hems. There were two windows, a cupboard a mirror and a nightstand with a lamp. Antonio got to unpacking as soon as he was able to get a moment to himself. Francis went to work—he had an evening shift in his restaurant—Gilbert and Matthew were playing video games on the plasma TV. They asked Antonio if he'd want to play, but Antonio declined. Not only did he not want to interrupt them, but he also wanted to sort out his things.

Not that there was much to unpack, anyway. It took him less than ten minutes to empty his suitcases, which he then shoved under the bed. Antonio now had nothing to do. He flopped down on the mattress and closed his eyes. Unconsciously, he moved his hand under his shirt to touch one of the many burn scars he had on his body. There was a large one on his chest—the one that almost killed him—some on his arms and legs. A bad one on his shoulder. All of them had healed, eventually.

But the memories.

Antonio would never forget that day. He still had nightmares about it. He woke up that morning, and was sitting in his kitchen, going over the notes he was going to teach in class. Sipping his coffee. A normal day. And then, from underneath him, there was a tremendous explosion.

Antonio couldn't remember the details that well. The doctors said it was a combination of shock and unconsciousness, but he did remember the smoke alarms, the fire, the searing agony all over his body. He was slightly lucid when the fire-fighters found him. Apparently, he'd been covered in blood. Not only was he burnt all over, but he'd been almost crushed under rubble. Out of the fifty-odd tenants in that building, twenty-seven had perished. Some of them had been his friends.

Vash, the economics teacher at his high school, had been the first to visit him. Antonio remained in the hospital for weeks, and then was moved to Vash's apartment, where he stayed with him and his younger sister. The nightmares began shortly after that. Antonio would flinch at every loud noise, and he absolutely could not tolerate an open flame. He stopped cooking for himself. He barely slept. Antonio began to find it increasingly difficult to deal with everyday life. And Vash even had a firearm at his place. The very knowledge of its existence would throw Antonio into panic attacks.

The insurance money wasn't coming through, and Antonio was losing all control over his life at this point. He lost his job a month later, and a month after that, when the money finally came, Vash told him it was high time he got back on his own feet.

Easier said than done.

Antonio was still terrified of everything.

Through the door, Gilbert's loud laughter was making him break out into cold sweat. Even the volume of the television was making his heart race. His ears were ringing. All he could here was the boom of the gas explosion that blew apart his whole way of life…

Crap. Crap, crap. He needed to get out of here, before he had a panic attack and made his new roommate freak out.

Antonio bolted out of his bedroom and marched past Gilbert and Matthew. "Hey, I'm going out for a walk, okay?" he managed to say. He didn't even wait for them to respond before grabbing his set of house-keys and exiting the house.

The night air was colder than he'd expected it to be, but that actually came as a relief. Antonio was too scared of hot weather. Of heat. Of smoke. Of fire. Of explosions. Burns. Blood. Scars.

He groaned, desperately running his hands through his hair, as though this very act would make the memories go away. Lili had once thought if this was some sort of Post Traumatic Stress reaction. She was studying psychology; she often knew what she was talking about. But Antonio didn't want her to be right. Because post traumatic stress disorder was an actual illness, and he simply could not afford it right now. His financial situation was precarious as it was, without his mental health adding any more weight on his pathetic bank account.

He didn't know where he was going. He barely even knew this city. Actually, he knew nothing about it at all. Just running off in random directions was the stupidest thing he could possibly do, but Antonio didn't care. He just wanted to get away from all the horrors that lived inside his head.

Lovino sat with his arms crossed over his chest, dull gold eyes trying to glare at everything around him all at once. He wasn't sure how his brother managed to convince him into this. He didn't feel like it. The idea of trying to socialise, just…it just drained the strength from his body. He'd never expected to react quite this badly to Heracles's betrayal, but—

That was it, wasn't it? Betrayal? Nobody ever wanted to stay loyal to Lovino. He'd been ostracised all through school and college. He was worthless. Good for nothing. This…this farce that Feliciano was putting up…all this fake concern and shit…

The Hungarian Café was a nice place, Lovino conceded. It had an air-conditioned indoor seating area, and five or six tables outside, with dark green umbrellas over them. There was a juice bar and instrumental piano music. Indoors, the place was lit up in comforting yellow lights. It looked extremely cosy. And Lovino craved the security of that.

But they were sitting outside. All Lovino could focus on was the number of couples sitting across the tables, making googly-eyes at each other. Those selfish assholes. How dare they. How dare they be so fucking happy when all Lovino wanted to do was crawl into bed and die? But he couldn't do anything about this feeling. This was impotent rage.

So he directed all his annoyance at Feli and Ludwig. He knew he wasn't being fair on them. They'd put up with his nonsense for two months now, and sooner or later, even they would get pissed off and kick him out of the house. But he just…ugh, he was so furious!

Moodily, he picked at his macaroni. Extra tomatoes, just as Feli had promised. How his brother even managed to convince him to come here, Lovino didn't even know. He wasn't hungry, just tired. He just wanted to go home.

(Go home to Heracles.)

(Yeah, that was going to happen.)

It was a tense dinner. Feliciano's attempts at making conversation were becoming so desperate that Lovino would have actually pitied him. Ludwig, at least, was being responsive. The German asshole 'hmm'-ed and mumbled, but it was clear that he was feeling terribly awkward about this whole thing too.

Lovino didn't care. He didn't care about any of them.

His eyes darted about the locality. He was fairly new to this city. Heracles didn't like it here, so they'd stayed far out into the country. When Lovino found out about…the other women, he'd driven all the way here without a break. He'd needed Feliciano back then. He still needed Feli, he just…everything hurt so much.

Especially since Feli was a little drunk, and kept clinging to Ludwig, pecking his jaw and laughing a little too loudly at anything the German bastard said. It made Lovino's insides churn. And it reminded him so much of Heracles that he could literally feel his heart spontaneously combusting and turning into ash.

The café overlooked a series of establishments across the street. A couple of restaurants. A bookstore. Another café. It looked very inviting, actually. He raised his eyebrow slightly as he spotted a small, inconspicuous looking door with a neon sign above it. Shall We Dance? Except, some of the letters were flickering, and others had died out completely, so it actually read as Shal We Danc?

"Fratello," Lovino found himself saying, "What the fuck is that?" and he jerked his head towards the weird little establishment.

Feliciano looked genuinely startled to hear Lovino say something. Something apart from grumbling and cussing and tears. Even Ludwig's eyes widened slightly, as Feliciano put his fork down on his plate and let his eyes follow Lovino's gaze.

"Oh," he said, as though he'd just noticed it. "I have no idea, Lovi. I don't come here that often. Maybe we can ask Elizabeta. I'm sure she'd know."

The pretty young woman with hazel hair seemed a little surprised at the question, but answered it nonetheless. Chewing on her bottom lip, she said, "Oh, that. It's a dance class. Ballroom and Latin, I think. It used to be pretty popular a couple of years ago. But now it's really lost its character. A lot of the students changed to The Spanish Armada. That's the dance studio in the next street. It's…well, it's swankier than this place."

"The Spanish Armada," Lovino repeated, his lips curling in distaste. "They do know that the Spanish Armada was a naval embarrassment, don't they? It took just a handful of English ships to fucking obliterate more than half of it."

Elizabeta chuckled. "You're sharp on your history, aren't you?" Glancing back at the derelict dance class, she sighed. "It's a shame, actually. All the students from there would just cross the street after their lesson to eat here. Now it's just a creepy little dump that'll close down if it doesn't get a makeover. And fast."

Lovino rolled his eyes. A sudden jolt of annoyance made him stab his pasta with unnecessary roughness and stuff it into his mouth. The food was delicious. It suddenly occurred to Lovino how he hadn't eaten in forever. He took another bite. "Pathetic," he muttered. "Pathetic little dance studio."

Feliciano was about to ask Elizabeta something more about the place, but a customer from another table called out for her, and she gave the three of them an apologetic smile before getting back to work.

Nobody said anything more throughout dinner, though Lovino kept shooting glances to the sad dance studio. Shal We Danc? Wasn't that a song? Shall we dance…on a bright cloud of music, shall we fly? Ah, who gave a fuck.

"Who are you looking at, Lovi?" Feliciano asked, and only then did Lovino realise he'd been staring at some random asshole for over five minutes. Lovino could only see a silhouette from his distance, but the man was standing right in front of Shal We Danc? and was pacing up and down. He seemed nervous. And perhaps even lost.

"That idiota over there," Lovino deadpanned, taking a sip of his wine. He was really, really hungry. "The one walking around like a fucking brain-dead donkey."

"He looks pretty stressed," Feli noted, frowning a little.

"I'm sure it's nothing, Feliciano," Ludwig muttered.

"Shit, he's coming over here."

And sure enough, the man had stopped, staring blankly at The Hungarian Café. Now, he was crossing the road, approaching it.

Antonio knew this would happen. What had he been expecting? To just charge around a city he didn't know, sans map, sans mobile phone, sans wallet, and not get lost? Oh, wasn't he just an absolute genius!

When he finally realised he was lost, Antonio stopped and looked around. Lots of cafes and restaurants around here, but the one thing Antonio noticed was that he was standing right outside a dance studio. It was a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, without any glass doors, which was instantly off-putting. In fact, it had a heavy wooden door with a pleasant, rustic feel about it. For a house, it would have been a great look. But for a dance class, it was just a little bit weird.

Still, it had a neon sign with the words Shal We Danc? and there was unmistakably chirpy music wafting through the door. Oh god. Antonio knew this music. He could play it on his guitar, back when he had a guitar.

He knew that beat.

One-two-three-hold four-five-six-seven-hold eight. Repeating. One-two-three, five-six-seven.

A memory came flooding back to him. A memory of when he was a child, back in the family tomato farm. Sunday mornings. Sunlight streaming through the windows. The smell of freshly cut tomatoes in the air. And music. Music flitting through a banged-up stereo. And his parents dancing in the kitchen.

They hadn't known that ten-year-old Antonio had been watching. But his mother had been laughing and his father had a cheeky smile on his face as he spun her around and dipped her and lead her into dance steps that moulded together fluidly. One-two-three, hold four, five-six-seven, hold eight.

Salsa.

Oh, salsa.

Another memory. Antonio, a dancer in his free time, revelling in the spotlight of some school prom event he could barely even recognise. A girl on his arm as he spun her across the room. He didn't know that he was gay back then, all he cared about was that she was pretty, and sweet, and they were friends. Plus, she was a fabulous dancer. The music changed from salsa to tango in an instant, a change so surprising that Antonio almost missed the beat. But he'd been able to pick up and slow down. Tango was the sort of dance to be relished, relished for its flirty, playful style. Antonio moved between Paso Doble, Cha Cha, Rumba and Mambo effortlessly. His favourite had always been Salsa, though.

By the end of that evening, his partner had been breathless, and her feet were covered in shoe bites, but she'd also kissed Antonio on the lips and had told him that it had been the best night of her life.

Antonio groaned. He'd stopped dancing after his parents passed away. It seemed…wrong, somehow. And the music from this creepy little studio was starting to irk him. The way it brought back memories like this…

Crap. He had to get out of here. He had to—

Wait a minute. Was that The Hungarian Café? Huh. Where the heck was he? That was where he was supposed to start work tomorrow! Gilbert's ex-girlfriend ran the place, right? Elizabeta something? Ay, she was to be his boss. What the heck was her full name?

Whatever. He'd ask Gilbert later. (Or just check his appointment letter when he got home.) For now, he needed directions back to the house. Antonio didn't wait a moment longer; he charged towards the little café.

By this point, the only reason Lovino was paying attention to the idiot was because everywhere else he looked, he spotted people making out. Even Feli and Ludwig were getting uncomfortably touchy-feely. It was making Lovino physically sick.

The man who'd been pacing came barging towards the café. Under the light of the place's lamps, Lovino noticed his face. He was tanned, rather attractive, with tousled brown hair and bright green eyes. His sleeves were rolled up, and Lovino noticed scars on his arms. They were shiny. Burn marks?

He looked a little panicked as he went over to the nearest waiter and asked, "Excuse me, but is it possible for me to speak to…uh…Miss Elizabeta?"

Hmm. Now why would he want to speak to Elizabeta? Probably a boyfriend? No, he looked too flustered by the whole thing. He kept wringing his hands nervously as the waiter walked off, returning a few minutes later with the young Hungarian woman.

She blinked at the man. "Yes? Can I help you?"

Definitely not a boyfriend.

"Um, hi, I'm Antonio Carriedo…? I'm supposed to—"

She laughed. "Oh, Antonio! Don't you start work tomorrow?"

Ah, so an employee. Eh. Boring.

"Yes," the man admitted, shrugging. He offered her a sheepish smile that made Lovino raise an eyebrow. There was something...rather endearing about him. "But you see, ah, I don't know if you're aware of this, but I'm actually Gilbert Beilschmidt's new flatmate."

Wait. What.

Even Ludwig paused in mid-sentence and straightened. "Did someone say Beilschmidt?" he asked Feli.

"Yeah," Lovino muttered, discreetly pointing towards this Antonio Carriedo person. "That guy, there. Says he's your brother's new flatmate. Your brother, Gilbert, right?"

Elizabeta, too, seemed momentarily startled by this declaration. "What? Really? That's an amazing coincidence! Well, that makes you practically family!"

Feliciano and Ludwig were openly staring at Antonio. It made Lovino want to roll his eyes. Antonio, meanwhile, said, "Ahaha, that's really sweet of you, Miss Elizabeta, but I actually just…well, I'm lost," he finished lamely. "Do you mind giving me directions to—"

"Darling, I'll take you there myself." She gave him a smile. "I know it's a bit confusing in a new city, especially at night! Don't you worry. Just sit down, order something to eat if you like. Dinner rush ends in half-an-hour. I'll drop you to Gilbert's place after that. Sounds like a plan?"

His eyes widened. "I really don't want you to trouble yourself. In fact, I'm going to start work here tomorrow. Now that I'm here right now, I might as well pitch in. Si?"

She laughed. "No, no, I'll give you a proper orientation tomorrow. For now, just take it easy." Her eyes suddenly widened, and she said, "Actually, Gilbert's younger brother is here right now. Do you want to meet him?"

"Oh boy," Lovino grumbled.

Antonio, meanwhile, looked a little more than shell-shocked at this entire conversation. He didn't even get a word edgeways before Elizabeta took him by the arm and dragged him towards their table. Flourishing him in front of Ludwig like some sort of delicious appetizer, Elizabeta declared, "Ludwig, I believe this is Gilbert's new flatmate, Antonio. Antonio, this is Ludwig, his husband Feliciano, and Feli's brother, Lovino."

"Hola…" Antonio said uncertainly.

His awkwardness was not out of place. Ludwig's mouth was hanging half-open, and Feli just looked blank.

Lovino sighed. "Well, what are you gaping at?" he snapped at no-one in particular. To Antonio, he muttered, "Yeah, hi. Sit the fuck down, let's all play happy families."

This 'greeting' was apparently enough to jerk Ludwig into action. He stood, ever polite, and shook Antonio's hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr…? Carriedo, correct?"

"S-si. I hate to barge in on your dinner like this…" he chuckled, still awkward, and scratched the back of his head. Once more, Lovino found himself quirking an eyebrow in his direction. Endearing. Definitely endearing.

"Ve, it's nothing," Feliciano said with a disarming smile. "Why don't you join us?"

"No, it's alright." Antonio beamed at all of them.

Ugh. Too cheerful.

"Hey," Lovino snapped. "I thought I told you to sit the fuck down." Anything—anyone—was better company than having to watch Ludwig and Feliciano kiss for probably the tenth time in seven minutes. Feli needed tone down on the wine a little.

Antonio's eyes widened at the comment, but he obediently pulled up a chair and sat. "Hola. You must be Lovino, right? It's a pleasure to meet you."

He shrugged. "Whatever."

Feliciano shot him a reprimanding look, and said, "So, are you new here?"

"I just moved in this afternoon, actually."

"Ja, I remember Gilbert mentioning something about a new flatmate. Are you from Spain, Mr. Carriedo?"

"Please, call me Antonio! Mr. Carriedo sounds so formal." He chuckled to himself. "Si, I am from Spain."

"Don't the Spanish have this crazy-ass festival where they chuck tomatoes at each other?" Lovino's tone was downright accusatory. "Fucking waste of tomatoes, if you ask me."

"Lovi!" Feli cried. To Antonio, he said, "Haha, don't mind him. He's always teasing, that way…"

Antonio smiled. "La Tomatina, si. It's a lot of fun, actually."

"Yeah, great. Good for you." Lovino took a long sip of his wine. It amazed him, but he'd actually managed to finish a full plate of food. Maybe this idea of going out for dinner had been half-decent, after all. It wasn't like he was trying to play the victim in this break-up with Heracles.

Fuck no. He didn't want to think about that right now.

"So, you are going to work here?" Ludwig asked.

"Yes. From tomorrow."

"Ah. And how is my brother behaving with you? I apologise for his brashness. He's a little rough around the edges."

"Oh, no! Gilbert's been very accommodating, actually."

"Really? Well, that's good, I suppose. Be warned, though, he can be a little…rough."

"Don't ask him about Prussia," Lovino advised coldly. "The bastard doesn't shut the fuck up. Last I knew, he even had Prussian flag boxers."

"It's actually quite sweet how he's so dedicated to his work," Feliciano defended, albeit a little weakly.

"Ja, actually. It's the only thing he takes seriously. Prussia, and Matthew Williams."

"Oh, I've met Matthew," Antonio interjected. "He seems really sweet."

"Oh, he's adorable," Feli said with a grin.

"Actually, even I like him," Lovino muttered. "Doesn't make sense how a guy like him ends up with a moron like Gilbert, but it's not anyone's business to judge, so whatever."

An uncomfortable silence fell on the table, and Antonio seemed to notice that his sleeves were rolled up. His tanned skin darkened even more as he pulled them down, covering the scars on his arms. Ludwig noticed this. Feliciano did not. Nobody commented.

It was getting awkward again. Well, fuck.

"You dance?" Lovino questioned, rather brashly. "Saw you marching around outside that dance class. The one that looks like it might fall down where it stands." That was not why Lovino asked the question, though. He asked, because Antonio walked in a very particular way. He'd noticed this right at the beginning. Antonio carried himself with natural rhythm, grace that nobody usually possessed. He walked like a dancer, and that made Lovino slightly, slightly curious.

Antonio turned to where Shal We Danc? stood, and shook his head. There was a quick, fleeting frown on his face, and he said, "No, I don't dance. I was just panicking because I got lost. Why? Do you dance?"

"Fuck no."

Another silence. Antonio swallowed. Lovino sipped his wine. Feliciano and Ludwig exchanged glances.

Thank god for Elizabeta. She came up to them with a slight frown on her features, and broke the silence by saying, "Hey, Antonio, turns out, I'll have to stay here for a while. One of my chefs is sick, the poor fellow. If I give you the directions, do you think you'll be able to find your way?"

He stood. "Of course, Miss Elizabeta! That's exactly what I was suggesting in the first place!"

Elizabeta tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Right. Well, just go back the way you came, okay? Take a left at the crossing, go straight, take the second right, and there you are! Did you get that? Do you want me to write it down?"

"No, no, I'll remember it." He smiled at her and shook her hand. To the rest of the table, he said, "It's really nice to meet you all. Thank you for your hospitality."

"Oh, don't be so formal!" Feli cried. "It was lovely to meet you as well. I suppose we'll be seeing more of you, right? Being Gilly's flatmate and all that?"

"I guess so." Antonio offered Feliciano another one of his sheepish, endearing smiles. Ludwig then stood and gave his pleasantries. Lovino just nodded at Antonio.

When the Spaniard went away, the table was quiet again for several minutes. Lovino broke it. He looked straight at Ludwig, and said, "Did you see the scars on his arms? Looked recent."

"Scars?" Feli questioned.

"Ja. Like he was in a fire."

Lovino drained his glass of wine in one long sip. "Sucks to be him, I guess."

It was half-past ten when Antonio finally made it back to his new home. Gilbert and Matthew were eating pizza straight from the box as they snuggled up to each other on the couch and watched a movie, a blanket covering the both of them.

"Hola," Antonio greeted with a smile. Matthew paused the movie, Gilbert shot him a grin.

"Hi, Toni! Long walk, huh? Did you get lost or something?" Gilbert asked.

"Haha, something like that. I actually found The Hungarian Café." Antonio wasn't sure how Matthew would react to any mention of Gilbert's ex-girlfriend, so he didn't dare say Elizabeta's name. To the Spaniard's relief, however, he realised he had no reason to worry.

Matthew's eyes lit up. "Oh, Lizzie's café? Doesn't it have the best food?"

"Uh..."

"He's going to start work there tomorrow, Birdie!"

"Really? That's great. Elizabeta's a really nice person." Pushing himself off the couch, Matthew said, "Do you want to have some pizza, Antonio?"

"No, thank you," Antonio replied, "I didn't mean to interrupt. I'm going to my room." He deposited his keys on the countertop, but Matthew stopped him with a hand on his elbow.

"You weren't interrupting anything, silly," the Canadian said, "We've seen this movie a hundred times."

"Ja, stop being so formal!" Gilbert picked up the blanket, which had fallen to the floor, and swiped another piece of pizza from the box. Antonio suddenly felt a clawing hunger at the pit of his stomach. He went over and copied Gilbert. The pizza was room temperature, but cheesy and delicious.

"I actually met your brother and his husband," Antonio suddenly said, talking as he chewed.

"What?"

"Ludwig, right? And Feliciano? And Feliciano's brother…Lo…Lovino?" Antonio frowned, trying to remember the name.

"Wow, you ran into them?"

Antonio began to narrate exactly what had happened, right from meeting Elizabeta to her dragging her towards Ludwig. He even summarised the conversation they'd had. By the time he was done, Gilbert had a small smirk on his face and even Matthew looked rather amused. The Canadian said, "Small world, isn't it?"

"Yup. Knowing Luddy, he'll probably write me an impersonal-sounding email about this meeting, and he'll end it with some polite questions about you, Antonio." Shaking his head in even more amusement, he took a large bite of his pizza.

Matthew, however, had quietened a little. "You said you met Lovino Vargas."

"Yes," Antonio replied.

"How…how is he? Is he alright? Did he look well?"

Gilbert shot Matthew an unreadable look, and then both of them turned to stare at Antonio. The Spaniard found himself stammering at the attention.

"Well, um, he looked…okay, I guess?" Antonio struggled to remember the details of Lovino Vargas. No, 'okay' wasn't the right word. Lovino had appeared—"Actually, he looked unwell. All skin and bones."

Matthew sighed.

"Why?" Antonio questioned, suddenly curious. "Is he, you know, sick?"

"Not exactly," Gilbert muttered, choosing his words carefully. Swallowing a large bite of pizza, he said, "He had a really, really bad break-up with his fiancé, Heracles. It's been a couple of months, though. According to Feli—you know, Feliciano—he's still pretty upset about it."

"Yeah, it's starting to get everyone really worried," Matthew mumbled, going up to the sink and starting on the dishes. Clearly, Matthew was very much at home in his house. "He doesn't eat, he doesn't sleep, he hasn't gone to work in ages. I don't even think he has a job anymore, actually." Glancing momentarily at Antonio, Matthew continued, "He worked as a journalist."

"Oh," Antonio said, lowering his eyes. "I'm so sorry for Lovino. That sounds rough."

Gilbert, who was now rifling through the refrigerator for something to drink, said, "Rough is an understatement. That guy seems like a complete asshole, I know, but he's got his heart in the right place. And it takes a while for him to open up to anyone, so he's probably feeling betrayed. You know, on a magnitude far greater than normal." Pulling out some beer, he wordlessly offered it to Matthew and Antonio, both of whom declined. With a shrug, Gilbert drank straight from the bottle.

Matthew had been scrubbing a dirty ceramic plate, when it slipped from his soapy hands and fell against the sink. It made a loud clatter.

A loud clatter.

A LOUD clatter.

LOUD. LOUD. LOUD.

Antonio felt his insides go cold as his whole body froze in terror at the noise. A clatter, like glass, a shatter, a boom, an explosion, a smoke, a fire, blood. Splat. The half-eaten pizza slipped from his hands and hit the floor. The floor, like the one in his old apartment, like the one that gave away to an explosion, a boom, some smoke, a fire, blood.

"—Tonio? Antonio? Are you okay?"

He didn't know what had happened, but he suddenly found Matthew's face uncomfortably close to his own. He was no longer standing. Someone had made him sit on the couch. Gilbert gently pushed Matthew out of the way. His red eyes were like a magnetic force, and Antonio found himself looking right into them.

"Are you all right?" Gilbert asked. His voice was very calm, practiced. "You just spaced out on us."

"Sorry," Antonio mumbled, his voice sounding foreign to his ears. He pushed himself off the couch, and muttered, "I think I'm just tired." Smiling at them, he said, "I'm going to go to bed, okay? It's been a pretty long day for me."

Gilbert narrowed his eyes, but then sighed and nodded. "Sure. See you in the morning."

"Good night," Matthew said quietly, and gave Antonio the smallest of smiles.

"Fratello, did you have fun?" Feliciano dared, crossing his fingers behind his back as Ludwig unlocked the house door for them. Lovino had been extremely quiet throughout the ride home. Not surprising in itself—he'd been taciturn and moody for a long time now—but Feli had noticed how he was actually making conversation with that Antonio-person during dinner, so he'd hoped for a more cheerful response from his brother. Not that Lovino was ever cheerful.

"Fine." Lovino was dragging his feet, and entered the apartment last. His drawn, tired face made Feliciano's heart clench.

"Did you like the food? You ate all your pasta!"

"It was fine." Lovino looked around the living room, and his emotionless expression slipped into something akin to despair. He looked genuinely lost as he muttered, "I'm going to bed now."

"Uh…sure," Feliciano mumbled, a little uncertain.

"Good night," Ludwig offered, but Lovino had already left the room.

Lovino was feeling queasy. He didn't know if it was because he'd eaten a full meal after what seemed like years, or because he was missing Heracles like crazy. Oh Dio, Heracles. Lovino hadn't expected The Hungarian Café to be so packed with couples on dates, he hadn't expected Feli to get a little tipsy—and hence, a little clingy—to his precious German. All of it was compounded with the crushing loneliness that was eating Lovino whole.

He was falling to pieces. No job, no motivation, no appetite, nobody. Sooner or later, Feliciano and Ludwig would get sick of him. Oh, it was probably happening now. They were probably sprawled on the couch in the living room, sucking each other's faces. Then Feliciano would pause for air, and say, "You know, I'm getting really tired of Lovi mooching around the place all the time." And Ludwig would smile a little and say, "Ja, I'm so glad you brought it up. I hate him too." "We should get rid of him, right, Luddy? We deserve to have our privacy. After all, we've put up with him for so many weeks." And that would be it. He'd find his suitcases packed and waiting by the door, and Feli would offer his sympathetic smile and say, "Sorry, Lovi, but you're really a complete waste of time, you know?"

A groan escaped Lovino's lips as he buried his head into a pillow. "Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up!" he snarled to himself. And suddenly, his stomach twisted. His eyes widened in a combination of surprise and horror as a terrible burning sensation made its way up his chest and to his throat.

Lovino barely managed to make it to the toilet in time, and was violently sick down the commode. When it was all over, he could barely even stand. But Lovino didn't dare asking Feli for help. His brother was probably annoyed with his constant dependency, anyway.

It took a while, but Lovino managed to sort himself out. He flushed the toilet and washed his mouth, his trembling body collapsing onto the bed. He closed his eyes. Whenever Lovino fell ill, Heracles would stay at home and dote on him, cuddle him and sleep next to him. They'd sometimes watch movies on TV, just the two of them, curling up under one thick blanket, drinking hot chocolate or tomato soup or whatever Lovino felt like having at the time.

But Heracles was a traitor. A sick, dirty cheat.

Antonio woke up with a start. From the windows, dim blue light entered the room. It was just before dawn, and if the drops on the glass were anything to go by, it had rained once again. He couldn't remember the dream he'd had, but he knew it hadn't been pleasant. His heart was racing, cold sweat made his hair stick to his forehead. Even his shirt was damp, and the first thing Antonio did was peel it off and drop it to the floor.

He went to the bathroom, brushed and washed his face. Then, he almost died of a heart-attack when he went to the kitchenette.

There was a man there. Naked from the waist up, humming to himself as he fiddled with the buttons on the electric kettle. From the white glare of the tube-light, Antonio noticed his dirty blonde hair. He wasn't very tall. Absently, his hand brushed his grey trousers.

"C-Can I help you?" Antonio stammered, and the man whipped around. He had the largest, bushiest eyebrows the Spaniard had ever seen, and leaf green eyes. Who the heck was he? There were only three rooms in this flat, so he couldn't have been a mystery flatmate.

"Good lord, you startled me." He had an extremely pronounced English accent. "My name's Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland."

"…Carriedo. Antonio Carriedo," the Spaniard copied, offering him the smallest of grins. Arthur's lips twitched upwards in mild amusement. "I don't mean to be rude," Antonio continued, "But…what are you doing here?"

"Oh, hmm," Arthur gave him a sheepish smile. "I'm actually with Francis. Met him yesterday at the restaurant where he works."

"Ah."

There was an awkward silence, broken only when Arthur turned around and asked, "So, would you like some tea?"

Tea. Hot. Smoke. Fire. Blood.

"No, thank you." Antonio went over to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of milk. It was cold. Reassuringly cold. He poured himself a glass. Arthur made his tea in silence, and the two of them sat at opposite ends of the table. The obligation to speak was heavy in the air, but neither of them knew what to say.

"So…" Antonio began, "Are you a boyfriend, or…?"

Arthur laughed. "Goodness, no. Like I said, I just met him yesterday."

"Ah."

Antonio wished he was wearing a shirt. He hadn't expected the company of a stranger. Right now, the disgusting, shiny scar on his chest was far too visible. He really, really hoped Arthur wouldn't ask about it. He hated talking about that fire. He hated having to remember it. As it was, Antonio was finding it impossible to forget that day. Its horrors.

Several minutes passed like this, in tangled, awkward silence. Finally, Arthur cleared his throat and muttered, "Well, it's nice meeting you."

"You too."

And the Englishman ambled back into Francis's room and shut the door behind him.

Antonio went to the bathroom shortly after, and got ready for work. He had to be there at nine, when the café opened. Elizabeta would help him for the first week, and then he had to learn to do things on his own. He wasn't terribly excited about it, but he needed the money. Before, he used to love his job. Teaching students gave him unparalleled joy, even if some of them could be really annoying. They liked him, and he was a good teacher. But a decent teaching position was hard to come by over here, and Antonio really, really, really couldn't afford to be picky.

In the shower, he absently traced his scars. It had become a habit. There were just so many of them. The medical bills had almost destroyed him. And sometimes, the old wounds still stung. He dried himself and wore his clothes. The marks on his skin were completely covered by the cloth.

But they were still there, weren't they?

The people at The Hungarian Café were extremely friendly. There was Elizabeta, the owner and manager, Tino, Yao, Carlos, waiters, and Ivan, the bartender. Ivan was a little frightening, but that was probably because he was so large. He seemed nice enough. The kitchen was run by a dark-haired woman with brown eyes.

He liked all the people, but utterly loathed the kitchen. There was too much fire and heat. He could smell it in the air. Tino helped him understand the rules of the job, explained the menu card and how the tipping system worked. "Don't be nervous," Tino assured, "We're all like family here."

Sure, but Antonio was still weary of entering the kitchen. He had to, of course. That was the problem. He would tense up every time he saw an open flame, but it helped to count backwards from one-hundred. The routine was calming, and he would alternate between counting in English and Spanish, whispering the words under his breath. He'd even sing Spanish songs softly, only for his ears.

He liked speaking to the diners, though. Antonio had excellent people skills, and Elizabeta was very impressed with how he managed to pacify an irate customer and exact a handsome tip from him too.

Antonio worked there every day, from nine in the morning to one in the afternoon, and from three in the afternoon to seven in the evening. He would wait tables, serve drinks, and sometimes, when they were short-staffed, sweep the floor. Two weeks later, he was no less comfortable with entering the kitchen as he was before, but as long as there wasn't a fire right in his face—and obviously, there never was—he felt like he could handle it. If it got too bad—and sometimes, it really did—he would excuse himself for a few minutes and lock himself inside the giant walk-in freezer. The cold helped. It really, really helped.

By the time he was done with work, evening would start to set in. On his way home, he'd walk past the creepy-looking dance studio, never going too close for fear of hearing the lovely Latin music again.

He'd been having different dreams, lately. Dreams of his parents dancing in the kitchen, before being swallowed whole by a hungry, angry fire. He would still wake up shaking and sweaty, but he'd also often find himself humming a Salsa rhythm or tapping his fingers to the tune of a Samba beat.

It was three weeks into his job when he noticed Lovino for the second time.

Feliciano worked as a tour guide in an art museum. He loved what he did, and Ludwig envied that. Ludwig himself was an engineer. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but he was starting to find the profession repetitive and dry. Sure, he was very good at what he did, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it. But then, what else would he do? Ludwig couldn't see himself as being anything but an engineer. Feli would often try to think up alternative professions for him, but it was just no use.

Ludwig worked long hours, and it was rare for him to get home before his husband. Feli would always have lavish dinners prepared for him, and on those rare days when Ludwig was home at a reasonable hour, they'd eat together, often not saying a word. He liked this the best. Feli was rarely ever quiet, but even he would fall silent sometimes, just happy with each other's company.

Lately, however, this routine had been thrown out of whack. Not because of Lovino. Even when the elder Vargas was at home—and he always was—he was always shut away in the guest bedroom. On the few occasions when Ludwig had tried to make conversation with him, he was rewarded with cold, unhealthy silences. Lovino had never been the quiet type, but these days, he was as undisruptive as a feather.

The schedule had been messed up for one very simple reason. Not Lovino.

But Lovino.

Ever since they went out for dinner at that café, Lovino had been extremely fidgety. As though he was expecting to be attacked. Then one morning, Feliciano went to make breakfast, to find that it had already been prepared. A cheese quiche for Feli, and potato pancakes for Ludwig. The kitchen had been swept until the countertops gleamed. On the table, Lovino had left a note. Gone to buy groceries. Will be back soon.

And that was just the start of it. Every morning, they'd wake to find that Lovino had spent all night cooking, doing the laundry, sweeping the house, polishing the silverware, scrubbing the floors. Groceries would magically reappear the day before they ran out. Ludwig even discovered, with mild horror, that his underwear had been ironed and folded. All the housework that Ludwig and Feliciano did together was now being done overnight by Lovino. Lovino, who would seldom emerge from his room during the day.

Feliciano marvelled at this. "It's so nice to see him take an interest in things again," the Italian had commented happily.

Ludwig was not so easily convinced. If he didn't know any better, he'd think that this behaviour was almost manic. Ludwig would see raw desperation in the shiny counters and sparkling glasses. He didn't mention this to Feli; he didn't want to make his husband unnecessarily upset. What if Ludwig was wrong?

But his fears were confirmed one evening when Ludwig came home before Feliciano. Feli had said he'd be late, because of some work party. He'd asked Ludwig to come, but the German had flat-out declined. He didn't want to make polite conversation, not after a long day of mundane work.

The German took out his office shoes by the door and wore his house slippers, setting his briefcase down on the couch. It was only six in the evening. Ludwig really was home early today. As had become custom of late, the house was in sparkling condition.

He heard noises from the kitchen. The furious thudthudthudthud of a knife hitting a chopping board. A bad feeling came to him as he decided to investigate.

Lovino was chopping tomatoes with so much fervour that it was amazing he hadn't sliced off his own thumb. Thudthudthudthud, went the knife. His whole body was shaking slightly. There was a pot of boiling water on the stove. A plate of mashed potatoes on the counter. Thudthudthudthud. He decimated one tomato, cleanly swiped it off the board and into a bowl, took another tomato, and began the process again.

"Lovino," Ludwig began in greeting, but it was the wrong thing to do.

Thudthudthu—

The brunet suddenly cussed in Italian as a plume of red burst from his finger and splattered all over the chopping board. He turned swiftly to face Ludwig, and his face paled. Eyes widening in panic, he snapped, "Fuck, fuck, the tomatoes are ruined now."

Ludwig raised his arms to pacify the Italian. Manic. Downright hysterical. The German had been right all along.

"Oh fuck, they're covered in blood. Shit, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry!" His accented English turned to garbled Italian as tears flooded his eyes. His thumb was still dribbling blood, but it had clotted. Lovino sunk to the floor, still sobbing. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, I've ruined everything, I've ruined everything! There's no way you want to keep me here, I'm such a fucking loser. My bags are packed, I should just—"

"Mein Gott," Ludwig whispered in alarm at the sight before him. Louder, he said, "Lovino, please, you have to calm down." He approached the Italian. "Let me look at your thumb." But Lovino's whole frame was quaking, and he was beyond comprehensible. It took all of Ludwig's nerve to keep his cool.

He began by speaking to Lovino in soft German, the way Gilbert used to calm him after a nightmare. A normal Lovino would have disdained this, but the Italian was utterly devastated right now. He didn't even make a face. Cleaning the wound was easy enough; it wasn't too deep, and all it needed was a scrub with antiseptic and a band-aid.

By the end of it, Lovino was sitting on the kitchen floor with his head in his knees. The water on the stove had all but evaporated, and Ludwig quietly turned it off. "Lovino, why don't we go get some air?" he questioned, dumping the ruined tomatoes into the bin. The Italian didn't protest when he was gently led into the car.

They sat in silence as Ludwig drove. He didn't have any idea where he was going, but the cool evening air splashed against their faces, and Lovino's tear tracks died. He seemed to have calmed down.

"Fuck. What a scene," he muttered.

Ludwig glanced at him from the corner of his eyes. "Indeed. Do you feel any better?"

"Not really."

"Are you really that worried we're going to throw you out on the street?" the German asked with a sigh.

"I've been an absolute pain in the ass for the both of you." Lovino's eyes went to his lap in guilt. "I've been a complete fucking mess. I don't even know why."

"We have our moments," Ludwig replied easily. "You were there for Feliciano when your grandfather died. He was just as bad, if not worse."

"Must be a Vargas thing," Lovino quipped darkly. "Turning into puddles of tears whenever something bad happens."

Ludwig glanced at him again. "We're not going to throw you out, just so you know. You don't have to slave away to keep the house so tidy, like some kind of silent, invisible manservant."

Lovino laughed. It sent a chill down Ludwig's spine. It always unnerved him how the elder Vargas brother could modulate his laughter to make it sound so frightening. He was sarcastic and snappy in general, but when he laughed like that, Ludwig involuntarily became a little bit edgy. The Italian said, "If the roles were reversed, if you had hurt Feli, and if Feli was being a damn mess, moping around my place all the time…I think I would have chucked him out."

"I sincerely doubt that," Ludwig replied earnestly. "You have a rather tough exterior, I know, but your patience is superhuman. I was there, remember? I was there when your grandfather died. I saw the way you handled everything, from the funeral arrangements, to Feli's health. You were in just as much pain as he was, but you took it all silently. You do realise, Lovino, how much I respect you."

"Really?" Lovino tilted his head to one side, a disbelieving smirk on his face.

"Yes."

"Liar."

"I am not lying."

"Whatever." He paused, and then said, "I'm sorry for all the shit I've caused for both of you."

"Don't worry about it. You're family."

"Family doesn't freeload. Not like this."

Ludwig was about to reply, but he felt the car strain. Even Lovino noticed, because the vehicle spluttered and began to limp, the smooth cruising turning into a desperate crawl down the road. In five minutes, the car had completely broken down.

"Brilliant," Ludwig snapped.

Lovino stepped out, and Ludwig followed suit. The Italian threw open the bonnet. "I thought your German cars were supposed to be excellent," he muttered tersely.

"It's an old car." Ludwig looked around, trying to understand where exactly they were. "Oh, look at that. The Hungarian Café." He noticed Lovino follow his gaze to the little establishment across the road.

"Great. Cheers. Now what?" Lovino crossed his arms and gave Ludwig a flat look.

Ludwig whipped out his phone. "I'm going to call a mechanic. Then I suppose we can have a beer."

"Wine."

"Ja, whatever you want."

As Ludwig pressed the phone to his ear, Lovino began to look around. The car had broken down right in front of Shal We Danc? The Italian could hear chirpy music coming from behind the door. Despite himself, the Italian dared to walk up to it. Just to hear the music a bit better.

That was Latin music, wasn't it? He tried to imagine what dance it could be for. Rumba? Salsa? Salsa was a Latin dance, wasn't it? Lovino kept approaching the door, the music getting louder and louder as he did.

Lovino didn't know how it had happened, but before he even understood what was making him do this, he'd pushed the door open and entered the dance class.

The first thing that hit him was the light. While it was poorly lit outside, Lovino's eyes were assaulted by a warm yellow glow of lamps hanging from the ceiling. He blinked in surprise. What the heck was he doing here?

The room was large, with a polished wooden floor and benches along the walls. There was a drinking water station on one end and a stereo system on the other. There were only five other people in the room. Four of them had been divided into pairs, and were doing some sort of spinning movements. One of them was standing in between the two sets of dancers, giving comments and encouragement.

This man was tall, dark-skinned, with chocolate eyes and a toothy smile. His black hair was only a little bit sweaty. He wore a pair of faded blue jeans, and a white shirt under a green and yellow vest. The first couple of buttons were undone, revealing the makings of a toned chest and what looked like the tooth of a lion around his neck. Lovino hoped it was a fake.

The man glanced up as the Italian entered, his eyes widening in surprise. Even his four students momentarily faltered.

"Keep dancing, guys," he told them, before swiftly walking up to Lovino. He grinned, shaking Lovino's hand. "Hello. I'm Luciano da Silva. I'm from Brazil, haha. I'm the teacher here. And you must be…?"

Lovino just blinked at the man for a few stupid seconds before choking out a feeble, "'Vino."

He leaned closer. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that?"

The Italian cleared his throat. "Lovino. Vargas. Italy."

"Ah, hello, Lovino! Tell me, how can I help you?"

Excellent question. Fucking million dollar question.

Lovino blinked stupidly at the man again.

Luciano da Silva gave him a sympathetic smile. "First time in a dance class, eh? Are you interested in learning? It's a lot of fun!"

"Um…uh…no."

Luciano's face didn't fall, as Lovino had expected. The Brazilian just laughed. "Have you come to watch?"

Sure. He could go with that.

"Yeah. My…my brother's actually thinking off learning," Lovino prattled off, the lie coming to him easier than expected, "And he asked me to check it out, since, you know, he's got work commitments today."

"Oh," Luciano said with a smile. "Sure, of course you can watch. Sit anywhere you like. We're dancing Salsa today." He looked over his shoulder affectionately to his four students, before turning back to Lovino. "Let me know if there's anything I can help you with, Lovino."

The Italian shook his head and sat on the nearest bench, the one closest to the door. "Thanks, this is fine."

"Great." Luciano grinned at him before walking back up to his students, idly saying, "Anna, watch your footwork."

"Right," said a short brunette, "Sorry. The beat's too fast."

"Just focus on the count," Luciano said with an encouraging smile.

This sounded completely foreign to Lovino. He had no idea what they were talking about. All he could do was stare in captivation at the way their bodies swirled across the room. The male leads would dip the women, or spin them, or twirl them. They would skim across the floor, almost like a breeze. Their bodies moved like water, fluid and confident. Occasionally, one of them would stumble. But they would quickly recover, always depending on their partners to carry the step forward for them.

Lovino watched this in unabashed fascination. He'd never actually seen people dance like this. Even on Ludwig and Feli's wedding day, their movements had been awkward and disconnected. Both of them had laughed about it, though, and everyone watching had thought it was adorable. But it hadn't been dancing.

The song came to an end, and Luciano dived for the stereo before it began playing something else. "Right, class," he told them, clapping his hands together to get their attention. "Well done. I think we should practice some Jive, because god knows we've been ignoring that for a couple of days now. Sounds like a plan?"

"Aw, come on, Lu," complained one of the men. He was Korean, by the looks of it. "Give us five minutes. My feet are killing me."

Luciano laughed. "Oh, alright. Take a break, then."

There was a collective sigh of relief as the students dispersed. Anna took off her shoes, and her partner, a blonde with a large grin, went straight for the drinking water dispenser. The other two, the Korean man and a girl with hazel hair, went immediately to sit on one of the benches. All four of them would shoot glances at Lovino, but none of them went up to say anything. That was fine. He wasn't feeling too talkative.

Luciano came up to him. "So, what did you think? Would your brother enjoy this sort of thing?"

Lovino shrugged. "You said that was Salsa?"

"Yup. And we'll do Jive, next. Jive's a lot of fun. And then, we break and go home." Sitting beside Lovino, Luciano continued, "Three days a week, seven-fifteen to eight-fifteen."

"Cool."

"The rates are pretty decent, too." He gave a short chuckle. "I mean, they have to be. We'd be totally out of business, otherwise."

"Mm. Yeah. That place with the pathetic name, they're sucking up all your business, huh?"

"The Spanish Armada?" Luciano snorted. "It's so stupid. Not all Latin dances even come from Spain. I mean, come on. That's general knowledge. Most come from Latin America, hence the name." He rolled his eyes.

"And the Spanish Armada was a naval disaster," Lovino added. "Why would you name a dance class something like that?"

"True, true. But no matter what we say about it, it's the place to be, these days."

"Why's that?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. I personally think it's because they teach you this cheap, bastardised, showy version of the dances. I've been there a couple of times. They've got an open dance floor on Saturdays. Man, the students there…they're complete idiots. They don't know what they're doing. And me? I've danced all my life. It's in my blood. My dad used to own this studio. It was his dream. So I'll do anything to keep it afloat. But I won't ruin the character of the dances themselves. My dad would rather have this place shut down than have its essence stolen from it."

"Intense," Lovino commented, and Luciano laughed.

"You guys talking about the Armada?" the hazel-haired girl called from across the room. She walked up to them and smiled at Lovino.

"Emma, nice to meet you," she greeted.

"Lovino Vargas."

"Yeah, Em, we're talking about those suckers," Luciano muttered. From behind Emma, the Korean fellow walked up, followed closely by Anna and the blonde with the grin.

Lovino was introduced to them in rapid succession. Im Yong Soo, Mathias Køhler, Anna Smith. Korea, Denmark, Australia—or, as she liked to call it, Wy. And Emma was from Belgium.

"You should have seen this place in its heyday," Emma reminisced. Apparently, from the four of them, she'd been around the longest. "It was so amazing. You'd have people from all walks of life coming in here just to dance. For the love of it, you know? And then this stupid Spanish Armada crap came up. The only reason they're so popular is because they've won a couple of dance competitions, and they've just had better advertising, that's all. I've been there, too. Lame. Lame as heck. I feel like they make a mockery of dance."

"So now…it's just the five of you? Four, technically, since you're the teacher, Luciano."

"Well, we do have a couple of other people come in. Sometimes, I mean. But they're our old regulars, you know? From my dad's time. What this place needs is new blood, or it's really going to shut down." Luciano ran a worried hand through his hair, but then his chirpiness came right back. "Anyway, not to worry. Come on guys, break's over. Time to Jive, yes?"

Jive was very different. This was three-step Jive, and it looked like a series of hops. The stereo played some sort of American music Lovino didn't recognise, but the dance looked like so much fun, he couldn't help tapping his foot to it anyway.

Lovino almost completely forgot about Ludwig until he happened to feel a vibration in his pocket and took out his phone. Oh, shit. His phone had been on vibrate, and Ludwig had called about four times. He winced.

Luciano had come between Anna and Mathias, and was currently helping them get some sort of spinning step correctly. Lovino hated to disturb them, but walked up to them anyway.

"I have to go. Brother-in-law's going to yell my ears out if I don't. Thanks for having me. Sorry for the intrusion."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Luciano said. "It was wonderful to talk to you, Lovino."

The Italian nodded at him, and then at Mathias and Anna. He didn't bother trying to get Emma and Im Yong Soo's attention; they were far too involved in the dance. "Tell them—" he jerked his head towards the dancing pair—"I said bye."

"Of course," Luciano said. "Come back any time you want."

"Sure."

When Lovino walked out of the dance class, it was with a feeling of wrongness. Something told him that he didn't belong outside; he had to go back in there, he had to listen to the music, he had to watch them dance.

But Lovino exited Shal We Danc? and ran right into Ludwig.

"Hola, good evening! Can I take your order?" Antonio rattled off in mechanical chirpiness at the new customers. He lowered his notepad just a little, and almost dropped it in surprise. "Oh, Senors Beilschmidt and Vargas! It's so nice to meet you again."

Ludwig offered a small smile, but Lovino just scowled. Well, okay. Ludwig said, "Good evening, Antonio. How do you like working here?"

"Oh, it's good fun. The people are lovely." He smiled, and said, "So, what would you like to have?"

"Krombacher, if you don't mind. And Lovino, you'll have…?"

"The house wine," the Italian deadpanned.

"Red or white?"

"Is that even a question?" he sneered. "Red."

Antonio quickly scribbled that down, and asked, "Anything to eat?"

Ludwig looked a little uncomfortable at the question, but gave a very meaningful look towards Lovino. "Maybe you should…?" the German suggested to the Italian.

Lovino rolled his eyes. "Fine, get off my fucking case." His polished golden eyes looked right into Antonio—right into his soul, almost—and he said, "A tomato. Sliced."

"…That's all?"

"Yeah, do you mind?" he spat.

Antonio smiled a little, making a note of it. "You like tomatoes, huh? So do I. They're the best."

When Antonio returned with their drinks and a plate of cut tomatoes, he found them arguing about a car. Ludwig was sitting stiff-backed and distant, and Lovino was waving his arms around in the air animatedly, his face red with anger, his Italian accent getting more and more pronounced.

"—not like I'm a child, I can go wherever the fuck I want to go. Anyway, I was right there." He pointed vaguely to an establishment across the road. Antonio didn't follow Lovino's gestures. "The car was right fucking outside! And it's all fixed now, isn't it? So what the fuck is your problem?"

"All I'm saying is, you should have told me. I was really concerned."

"Oh, the hell you were," the Italian snapped as Antonio set his glass of wine down in front of him. A sudden quiet fell upon the table, and Antonio turned to leave. Except, he felt a hand catch onto his wrist, and the Spaniard turned. "Oi, you, sit the fuck down."

Antonio blinked. "What?"

"He's working, Lovino," Ludwig tried to reason.

"Yeah, good for him. I'm a fucking customer and I'm asking him to pull up a chair and sit the fuck down."

Antonio's gaze swept over to Ludwig, who just let out a defeated sigh. Lovino had an unnatural fire in his eyes. There was not a trace of humour on his face. A little bit nervous, Antonio pulled up a spare seat and settled in, all too aware of the fact that if Elizabeta caught him now, he was going to get shouted at. As it was, Tino, from across the floor, was frowning at him in confusion. He'd seen everything. Antonio caught his eye, and shrugged.

"Si?" the Spaniard asked, hesitant.

"You dance." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. "I know that now. I wasn't sure at first, but now I am."

"Lovino—" Ludwig began.

"I wasn't talking to you, was I, Potato Bastard?"

"Um…" Antonio started. "I used to dance, actually. But I don't anymore."

Lovino took an exaggeratedly long sip of his wine. He set the glass down on the table. "You want to know how I figured it out?"

"Okay?"

"It's the way you walk. Very, very graceful. People don't usually walk like that. And then, I was there—" Lovino pointed towards the derelict little dance class across the road. "And I saw the way those people walked. And I knew. I'm a journalist, and a fucking good one. These things rarely escape my notice."

"Uh…"

Lovino took another slow, thoughtful sip of his wine. "That's all I wanted to say, really. That you're a dancer."

Ludwig just sighed once more. But Antonio was staring at the Italian with wide eyes. His mouth was hanging slightly open. Lovino watched all of this very, very intently. Finally, the Spaniard managed to choke out, "I don't dance anymore."

"No, you don't," Lovino muttered. A short silence. "Thanks for the conversation." He drained his glass of wine. "Mind if I have a refill?"

"What the hell was that about?" Tino asked as soon as he caught Antonio alone.

"I literally have no clue." Haltingly, Antonio narrated the course of events. He didn't like the thought of a total stranger uncovering the fact that yes, indeed, he was a dancer. Or he used to be, anyway. It was one of those things that belonged to a happier past. Not the gloomy hole he'd managed to get stuck in right now. "Maybe he'd had too much to drink." But from the look in Lovino's eyes, Antonio knew that it wasn't so simple. Lovino had been as sober as they came.

"So, that was an interesting conversation," Ludwig commented as they drove back home. The German hadn't had that much beer, so driving wasn't a problem. Lovino was sulking, his head pressed against the glass of the car window.

"Yeah? I don't know what came over me."

The German snorted. "It sounded almost like you were…I don't know, it sounded like a combination of flirting and threatening, if that makes any sense."

"It doesn't." Lovino was scowling again. "And I wouldn't flirt with anyone that way." But he fell silent, and a gloomy chill descended upon the car. What was left unsaid was, I wouldn't flirt with anyone after Heracles.

"Mind if I ask you what this new-found curiosity with dance is all about?"

"Please, don't phrase it that way." Lovino shot Ludwig a look of distaste. "I wouldn't say it's curiosity. I think it's pity, actually."

"For that little dance class?"

"Yeah. I told you, those people seemed really sincere about the craft. And the place is going to collapse on them, I swear."

"Are you thinking of writing an article on them? Creating awareness?"

"You mean doing a feature? No. Don't feel like it."

"You need to get back to work sometime, Lovino."

"Fuck off, Ludwig. I can't deal with that shit right now."

The German sighed, but didn't pursue it. Lovino was too complicated for him to be able to handle, sometimes. But Lovino had seemed almost haunted when he'd stepped out of the dance class earlier that day. Ludwig didn't want to ask him. The Italian would just deny everything anyway. That was simply how Lovino was.

Antonio stopped outside the dance class before he left for home after work. It was shut. The neon lights were off. It looked like a washed-out hole in the wall. He tried to imagine this place as being popular and cool, but he simply couldn't. What would it have looked like? Bright lights flashing everywhere, loud music and the ceaseless stream of students? Maybe…but Antonio simply couldn't picture it.

His parents would have loved it, Antonio figured. They hated things that were outwardly popular, but lacked substance. He tried to imagine his parents as he best liked them; young and happy, with his mother blushing and his father with that cheeky smile, as the spun across the kitchen that Sunday morning. But the memory was becoming tainted with the nightmares that had begun to plague him. A fire sweeping them away. Ashes, explosions, blood, scars. In his dreams, they were dancing as the flames closed in on them, his mother with her blush, his father with that smile. Completely oblivious to their imminent doom.

Antonio shook his head. And then, without really realising what he was doing, the Spaniard began to tap his foot. One-two-three, five-six-seven. Step, tap, step, step, tap, step. The Salsa basic. Did he still remember the moves? He tried spinning in place. It was embedded into his consciousness like it belonged there. Step, tap, step, step, tap, step.

As slowly as he begun, he stopped.

Antonio felt calm. The sudden realisation would have surprised him, but he just felt too serene right now. All because of a simple Salsa basic step?

Biting back a small smile, he began the long walk back home.

For Lovino, the days dragged on. He would still lock himself up in the guest bedroom, barely emerging, except to clean the house. He still did that; the incident from before did nothing to deter him. Ludwig kept trying to talk him out of it—there was no need to feel obliged to slave away—but he just spat sarcastic retorts. All of this would happen behind Feliciano's back. Both Lovino and Ludwig knew that if Feliciano found out the actual cause behind Lovino's hard work, he would throw a fit. "Like I'd ever kick you out when you're down!" he'd probably shout, with tears streaming down his face.

But even Feli was starting to notice things. For one, Lovino's appetite had decreased even further. Once, he fainted. He was having a shower, so he dropped to the floor in the bathroom. It mustn't have been very long, because he was aware of waking up with water streaming on him. When he got dressed, neither Feliciano, nor Ludwig had noticed anything out of the ordinary. Lovino ate a full meal that day. (He threw up most of it later.)

"He even refuses to speak to a therapist," Feliciano muttered one evening. He and Ludwig were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, Ludwig reading a mystery novel, Feli flipping through a cookbook. "I'm getting seriously concerned."

Ludwig sighed, closing his book. He tapped his glasses back onto place on his nose, and slowly said, "Feli…I think I might have something to do with it."

"What do you mean?"

And Ludwig told him about the incident with the chopping board and the knife, Lovino's thirty-minute disappearance when the car broke down, the Italian's behaviour after emerging from that creepy dance class, and the way he forced Antonio Carriedo to talk to him. By the end of it all, Feliciano was looking at him with wide, stricken eyes.

"I should have told you sooner," Ludwig admitted.

"Ve, you should have."

"I'm sorry."

Feliciano was quiet. "Dance classes, you said?"

"Ja. He seemed…how do I put it? Perkier. Not happy, exactly. Just…more lively. More responsive."

"Oh."

And that was where the conversation ended.

Antonio's life was becoming one massive blur. A repetitive routine. Work, rent, nightmares, work, rent, nightmares. Antonio found Arthur hanging around the house more often—only during the mornings. According to Gilbert, this was an interesting thing. Francis never slept with the same person twice. This Arthur was clearly an exception. Gilbert would spend a lot of time with Matthew, of course, but the German would also drag his flatmates out drinking. This became routine too. Stumbling home at some ungodly hour, dead-drunk and spluttering nonsense, only to wake up with a killer hangover the next morning.

One Sunday afternoon, Francis decided to make crème brûlée. When he switched on the blow torch, Antonio fell off his chair in a panicked yell. Another time, a car backfiring somewhere down the street made Antonio curl up in his bed, shaking in terror. Neither Gilbert nor Francis even knew what to do.

"I'm pathetic," Antonio muttered sullenly one morning, after another similar episode involving a broken plate.

"You've been through a traumatic event," Francis reasoned. "Don't be so hard on yourself."

"Ja, Franny's right," Gilbert said, throwing an arm around Antonio. "These things take time to recover from."

"Mm."

The only relief came from stolen glances. Sometimes at work, Antonio's eyes would wander towards Shall We Dance? Wayward glimpses morphed into humming dance tunes in a soft voice. And with the music, came the memories. He'd sometimes stop outside the little dance class after work, just listening to the music from behind the door. It had become something of an addiction.

Antonio was a little tipsy after finishing half a bottle of wine with Francis. It was one of those rare evenings when the Frenchman was home early. Gilbert was in his room, working on his thesis. They'd offered him the drink, but he'd sneered at them and said that he didn't want 'stupid pansy crap' anyway. While putting the glasses away, the Spaniard accidentally fell into a Jive basic.

Francis stared. "What did you just do?"

And a drunk Antonio laughed. "Jive. It's fun!"

"You know how to dance, mon ami?"

"Do I know how to dance?" Antonio snorted, somewhat conceited. "I've been dancing since I was ten. Since I saw my parents Salsa across the kitchen. I stopped after they died, though."

"Oh," Francis said with a seemingly approving nod. "Yes, I see how that solves matters."

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"Yes," Francis sighed with an eye-roll. "Yes, Toni, I am."

That night, Antonio had a very vivid dream. His parents were dancing again. But this time, they were in an empty ballroom with only one spotlight which kept following them. The music kept changing, and so did their movements. Salsa, Tango, Paso Doble, Jive, Cha-Cha-Cha, Samba, Rumba, Waltz…

Antonio couldn't remember if his parents had actually known all these dances. He doubted it. But in the dream, their movements were precise, perfectly timed. Their bodies worked as one, a team, a perfect partnership that did everything in exacting synchrony. Antonio himself knew all these dances, but he'd never had a partner like that.

When he awoke, dance music kept playing in his head.

"Fuck you, Feliciano, fuck you."

Feliciano wanted to pat himself on the back, but that would require taking his hands off the wheels. Really, though, he deserved every bit of praise he got for his skills in convincing his brother. Lovino had been suspicious from the start, but when his elder brother finally recognised the street, he really began to protest. And then, Feliciano told him.

"But it makes you happy, right? Just give it a shot."

"I didn't say that! Nobody said that! Your stupid Potato Bastard husband is making shit up."

"Well, then why did you enter that dance class in the first place?"

Lovino had no response. Why had he entered Shal We Danc? The simple truth was staring him in the face. Because the music had called to him. Lovino knew this, and by Feliciano's sneaky grin, his younger brother knew it too. They were two years apart, but there were times when they knew what the other was thinking, almost as if they were twins. Lovino had been so enraptured by the dancing, the sweeping movements across the floor, the grace, the life in each step.

And that was why he'd been so miserable since that day. After witnessing such perfection, and knowing he could never be a part of it…

"Just give it a chance." Feliciano's car stopped in front of the dance class. "It's pretty cheap, you know? I already paid for your lesson tonight!"

"This place is a dump," Lovino sulked, crossing his arms.

"I saw The Spanish Armada. It was a lot better, although very, very pricey. It's up to you, really, fratello. But I just want you to give this a shot. For me? I've been so worried seeing you so upset all the time."

"I hate you. I hate this."

Feliciano smiled at him, squeezing his shoulder. "Thank you."

"Class, we have two new members joining us today!" Luciano said, his face splitting into a grin. He clapped his hands together. Emma, Im Yong Soo, Mathias and Anna all smiled warmly at Lovino. The second 'new member' hadn't yet arrived.

And then, the door opened, and Antonio Fernandez Carriedo peeked in. "Hola," he said with that sheepish, endearing laugh. "Sorry I'm late. Just got off work." He stepped inside, and his eyes met Lovino's.

He looked startled. Lovino's eyes widened.

"Hello, Antonio," Luciano said. "That's alright, we've not yet started."

"I thought you said you didn't dance," Antonio said softly, a small smile in Lovino's direction.

"Yeah? You said something similar."

A/N:

*Luciano da Silva: A fan character for Brazil that I found on wiki. I take no ownership of him.

*Anna Smith: A human name I came up with for Wy.

*Lentamente: This title is the name of a song I found in a Spamano AMV on Youtube. Its artist is Studio 3. The song is in a combination of Italian and Spanish, and the version I heard was sung by two men, almost like it was made for Spamano.

What inspired this fic? Several things. I love dancing!Spamano, to begin with. I've read some wonderful fics about this AU, and I just really wanted to write one myself. A fic that helped me develop the premise for this story was The Poison Dance by Scarabsi. Another thing that really motivated me was my own love for dance. I only learned ballroom dancing for a couple of months before I had to stop, but man, I loved it. I just adored it.

I've planned this fic as a three-chapter story. The song at the beginning of the chapter is Shall We Dance which is in the movie 'The King and I'. The song is also the title of another movie, starring Jennifer Lopez and Richard Gere.

I wanted to depict a relationship of some sort between Ludwig and Lovino. I think that in a Human!AU where Ludwig is married to Feli, Lovi would at least try to get along with him. Also, the name The Hungarian Café has been borrowed from a book I read a while ago.

Thank you for reading! Please review :)