Chapter Text
“It’s being here and now that’s important. There’s no past and there’s no future. Time is a very misleading thing. All there is ever, is the now. We can gain experience from the past, but we can’t relive it; and we can hope for the future, but we don’t know if there is one.”
The sun hung low over Positano, not quite ready to set, yet already bleeding gold into the Tyrrhenian. The slow, syrupy light painted the sea gold, spilling over the terracotta rooftops like honey. The salt-washed air was thick with gardenia and citrus, tangled in the scent of the sea.
Lovino Vargas leaned over a stone wall, his elbows resting against storm-worn rock, his eyes trained on the horizon where boats floated like idle thoughts. He didn't know how long he'd been standing there but the sag of the paper bags by his feet suggested longer than a moment. His mind had drifted, caught somewhere between the shimmer of the sea and the pull of memories too faint to name.
Late summer curled against his skin, heavy and listless, and the cry of distant seagulls stirred something ancient and restless in his chest.
Feliciano's voice broke through the lull like a sudden breeze.
"Fratello! The lady at the stall says there's going to be a storm tonight!"
Feliciano approached with a wide grin and a brown paper bag full of lemons clutched to his chest. "She said I might have to reschedule my flight if it's bad tomorrow. Can you believe that?"
Lovino glanced sideways at him, catching the brightness in his younger brother's eyes.
"I'm sure you're fine."
Feliciano tilted his head. "Are you okay, Lovi? You're quiet today."
Lovino ruffled his brother's hair in lieu of an answer, the gesture gruff but fond. "I guess. I think I’m just tired.”
They started their slow walk back up the winding streets, flanked by stone buildings and windows overflowing with bougainvillea. Their footsteps echoed softly in the calm, the town dozing in the lull before the storm.
Despite their differences, they moved in tandem— brothers cut from the same stubborn cloth.
Halfway home, Feliciano gasped. "The meat! We forgot to pick up the beef from the butcher!"
Lovino sighed, already turning back on his heel. "Go on ahead. I’ll go back and grab it. You can start dinner without it, si?"
Feliciano hesitated, but then nodded, trusting his brother’s word. "Okay, I’ll see you home!"
The butcher’s shop was nestled on a quiet side street, warm and familiar. The butcher, a gruff older man with soft wrinkles and warm calloused hands, handed over the meat and, with a small smile, pressed something else into Lovino's palm.
"Found this on the beach this morning," he said. "Thought you'd like it. Looks old. No use to a museum, probably."
Lovino turned the object over in his hand. A coin-worn smooth with time, its markings barely legible, the weight of it oddly grounding.
He frowned. "It's just a piece of metal."
"Maybe. Strange thing to wash up after all this time. I know you like to collect old things like this.”
The country shrugged, slipping it into his pocket and left without another word.
The walk home took him past a rarely-used cliffside trail, and on impulse, he followed it. The sky was shifting now-clouds darkening, thickening like bruises on the edge of the wound. He dropped his bags beside a wooden bench and sat, letting the silence fold around him like an old friend.
Below, the coastline unspooled in gentle waves. People played in the water, their laughter faint and carried on the wind. Boats rocked gently on mirrored water. He peeled a tangerine, the scent tangy in the air, and ate it piece by piece without thinking.
He pulled the coin from his pocket again, thumb brushing the faded metal.
Rome. The time before him.
Before his name, before his borders. When he had been only dirt.
Sea.
Blood.
And sky.
He tried to imagine it— when Antonio and Francis had still been charges under Rome’s tutelage.
When the world had been vast and unknowable and bristling with fangs. The thought made something hollow inside him ache.
Ache for a time he had never known. Ache for a time he had never existed.
A single raindrop kissed his cheek. Another landed on the coin in his hand.
Lovino blinked up at the sky, now a smear of storm clouds overhead. He hadn't noticed their arrival.
He cursed under his breath, the spell of the moment broken.
With a huff, he shoved the coin and his phone into his pocket, gathered the groceries, and began the slow walk home-chased not by thunder, but by something older.
Something waiting just beyond the horizon.
The time-worn coin sat abandoned on the kitchen counter as Lovino stood in front of his ajar backdoor. A storm-slick breeze blew in, rustling the nearby curtains, leaving rain and humidity thick in the air.
The older Italian lives in the outskirts of Cetara, in a worn cliffside home surrounded by orange trees and blooming hydrangeas. At first glance, one might think such a home would be owned by a smattering of ghosts, ones who had lived countless lifetimes in its walls. You could tell by the mementos and photographs that lined its walls. Memories from wars, weddings, and funerals— All reminders of lives once lived. The house, instead, was inhabited by the ever-private, Lovino. The villagers once thought that perhaps Lovino had inheirited this house from an older relative but nobody could remember another person inhabiting the house before him.
Perhaps he had been here all along; Ever present throughout the centuries.
The house stood lone against the sea. It’s backyard large and filled with seasonal vegetables from various continents.
Tomatos gifted from that annoying bastard, Antonio, in Spain.
Karela, calabash, and spices gifted from a distant friend, from India.
And various other vegetables gifted from a particular obnoxious friend in America.
The backyard was lined by a simple fence, with a gate at it’s center.
From that gate, there are two paths.
One path diverges to the left— a path lined with pines and cedar that winds along the cliffside to the shore of a private beach he never frequented.
The other path diverged to the right to a sanctuary between the trees, characterized by a well loved frayed hammock.
The older Italian yawned sleepily for the thousandth time, clutching his sweater close from his spot in front of the door.
Feliciano busied himself at the stove, the hum of a lovesong slipped through loose lips.
A lean tabby stretched out on the floor beside him, blinking up at him with big emerald eyes, twinkling in a manner that asks sweetly for a few pets.
Feliciano smiled warmly, and crouches down to run a hand down her side as she stretched out more into his touch.
“You’re spoiling her, Feli.” Lovino chided, failing to hide his smile.
Feliciano’s nose wrinkled in playfulness, as if they had had this conversation a thousand times before. “She’s my niece. She deserves to be spoiled.”
“She can’t be your niece if she’s not my child.”
“Says who?”
They continued to banter back and forth before settling into a comfortable rhythm. It’s after dinner, with wine pushing warmly through their veins that Feliciano fiddles with the gold band on his ring finger absentmindedly.
“How has the wedding prep been coming along?” Lovino asked, toothpick hanging off his lip. “The bastard better not be leaving all of the preparation to you.”
The younger Italian laughs, stretching out languidly on the couch.
“No— It’s actually part of the reason I need to go back home to Berlin tomorrow. We have a cake-tasting appointment at three!”
Lovino hums in acknowledgement. “Any flavors you excited for?”
Feliciano launched into the list with sunny detail, hands moving as though sculpting each flavor in the air. Lovino listened, eyes half-lidded, answering only with the occasional hum. Not out of disinterest, but because it was easier to let Feliciano fill the silence. The talk drifted: plans for the world meeting next week, honeymoon trip to Osaka, Kiku’s promise to host them in the city. Feliciano’s voice brightened as he painted a future filled with travel, love, and laughter. Lovino smiled faintly, though it ached at the edges.
“And what about you?” the younger brother asked suddenly, voice light but deliberate. His eyes lingered on his older brother.
“Antonio’s coming to stay, right?”
Lovino’s heart stuttered in his chest, the question striking sharper than they should have. He forced his voice steady, but it came out smaller, quieter. “Only for a few days.”
Feliciano tilted his head, smile soft, unyielding. “I think that’ll be nice. I often worry that you’re… lonely, fratello.”
Heat flushed up Lovino’s neck. He gripped his wine glass too tightly, the stem cold against his fingers. His pulse thudded loud in his ears, betraying him.
“I’m not,” he snapped too quickly, the word sharp, brittle. "Lonely..." His scowl dropped onto the glass, staring into the deep red liquid as though it had been the one to accuse him.
But his mind betrayed him. Already, he could see Antonio’s grin, hear his easy laugh. The memory of strong hands passing him tomatoes in the garden, the warm press of his fingers carding through his hair. That ridiculous, infuriating way the Spaniard always made himself at home in Lovino’s long life.
His chest ached, but he shoved it down, burying it beneath irritation, beneath pride.
Feliciano’s gaze was gentle, knowing, and it only made the burn on his cheeks worse.
Lovino scoffed again, lifting the glass to his lips if only to hide behind it.
“Don’t say stupid things,” he muttered, the words muffled but not convincing.
The wine was sharp on his tongue. His throat felt tight. He swallowed hard, as though he could drown the longing with it.
Feliciano’s smile was knowing, but he didn’t press further.
◊
The moon rose high into a cloudless night. Feliciano retired to the guestroom, soft snores following soon after.
Upstairs, Lovino curled into his own bed, exhaustion finally overtaking him. A book slipped loose in his hands — a battered collection of poems, pages dog-eared from decades of rereads. The cat curled at his side, warm and steady. Thunder rolled, but he was wrapped in his comforter, heavy-eyed, drifting.
Downstairs, the clatter of the coin hitting tile resounded across the living room. It rolled for a few feet before stopping in front of the backdoor.
As though waiting.
As though calling.
Lovino slept on, unaware.