It was a glorious day. The sun streamed through the leaves and bathed the garden in a soothing green. Francis lounged on his blanket, flipping the pages of his book. However, this day would not be complete without Lovino's ranting.

"And then—"

"Bend over," Francis interrupted, turning a page and watching Lovino put his hands on his hips.

"Excuse me?"

Lovino faced Francis, gardening apron stained with dirt. His gloves—covered in a delightful pattern of roses—were stuffed into his back pocket. The man claimed that he couldn't garden right unless he could feel the plant. The sunhat had blown off long ago, accompanied by swearing.

"Just do it," Francis sighed. A smile crept across his face as he watched Lovino's expression.

"Fine," he spat, bending down.

"Look between your legs."

Lovino craned his neck, looking up at Francis. His mouth was open in mock disgust. "You're such a pervert. Put a shirt on. Put some pants on." He nearly fell backwards into the garden.

Francis laughed, putting his book down and turning his full attention to Lovino. "You know you love looking at me. I see you peaking looks over your shoulder."

Lovino rested his elbows against his knees, still bent over. He put his chin in his hand and frowned at Francis, shaking his head. "My full attention is on my plants. I have to make sure none of the fucking tomatoes roll away."

Francis waved his hands. "Look between your legs."

Lovino rolled his eyes and did as he was instructed. There was a few moments of silence as Lovino stood, swaying slightly in his awkward position. Then, he noticed.

"You son of a bitch!" He shouted, straightening and spinning around. He fell to his knees and disappeared into the leaves of the tomato plants, returning triumphantly with a wayward fruit. "Thought you could get away, you dick—"

"Really, dear," Francis murmured, opening his book to the dog-eared page, "Must you cruse so much?"

"It helps the plants," Lovino defended quickly, placing the tomato in the nearby basket. "Anyways, so the little fucker I was talking about earlier, he gives me this look like it's my fault he got a damned C. Not my problem he didn't understand fucking conjugations. They teach that in, what, the first month of Italian."

"Is that the boy who switched into my class?"

The garden was suddenly ten degrees cooler.

Lovino pulled a weed violently out of the ground, throwing it aside. "'French and Italian are basically the same' my ass."

Francis laughed, abandoning his book once again to watch Lovino. The French teacher loved watching Lovino concentrate. Grading papers, weeding, cutting up vegetables—there was something so blissful in Lovino's furrowed brow. Lovino hated Francis' word, but he was beautiful.

Lovino sighed and wiped his forehead, looking up at the sky. It was almost too late in the year for this sort of day. The leaves on the trees were already turning color. The Italian fell back, sprawling in the grass and letting out a long sigh.

"Which plant should I save?"

Francis raised an eyebrow. "You haven't picked one out already?"

Lovino struggled up onto one elbow, pointing at one of the plants. "I was thinking that one, but it's a fucking bitch and needs more attention than a baby. But…"

Before Francis, Lovino's house was filled with plants over the winter. A second person in the house made it a bit cumbersome to have so many pots. After many months of debate, Lovino had moved most of them into the garden for the summer. He was only going to save the best of the bunch this fall.

Francis shook his head, watching Lovino debate internally.

"But there's that other one," He rolled to his other side and pointed, "That isn't the best a producing, but it's just so friendly. It took root and even when those damn creepers came, it was like 'fuck that!''"

"Mm," Francis agreed.

Lovino collapsed onto his back, resting his hands behind his head. He lapsed into silence, crossing and uncrossing his legs. "Italian is just like French. Pft."

The garden was glorious and Lovino was beautiful.