- 003. Angry
Romano thinks to sit up, but doesn't; the motion is too casual, to marked an end to what this is.
This. He tilts his head, longs for a cigarette, something to keep him busy, mindless. Like laundry; he minded it when he was little and needed a stepladder to reach the line, but after all the sheets and blankets and clothes were pinned and drying, he went tumbling amongst the fresh clean and hasn't forgotten the feeling.
This. He forgets. Naked, in Spain's bed? Yes, that seems about right. Naked with a sheet covering him somewhat, staring forlornly at the ceiling like it holds some sort of secret. He wants the stars again, is suddenly freezing cold without his sun. But this feeling, he's addicted to it, this rush of sin and danger. How a mafioso must feel, a criminal; not doing it for the profit, really, but for the thrill of it.
Spain. The b*****d. Where'd he go. Lovino closed his eyes, rolled them around, counted to ten. In the kitchen. The living room. Dealing with some poor soul who decided to come to the door in the middle of their sin- he didn't want to remember, just wanted him back where he belonged. Mindless, careless, with Lovino, forever maybe.
Damn him for making Romano want him so badly when he leaves. That anger, like a thick cloud, heats his stomach, his chest and arms and throat until it envelops him. Hello once again, my friend.
How dare he; Spain. Weaver of the sunlight music between his fingers and the guitar, his laugh (flash of teeth bright like pearls) a drug, blood hot and skin, skin that is marked with scars that Lovi traces as Spain sleeps unaware.
A swipe of dirt across his cheek, doubled over covered in his own blood in the hot dirt under the hot sun on a hot, horrible day, his anger that strikes Romano like a pipe to the chest; knocks him breathless, fearful. How he apologizes and makes it better, won't leave him the ******** alone.
Romano remembers his imperfections, because that's what he wants to hate about him. But the b*****d has to make everything so damn difficult.
