Lovino waited. He paced the floor. He crossed his arms. And he waited again.

Every time he looked at the clock he got just a little angrier, and he wasn't exactly a happy person to begin with. Where the hell was that bastard anyway? Lovino looked up at the clock again and growled. It was three in the fucking morning already. Damn him. Damn him to hell. Lovino hoped he got hit by a truck on his way home.

The Italian tried to shove back the surge of fear that rose in him. What if Antonio had been hit by a truck? It would be just like the tomato bastard to forget to look both ways before crossing the street. Damn it, he probably did get hit. Shit, what if he was laying out in the street dieing right now?

Not that Lovino cared, of course.

But he'd be pretty pissed if the Spaniard went and died while he was waiting here at his house for him. And on that note, why the hell was Lovino even still here? He'd come over to surprise Antonio after his afternoon siesta - and not because he missed the tomato bastard or anything; he just wanted to mooch more tomatoes off of him... - but the damn idiot wasn't home, and Lovino had to let himself in through the window in the back that he knew the moron never remembered to lock. Stupid bastard was going to get robbed one day; anyone could just let themselves into this big house of his.

So Lovino had waited for a little while, but somehow that little while turned into a long while, and he never did eat that dinner he'd planned on conning Antonio into cooking him - not that he liked his cooking - so now he was pissed and hungry, not to mention exhausted because it was three in the fucking morning, and where the hell was Antonio?

Lovino was about to head out and just hunt the damn Spaniard down himself when the front doors finally opened. He prepared his angriest glare for the bastard who would certainly have a lot of explaining to do. But then Antonio actually entered the house, and Lovino's anger faltered for all of three seconds when the man tripped over his own feet and nearly fell to the floor.

The realization that Antonio was drunk (which was hard not to notice once he'd spotted Lovino and gave him that semi-delusional grin) brought the fiery Italian's anger back ten fold.

"And just where the fuck have you been, huh?" he demanded, glaring at the grinning moron before him. "Do you have any fucking idea what time it is right now bastard? You made me wait here all night, and you come home drunk?"

"But Lovino, I didn't know you were coming over," Antonio pointed out, still obliviously happy, and Lovino honestly couldn't tell if that was from the alcohol or if it was just Antonio's typical behavior. And damn him for making a good argument even when drunk. Bastard.

"That doesn't answer the question!" Lovino snapped, glaring eyes following the Spaniard as he stumbled forward, arms spread out, and fuck he was trying to hug him wasn't he. "No, god damn it, I don't want your hugs," Lovino protested, trying to escape. Unfortunately, even when drunk, Antonio was bigger than him, and the Italian hardly stood a chance.

"Oh, Lovi~ Stop being s'angry," the Spaniard slurred, tightening his arms and nearly squeezing the life out of Lovino. "You're al'ays angry, y'know," he added, rubbing his face in the shorter's hair. Lovino tried to squirm free, but his struggles were futile. He let out a startled squeak when the tomato bastard accidentally brushed the sensitive untamed curl at the side of his head.

"G-get off me!" Lovino demanded once he'd caught his breath.

"No, I don't want to," Antonio whined childishly. Lovino glared at him.

"Get. off." he repeated, squirming again. He slid down enough so his head was against Antonio's chest, and he prepared to head-butt the man if he didn't release him.

"But I love you," Antonio protested, tightening his grip further. If the hug hadn't forced the air out of his lungs, the words did. Lovino tried not to let them sting as he reminded himself, and then Antonio, of a certain fact.

"You're drunk," he mumbled, glaring at the nearby couch. It was obvious he wouldn't be getting out of the Spaniard's arms anyway.

"I love you," Antonio repeated, pulling Lovino up enough to nuzzle his hair again. Lovino fought once more, trying to keep the bastard from touching his curl again - he had to know what it fucking did to him - but his attempts backfired as his flailing brushed the curl against the drunken bastard's face. His legs trembled as he held back a pleasured sound and became little more than dead weight in Antonio's arms. Finally the king of oblivion realized something was going on.

And of fucking course he had to mention it. Damn him.

"Hey Lovi? 'Re y'okay?" he slurred, leaning to get a better look at the smaller man's face. Lovino's cheeks burned and he avoided the Spaniard's gaze.

"No I am not o-fucking-kay. You're molesting me in your living room!" he accused.

"We could move to th' bedroom," Antonio said simply, tucking his head into Lovino's neck, and damn it all, Lovino knew he'd seen that definitely not charming smile of his before his lips pressed against Lovino's neck.

"You're drunk, bastard," Lovino reminded them both once more, trying to pull his neck away from the Spaniard. He only succeeded in exposing more skin for the tomato loving bastard to litter with a variety of delicate and passionate kisses.

"That's not a no, Lovi," Antonio purred in his ear. Lovino let out a startled sound when a sun kissed hand found it's way to the front of his pants. "Why d'you protest when y'want this too?" Lovino leaned into the Spaniard, unable to resist physically anymore.

"Bastard," he hissed.

"You're red like a tomate again, Lovi~" Antonio teased lightly, tugging at the curl mostly likely to try and get on Lovino's nerves. The damn bastard still hadn't worked it out.

"A-ah! S-stop it, bastard!" Lovino protested weakly, leaning further against the older man. He unintentionally bucked into the hand at this crotch, and that most certainly was not a whimper coming from him as Antonio finally, finally realized just what it was he was doing to work up the Italian so much.

"Oh, you're really sens'tive, aren't you Lovi~" the drunk giggled, toying with the curl even more, and Lovino saw that damn grin again, but he didn't have time to think about that because shit, that was a moan wasn't it. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

"Fuck," Lovino groaned. "Qu-quit..." He paused to swallow back another moan - he was not giving the bastard the satisfaction of hearing it twice. "Quit it!"

"Why d'you protest?" Antonio asked again, his hand rising to Lovino's hip while the other one finally left his curl. He turned Lovino around to face him properly, and Lovino summoned his remaining strength of will to glare at him.

And then Antonio was kissing him, holding his wrists so he couldn't smack him for it, and Lovino lost the ability to protest. The kiss was tender and loving, albeit sloppy due to its orchestrater's level of intoxication, but it held all the passion of the man. Lovino felt as though he should have been blown away, though he wasn't, because this was merely an embodiment of all that the Spaniard was, all that Lovino had come to... not hate.

Lovino hesitated, terrified of opening up, of what would happen if he admitted that he more than not-hated the Spanish bastard who so willingly gave himself over. Then he reminded himself yet again that Antonio was drunk, and the chances of him remembering any of this were immensely slim. Lovino could have a taste of what he longed for - not that he longed for Antonio or anything... - without having to face the consequences later. So he surrendered and tentatively returned the kiss, leaning forward into Antonio and pouring out just a little of the desperate need that filled him every time he was near the Spaniard.

And when he pulled back, Antonio was beaming.

"Shall we move to the bedroom?" he asked almost tenderly, though the slurred speech patter was still there. Lovino nodded.


When the sunlight filtered in through the thin curtains of Antonio's airy bedroom - Lovino had forgotten to shut that window when he came in. Damn it - the Spanish man groaned and rolled over, burying his face into the pillow. Lovino sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes and blushing when he noticed their mutual lack of clothes. He quickly grabbed a pair of boxers from the floor and slid them on, knowing that not even Antonio would be oblivious enough to overlook the fact that they were naked together.

"Hey, bastard, where the hell did you go last night?" Lovino demanded. He didn't care if Antonio was hung over, he needed to yell at him. Because now that it was the morning after, he was already feeling the impending threat of consequences he didn't want to face, and he had to know just how much Antonio remembered.

"Francis and Gilbert took me out for drinks," the Spaniard's reply came muffled by the pillows.

"Just how drunk did you get, anyway?" Lovino pressed. Antonio grunted.

"I blacked out after I left Gilbert at the corner," he admitted. "I don't remember coming home at all."

"You're fucking lucky you weren't hit by a truck," Lovino snapped, climbing out of the bed. He grabbed his clothes to ensure there would be no evidence from the night before and silently thanked the universe that Antonio didn't remember what had happened between them.

He'd gotten to have a piece of what he wanted without having to admit to anyone just how much he longed for Antonio. Antonio completely forgot about their night, and they were back to the arguing routine. No strings attached. Just like he wanted.

And God did that sting.