The Lovely Wounds (SpaMano)

Five Years of Rotting

In a chair sat what seemed to be a male teenager. Lovino gave him a quick once over noticing he was bruised and bleeding in places. His injuries were minor; they weren't anything he'd die from. His black t-shirt was torn in places, probably from a scuffle with his lower levels that had brought him in. His arms and chest, although scratch and cut, we're toned and tanned. The skin that poked out from the tears in his tight jeans was just as tanned. A black bag covered his head, and Lovino assumed he was gagged; he heard only heavy breathing coming from the boy. His arms were tied behind him and his ankles were bound to the legs of the chair. His chest heaved slightly, but his pitiful state did nothing to sway the male.

Lovino did not recognize the boy.

He gestured lazily for the bag to be removed from the boy's head. He watched with disinterest as a mop of sweaty, soft curls were exposed. He watched as a set of emerald green eyes squinted against the harsh yellow light. He watched as those green eyes found their intended target and flooded with relief. Lovino watched, his disinterest gone. Here he was, in front of him, that perfect bastard. After five years...

Five years ago.

He had been waiting for letters; he had been sending his own through Elizaveta like crazy. Lovino thought he could move on, but after a week of not eating, of sitting in his room in a world of too many shades of grey, he cracked. He had written so many times, but not once had he received a response. He had prayed, but it seemed as though God would not fulfill his prayers. He was so cold, so alone... But he had recovered.

Recovered.

Lovino was quick to hide the pained, surprised look on his face. It was only present for a moment; no more. He was sure, however, that the perceptive bastard had seen something. Lovino managed to play it off.

"Why the hell did you bring me a kid?" he asked, his voice tired and irate. He took another sip of his coffee, his brow wrinkled. Lovino became amused by the boy's expression turned wild and confused. He chuckled slightly and leaned back against the wall.

"He was asking about ya'. Knew ya' specifically by name," said one of his nameless subordinates. "We wasn't sure if he was a threat, so we brought 'im in anyways."

"Was it that important and necessary to wake me up? Couldn't it have waited? You risked waking Feliciano over a damned teenager?" Lovino spat, his voice full of ice and malice. "Did you at least bring me information on him?"

Silence. No one spoke. Of course they hadn't thought to collect background before presenting the boy to Lovino. He took a final sip of his coffee before crushing his cup in his hand. He dropped it to the ground and stepped forward, looking down at the curly haired boy.

"Idioti..." he muttered gently. "Go."

His hand had whipped towards the door. The few people that were in the room filed out quickly, avoiding Lovino's harsh gaze. The door clicked shut behind them and the Italian returned his gaze to the boy.

"Who are you?" he asked gently. Lovino slowly removed his blazer and tossed it on a nearby table. He then rolled up his sleeves, exposing his tattooed forearms. When his caramel eyes caught hold of the boy's own once more, he drew closer, allowing his slender fingers to fist the boy's sweaty curls. He tilted his head back and leaned in close. "Oh, I recognize you. You're the one who left, who didn't write or call or give me the time of day to stop my heartache and sadness. I remember you... Antonio."
The Spaniard's expression fell. It was pained and hurt, but Lovino didn't care. It was time for his pain to be felt. He wanted Antonio to understand the hurt, the despair, the rejection he had endured. Lovino released him, letting his hand fall back gently to his side.