Spamano is everything

Leaving Antonio in Spain to go back to Italy a few years prior almost broke him. Had it not been for the sake of his country, his people – He left half of his heart with Antonio, and was hardly able to give the other half to his birthplace.

Barcelona,

My beloved, my beloved, my beloved, my beloved, my beloved… Lovino closed his eyes and pictured the likelihood of Antonio taking his hands, how they’d kneel in front of each other. He felt the softness of his lips on the back of his hand, and would know that Antonio too, had prayed for this day.

He stood outside the house in Barcelona, pale in the moonlight, and looked at the window where he knew the bedroom would be. He took his time to let his heartbeat come down, before he turned the handle and made his way into the two-story building. “Antonio?” He whispered. Their portraits along the staircase stared back at him. His dark eyes were so different then. He wondered what his younger self saw. Something rustled from above, and he froze. It was as if the world stopped, in an excruciatingly long moment, before he dared to say something again. In the darkness, he held his breath as he waited for an answer.

He heard the sounds of a lamp being lit and saw footsteps lit up from behind the door.

“... Who’s there?” Without answering, Lovino climbed the last few steps, and opened the door. Something other than surprise flew across Antonio’s face. He gasped, and couldn’t help the tears that sprung to his eyes. “Lovino, oh, Lovino, it’s you-!” The embrace was tight, their every curve fitting right against each other. Now they were home. Lovino closed his eyes. Antonio exhaled and hid his face against Lovino’s collar. Long, drawn out sobs shook his body. “Antonio, I’m here… What is it?”

Boston, New York, 1946,

A year after the war, they were still recovering. Though together, and making up for lost time, their relationship had turned somber, and brought a lot of past wrongs along with them. They had gone to America to escape, but it only brought to light what was wrong between them. The days were gray, it was cold, and they were often confined to the small apartment.

Lovino’s planned confession died when he learned that Antonio had been with France in his absence, and he blamed himself for not coming to Barcelona sooner. “You’ve not minded before,” Antonio reminded him. He was neither right nor wrong, and it frustrated Lovino. He did not answer, and Antonio left him alone.

It had been Antonio that suggested they left for America. He had been in the same place for a decade, and he wanted to get away from a war-plagued Europe. Lovino agreed, hopeful and happy they could finally just be them, and start something.