I write a lot, inside my head. I do it all the time, actually. I've always loved the feeling of words, the comfort. I write about what's happening most of the time, but sometimes I write about what I want to happen. Sometimes it's an A on the next maths exam, other times I write about making a new friend. But usually it's about the one thing I can never have. A kiss, a real one, from Lovino. I know, it's a silly thing to write inside my head, but I can't help it!

Sometimes, his lips are soft and gentle, but other times I imagine them chapped and rough. I make a point not to look at his lips (in case I accidentally kiss him), so I don't actually know what they would feel like. I can guess they'd be soft from the customary kisses on the cheeks we greet each other with, but still. It's not the same. Lips are more sensitive than cheeks.

"Feliciano, hey, Feliciano wake up," Lovino is saying, poking my head rather harshly. I send him the closest thing I can get to a glare, which is just a faltered smile, and catch his hand before he can stab me again.

"That hurts," I say, a pout in my voice. His expression falters and he looks away. If I was writing this, I would make now the time that he looks back up at me, a bashful expression on his face. Then, he would pull me closer, and gently, ever so gently, press his lips against mine. But I'm not writing this. This is real life, not a fantasy.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, then says in a more clear tone, "idiot." Normally I would fake being hurt by his name-calling, but I just don't have it in me right now. Instead I sigh. The sort of long and deep sigh that one has after dealing with a two year old who spent the last two-and-a-half hours screaming at the top of it's lungs over a piece of candy.

"I know, Lovino. I know I'm an idiot," I say, gently. And I write inside. I write about him taking a worried glance (which he does in real life too) at me, and then I write him holding my hands (which he does not do). I see him leaning forward. I see his eyes glimmer with love and adoration. I see him kiss me, but only in my writer's mind. I almost cry.

"Feliciano, what's wrong? You're not yourself," Lovino asks, gently wiping away a tear with his thumb. He knows, I can see it, he knows that these are not my usual crocodile tears. He knows these are real, and full of hurt and pain. I can't speak. I can only cry, burying myself in the chest that has comforted me more times than either of us would admit, the chest that has the most fragile heart beating inside, a heart surrounded by walls of pure ice, covered in sharpened metal sticks and barbed wire. A heart that I have the rare gift of a place inside of it. Not that either of us would admit it aloud.

"Feli, please. I hate seeing you like this, dammit, it hurts me too!" Lovino shouts, voice strained by tears that he's holding back. I look up at him and try to say something, I really do, but I can't. The words won't come out. He must have seen something in my eyes, because he leans down and kisses me gently.

By the way, his lips are decidedly smooth and feathery soft, but can be forceful sometimes.