Routine: A Prumano Fanfiction

Five

He remembers the last time they spoke.

One of the most important rules of having a friend-with-benefits is: never, under any circumstances, develop feelings for the other. If you do, which you probably will, don't talk about it. Shit'll hit the fan faster than you can finish your sentence. Lovino "Romano" Vargas knew this. However, with the right combination of alcohol, fatigue, and enamor, those three words are easy to let slip past your lips. And when they did...everything slipped through his fingers.

They'd done a wonderful job of avoiding each other, but they couldn't do it forever. Their paths crossed at the same old bar. Something had told Romano to stay at home, but...maybe he just had to see him, one more time.

For once, the table was quiet.

Gilbert was the first to speak.

"Listen...If I had known it would come to this, I never would have fucked you in the first place. Relationships aren't my style, you know that." That was as much of an apology as he could muster.

The Italian remained silent.

Prussia left the other with a pat on the shoulder. There was no more he could do, in his eyes. He'd get over it eventually, right? No need to be all girly about it.

Romano took his leave soon after. Why stay any longer? There was nothing for him there.

Upon entering his home, he turned his phone off, not wanting to be bothered, and reached for the six-pack he kept in the fridge. He needed to forget, somehow. Who cares if beer only reminded him of the one who got away? Before long, he'd be in such a stupor the only things he'd feel escaping him would be the tears. Before long, he'd be numb even to that.

He knew he hated beer.

...Maybe he liked it a little.

This became the new routine: Wake up. Drink. Remember. Drink. Forget. Drink. Cry. Drink. Sleep. Repeat. The empty cans littering the floor were a poor representation of the mess Gilbert had left him in. He didn't care. A dark cloud haunted him for weeks on end, growing larger and stronger until alcohol couldn't chase it away. His life had become a perpetual rainstorm, sadness chilling him to the bone. Impossible to defend against, he hoped the rain would wash everything away.

South Italy always was more prone to flooding.