31 Day OTP Challenge - SpaMano

Chapter 11: Learning to Play Guitar

Chapter 11: Learning to Play Guitar

Monday, October 19, 2015

Lovino walked through the front door of his shared house and collapsed onto the couch. He was fucking exhausted. He had been in and out of art classes and art history classes since eight that morning. It was already well past three in the afternoon. He just wanted to take an afternoon siesta. Hell, he wanted to go to bed, but he knew he couldn't. He had to prepare dinner. It was once again his night to cook. He was half tempted to Antonio to take over. He would without a second thought, but Lovino felt bad for trying to take advantage of the fact that his boyfriend was a total pushover. He was also tempted to tell Antonio to fend for himself, but that was the same as telling him to cook because Lovino would inevitably mooch off of him for whatever he made. There was also take out, but the part time job that Lovino had gotten only managed to pay so much. He couldn't afford to order take out whenever he was too lazy to cook. No. He had to make dinner. He couldn't be a cold-hearted jackass to poor Antonio again. He had been a bastard as of late solely on the premise that he was tired. But Antonio was tired,t oo. He could see it in his eyes whenever he came home. Those dance lessons were seriously getting to him. They were getting to his ass, too, but that was a story for another time.

The Italian groaned and rubbed his face with his paint-covered hands. He had finally gotten productive in his classes. He had found his muse for all of his work. Now that he had it, he was diligently working. He was longer painting pictures of hyper-real tomatoes. No, this was better, so much more. Lovino glanced to the tomato painting on the wall. He had brought it home to store it one afternoon but made it no farther than the landing when Antonio stopped him and demanded to see it. Typically, he was too self-conscious to even show his work to his professors, but Antonio looked so earnest when he asked. He just had to show him out of sheer guilt. The second he unveiled the piece, however, he regretted it. The bastard insisted they put it on the fucking wall. Lovino fought it for a second or two but quickly gave up because he knew how stubborn his boyfriend was. Now, the painting hung up above their mantle.

Lovino closed his eyes to go to sleep. He could get to cooking in about an hour. It would be fine. He needed that hour of sleep. He was tired. He found himself drifting towards dreams. He dreamt of music, Italian at first. It was soft and lilting, and it reminded him of home. Home was where his family was. Grandpa Roma and Feliciano. Home was where he felt comfortable and safe. He belonged there. But his dreams also told him he belonged with someone else. He belonged with the twangs of Spanish music that emanated from an acoustic guitar. He belonged with the man that created the music that pulled at his heart. Home was with Antonio. He belonged with the man who wanted to give him the world. That beautiful Spanish music pulled him closer to the home he dreamt of, their little apartment with mismatched furniture and colorful utensils. Their tomato themed bathroom. In his dream, it seemed so real. The smiles he and Antonio gave each other. That beautiful Spanish man with the head of unruly curls and bright green eyes. Antonio.

Lovino's eyes cracked open and a rare smile formed on his lips. Even though the dream was brief, it still made him happy. That wonderful, frustrating, handsome bastard. The lilting Spanish music that his mind had managed to form for him. He wanted it all. He wanted that music to keep playing, to remind him of the man he cared for. And so it did. The music from his dream had not stopped. It still played, thrumming gently through the October afternoon. Lovino found himself listening to the vibrations, the hollow sound of the acoustic instrument. It was guitar, he realized. And guitar meant one thing.

Antonio.

Lovino pushed himself off of the couch and followed the sound outside onto the front porch of the house. And there he sat, guitar in his lap, against the wall. His eyes were closed as he plucked the strings with such eloquence. He didn't notice Lovino as he leaned against the wall. He was too engrossed in the instrument in his hands. Lovino didn't make his presence known, either. He felt no need. He just wanted to listen to the talented Spaniard play. He loved the calm between them, but he had no intentions of telling the bastard that.