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Chapter Text

Naples

The early morning in Naples clings to the cobblestones, damp with mist and the lingering scent of salt from the sea. The city is a patchwork of crumbling ruins and desperate revival, the Second World War having left its sign, but life seeps through cracks like the persistent weeds pushing through the pavement.

Feliciano hums as he balances precariously on a small wall overlooking the square. His violin case swings loosely in one hand, his sketchpad tucked under the other arm. Below him, Naples awakens slowly—vendors setting up stalls, stray dogs weaving through the streets, and the faint melody of an accordion spilling from a nearby café.

“Feliciano, get down before you break your neck, you idiot,” Lovino snaps from the ground, his arms crossed and his scowl sharper than the morning chill. His battered guitar case hangs from one shoulder, the leather strap worn and patched from too many years on the road.

Feliciano doesn’t seem to hear him—or maybe he just doesn’t care. With a grin that borders on reckless, he jumps down, landing lightly beside his brother. “Ah, Lovi, you worry too much,” he says, brushing imaginary dust off his coat. His eyes shine with that irrepressible optimism Lovino has spent his whole life trying to squash.

“I don’t worry,” Lovino mutters. “I just don’t want to drag your corpse back to the inn.”

Feliciano only laughs, the sound light and carefree, as if the weight of their reality doesn’t exist. He grabs Lovino’s arm, tugging him toward the square. “Come on, the morning crowd is the best! Fresh ears for our music, fresh coins for our breakfast!”

Lovino lets himself be pulled along, though he grumbles the entire way. “You mean fresh insults for your screeching.”

The square is already lively by the time they find their spot near the fountain. Feliciano sets up his violin case, leaving it open for tips, while Lovino tunes his guitar with practiced ease. They’ve done this a hundred times before—probably more—and yet, there’s always a strange comfort in the routine.

As the first notes of their music drift into the air, the crowd begins to gather. A woman pauses with her basket of fruit, her lips curving into a small smile. A child tugs at his father’s hand, pointing toward the brothers with wide-eyed wonder. The clink of a coin hitting the case punctuates their melody, a small but satisfying affirmation.

Feliciano plays with his usual flair, his body swaying with the music as if it flows through him. His eyes meet Lovino’s briefly, and for a moment, there’s no scowling, no bickering—just harmony. Lovino’s fingers move deftly over the strings, his focus unyielding. He doesn’t need to look at Feliciano to follow his lead; they’ve been doing this long enough to communicate through subtle shifts in the music.

When the song ends, there’s applause—polite but genuine. Feliciano bows theatrically, earning a few chuckles from the crowd, while Lovino mutters under his breath about show-offs.

“See? I told you the morning crowd was the best!” Feliciano says, crouching to count the coins.

Lovino snatches one from his hand. “If you’d stop spending half of this on wine, we might actually afford a decent meal for once.”

Feliciano pouts but doesn’t argue. Instead, he stands, stretching lazily. “We’ll do one more set, and then I’ll treat you to coffee, sì? The café over there has the best sfogliatelle .”

Lovino narrows his eyes but shrugs. “Fine. But you’re paying.”

They launch into another song, their music weaving through the square like sunlight breaking through clouds. For a little while, the ruins of the world around them fade, replaced by something fleeting but beautiful.

When the set ends, they pack up their instruments and head toward the café. Feliciano chatters about the places they might visit next—Capri, maybe, or the Amalfi Coast—while Lovino half-listens, his thoughts elsewhere. He won’t admit it, but there’s a part of him that feels alive in these moments, as if the weight of everything isn’t so heavy when they’re playing together.

The café is tucked into a narrow alley, its weathered sign swaying gently in the breeze. Inside, the air is warm and sweet, heavy with the scent of espresso and fresh pastries. Feliciano makes a beeline for the counter, already charming the elderly barista with a sunny grin. Lovino lingers by the door, his gaze sweeping over the other patrons—a habit born more from paranoia than curiosity.

“Two coffees and two sfogliatelle ,” Feliciano announces, returning to their table a couple of minutes later with a tray. He sets the cups and pastries down with exaggerated flourish, earning a glare from Lovino.

“Stop acting like a waiter,” Lovino mutters, though he takes the coffee gratefully. He downs it in a couple of gulps, no sugar added, the familiar bitterness comforting despite it burning against his tongue.

Feliciano doesn’t respond right away. He’s busy savoring the first bite of his pastry, his eyes fluttering shut as if the experience is almost religious. “Mmm, see? I told you this place was the best.”

Lovino rolls his eyes but takes a bite of his own sfogliatella . The flaky, powdered crust gives way to a rich, citrusy filling, and he hates how much he agrees with Feliciano’s assessment.

“So,” Feliciano begins, brushing crumbs from his fingers, “where should we go next? I was thinking maybe Capri—it’s beautiful this time of year. Or Venice! Imagine us performing on a gondola!”

“Venice?” Lovino snorts, nearly choking on the powdered sugar. “Are you insane? The last thing we need is to drown because you decided to serenade a bunch of tourists in the middle of a canal.”

Feliciano pouts, resting his chin in his hand. “You’re no fun, Lovi.”

“And you have no sense of self-preservation.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence, the kind that only comes from years of shared history. Outside, the city hums with life—vendors calling out prices, footsteps echoing against cobblestones, and the distant cry of a seagull.

They leave the café as the sun climbs higher, the mist giving way to the golden warmth of late morning. Feliciano hums a tune under his breath, his steps light as he weaves through the crowd. Lovino follows a few paces behind, his guitar slung over his shoulder, his gaze flicking between Feliciano and the path ahead.

“Capri it is, then,” Feliciano declares as they reach the harbor, his arms spread wide as if to embrace the sea.

Lovino stops short. “Wait, we’re going to Capri now?”

“Why not? The ferry leaves in an hour. Plenty of time to get tickets.”

“And pay for them with what?” Lovino snaps, though he knows the answer before the words leave his mouth.

Feliciano just grins, holding up the handful of coins they earned that morning. “This should cover it. Besides, think of all the tourists—we’ll make a fortune playing there!”

Lovino groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” Feliciano sings, already bounding toward the ticket booth.

Lovino doesn’t respond, but his lips twitch into the faintest of smiles as he follows. He doesn’t love the chaos Feliciano brings to their lives, but there’s something about his brother’s unshakable optimism, even when Lovino tries his best to spoil it, that makes the uncertainty of their existence a little easier to bear.

The ferry ride is uneventful, the gentle rocking of the boat lulling most passengers into a quiet stupor. Feliciano leans against the railing, his sketchpad balanced on his knees as he captures the curve of the coastline in charcoal. Lovino sits beside him, his guitar resting across his lap.

“You’re wasting paper,” Lovino grumbles, though there’s no heat in his voice.

“Art isn’t a waste, Lovi,” Feliciano replies without looking up. His hand moves swiftly, the lines on the page forming the beginnings of something beautiful.

Lovino watches him out of the corner of his eye, his expression softening despite himself. “You’re hopeless.”

Feliciano glances up, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “And you’re stuck with me.”

For now, Lovino thinks but doesn’t say. Instead, he plucks a quiet melody from his guitar strings, the sound blending with the rhythm of the waves.

As the ferry approaches Capri, the island rises from the sea like a dream—white cliffs crowned with lush greenery, their edges kissed by the glittering blue water. Feliciano’s eyes light up, and Lovino knows that look all too well. It’s the look of someone who’s already fallen in love with a place he’s never even stepped foot in.

“We’ll stay here for a while,” Feliciano declares, his voice filled with conviction. “I can feel it—this is going to be our best stop yet.”

Lovino doesn’t argue. He never does, not when Feliciano gets like this. Instead, he lets himself hope, just a little, that maybe his brother is right.

Capri

The harbor at Capri buzzes with life, a blend of locals unloading fishing boats and tourists dressed in crisp linens and wide-brimmed hats. Feliciano skips ahead, his violin case swinging in one hand, his sketchpad tucked under the other arm like a talisman, and his bag slung over his back. Lovino trails behind, muttering about the stench of fish and the clamor of voices.

They climb a winding path leading up from the port, the air growing fresher with every step. Whitewashed buildings cling to the cliffs like stubborn vines, their shutters painted in soft blues and greens. Lemon trees line the road, their bright fruit gleaming in the sunlight.

Feliciano stops abruptly, spinning to face Lovino. “Isn’t it beautiful?” he asks, his arms spread wide as if he’s personally responsible for the view.

Lovino huffs, adjusting the strap of his guitar case. “It’s fine. Let’s just find somewhere to stay before you pass out from all your skipping.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Feliciano teases. “I already have a plan.”

The “plan,” as it turns out, is a crumbling inn perched on the edge of a cliff. The sign hanging above the door reads La Stella Cadente —The Falling Star. Inside, the air smells faintly of salt and lavender, and the innkeeper, an elderly woman with sharp eyes and a soft voice, greets them with a knowing smile.

“Musicians?” she asks, eyeing the cases they carry.

Feliciano beams. “How could you tell?”

“Because you look like you’re here to charm the world, and he”—she nods at Lovino—“looks like he’s here to complain about it.”

Lovino bristles. “I’m here to make sure he doesn’t starve.”

The woman chuckles, waving them inside. “You’ll fit right in, then. Musicians get half price if they play during dinner. Deal?”

Before Lovino can argue, Feliciano nods eagerly. “Deal! Grazie mille, signora!”

Their room is small but clean, the single window offering a breathtaking view of the sea. Feliciano immediately claims the bed nearest the window, sprawling across it with a dramatic sigh. Lovino drops his guitar case by the door, scanning the space with a critical eye.

“You’re not going to sketch the view all day, are you?” Lovino asks, already knowing the answer.

“Maybe,” Feliciano replies dreamily, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Or maybe I’ll just stay here forever and let the sea write my music.”

Lovino snorts, grabbing his guitar. “Good luck with that. Meanwhile, I’ll make sure we don’t get thrown out of here for skipping dinner.”

That evening, the inn’s terrace comes alive with the golden glow of lanterns and the hum of conversation. The brothers set up near the railing, a quiet spot not too close to the tables, their instruments ready, their cases open for tips. The crowd is different here—more elegant, less hurried. Lovino feels the weight of their scrutiny and wonders if they’ll scoff at his calloused fingers and battered guitar.

Feliciano, of course, thrives in the spotlight. He starts with a playful melody, the kind that draws attention without demanding it. Lovino joins in reluctantly, his chords grounding Feliciano’s wandering notes. Slowly, the terrace quiets, the chatter fading as the music takes hold.

As they play, Feliciano closes his eyes, his face serene. Lovino watches him out of the corner of his eye, wondering how he does it—how he makes everything seem so effortless, as if the world bends to his will.

When the song ends, the applause is polite but warm. Coins clink into their cases, and Feliciano bows with exaggerated flair. Lovino rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother hiding his small, satisfied smirk.

Later, they wander around the city. As the square empties and the lanterns flicker, they sit by the fountain, counting their earnings. Feliciano is still buzzing from the performance, his cheeks flushed, his smile wide.

“See? I told you this place would be perfect,” he says, holding up a handful of coins like a trophy.

“It’s not bad,” Lovino admits grudgingly. “But don’t get cocky. We’ll be broke again by morning.”

Feliciano shrugs, leaning back against the fountain. “Then we’ll just play again tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that.”

Lovino doesn’t respond right away. He traces the edge of a coin with his thumb, his thoughts drifting. “Do you ever think about what we’re doing?” he asks finally. “I mean… really think about it?”

“What’s there to think about?” Feliciano replies, his tone light. “We play, we eat, we sleep. Then we do it all again. Isn’t that enough?”

Lovino frowns, staring at the ground. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like we’re just… floating. Like none of this is real.”

Feliciano turns to him, his smile softening. “It’s real, Lovi. It’s as real as we make it.”

For a moment, Lovino wants to believe him. He wants to believe that this wandering life, this endless cycle of music and movement, is enough. But there’s a part of him—a small, stubborn part—that aches for something more.

The days in Capri blur into a rhythm of music and sea air. They wake with the sunrise, spend their mornings exploring the island, and their evenings playing in the square. Feliciano sketches everything—the cliffs, the harbor, the strangers they meet along the way. Lovino grumbles about his brother’s frivolity but secretly admires the way Feliciano can find beauty in everything.

One afternoon, they find a secluded cove, the water impossibly blue, the sand warm beneath their feet. Feliciano strips off his shoes and wades into the surf, laughing as the waves lap at his ankles.

“Come on, Lovi!” he calls, his voice carrying over the water. “It’s perfect!”

Lovino stays on the shore, his arms crossed. “You’re going to catch something.”

“Then I’ll die happy,” Feliciano replies, spinning in the shallows like a child.

Despite himself, Lovino smiles. It’s small and fleeting, but it’s real.

The evening air in Capri is heavy with salt and the faint perfume of blooming jasmine. Feliciano sits cross-legged on the floor of their small room at La Stella Cadente , his sketchpad propped against his knees. The sound of pencil scratching against paper fills the space, a steady rhythm broken only by the occasional frustrated sigh when a line doesn’t turn out the way he wants.

Lovino is sprawled on the bed, his guitar resting against his chest, though he isn’t playing. Instead, he stares at the ceiling, his brow furrowed as if he’s arguing with himself in silence.

“You’ve been quiet,” Feliciano says suddenly, not looking up from his sketchpad. His tone is light, but there’s a hint of curiosity beneath it.

Lovino grunts, shifting slightly. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not,” Feliciano insists, glancing at him now with a faint smile. “You haven’t insulted me in hours. Are you feeling okay?”

Lovino rolls his eyes, pushing himself upright. “I’m just tired. This place is too quiet.”

Feliciano tilts his head, his expression thoughtful. “I thought you’d like it here. No crowds, no chaos.”

“Yeah, well, it’s weird,” Lovino mutters, reaching for his guitar. His fingers brush over the strings, producing a soft, uneven melody. “It’s like… too perfect or something. Makes me think it’s all gonna fall apart any second.”

Feliciano sets his sketchpad aside, leaning back on his hands. “You think too much, Lovi. Not everything has to mean something.”

“And you think too little,” Lovino snaps, though there’s no real heat in his voice.

For a moment, the room falls silent again, the only sound the faint hum of the sea beyond the window. Then Feliciano speaks, his voice softer now. “Do you ever think about what you want? Not what you don’t want, but what you really want?”

Lovino’s fingers falter on the strings. He glances at Feliciano, his expression guarded. “What kind of question is that?”

“It’s just a question,” Feliciano says, his gaze steady. “I mean, you’re always complaining about what we’re doing, but you never say what you’d rather be doing. I was just wondering.”

Lovino looks away, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “Maybe I don’t want anything. Maybe this is all there is.”

Feliciano frowns, sitting up straighter. “That’s not true. You’ve always wanted more, Lovi. You had dreams, and we talked about seeing the world, about doing something bigger than… than just existing.”

“Yeah, well, look where that got me,” Lovino mutters, his voice bitter. “Playing guitar for pennies and sleeping in a room that smells like fish.”

Feliciano doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he crawls over to sit beside Lovino on the bed, his presence warm and familiar. “We’re not just existing,” he says quietly. “We’re living. Every day, we get to see something new, meet new people, make them smile with our music. Isn’t that enough?”

Lovino doesn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the guitar in his lap. But his grip on the neck softens, his fingers resting gently against the strings. “Sometimes it is,” he admits after a long pause. “And sometimes it’s not.”

Feliciano leans his head against Lovino’s shoulder, his voice barely above a whisper. “What if we just keep going until we find whatever it is you’re looking for?”

Lovino stiffens at the contact but doesn’t pull away. He closes his eyes, letting out a slow breath. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is,” Feliciano says simply. “As long as we’re together, it’ll be easy.”

The words hang in the air between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. Lovino doesn’t reply, but the tension in his shoulders eases, and for the first time that evening, his fingers find a melody on the guitar that doesn’t falter.

The next morning, the square is quieter than usual. Feliciano and Lovino set up their instruments in their usual spot near the fountain, but the energy feels different, more subdued. The tourists are distracted, their conversations quieter, their gazes lingering on the horizon where dark clouds gather over the sea.

“Looks like a storm’s coming,” Lovino says, tuning his guitar.

Feliciano glances at the sky, his expression unbothered. “A little rain never hurt anyone.”

Lovino snorts. “You’re going to regret saying that when we’re soaked and freezing.”

“Then we’ll find somewhere cozy to wait it out,” Feliciano says with a shrug. “Maybe that café that serves torta caprese .”

Lovino mutters something about Feliciano’s priorities, but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. They start playing, the music weaving through the air like a thread of warmth against the growing chill.

The first drops of rain begin to fall as their second song ends. At first, it’s light—barely more than a mist—but within minutes, the drizzle turns into a downpour. The square empties as people scatter, running for cover under awnings and into shops.

Feliciano laughs, lifting his face to the rain. “See? It’s not so bad!”

“Speak for yourself,” Lovino snaps, already packing up his guitar. “Let’s go before your violin gets ruined.”

But before they can move, a man approaches them, his dark coat plastered to his frame by the rain. “You’re good,” he says, his voice loud enough to cut through the storm. “Do you perform anywhere else, or just here?”

Feliciano blinks, surprised. “Just here, for now. Why?”

The man pulls a card from his pocket, offering it to Feliciano. “There’s a theater on the mainland—small, but we’re always looking for talent. If you’re interested, give me a call.”

Feliciano takes the card, his eyes wide. “Grazie, signore!”

The man nods and disappears into the rain, leaving Feliciano staring at the card as if it’s a ticket to another world. Lovino watches him, his expression unreadable.

“Well,” Lovino says finally, “looks like you got your big break.”

Feliciano glances at him, his smile hesitant. “It’s not just mine, Lovi. It’s ours.”

Lovino doesn’t reply, but the storm doesn’t seem quite so cold anymore.

The rain doesn’t let up until well into the evening, and by the time they trudge back to La Stella Cadente , their clothes are soaked through. Feliciano hums softly as he brushes water off his violin case, his movements careful and deliberate. Lovino drops his guitar on the bed, running a towel over his hair with quick, frustrated motions.

The card sits on the small table between them, its edges curling slightly from the rain. Feliciano glances at it every few minutes, his expression a mix of excitement and uncertainty.

“You’re going to wear a hole in it with your eyes,” Lovino mutters, tossing the towel onto a chair. “If you’re so thrilled, just call the guy.”

Feliciano fidgets, his fingers tracing the card’s damp edges. “It’s not that simple. What if it’s not what we think it is? What if they don’t like us? What if—”

“What if you stop being such a coward and take a chance for once?” Lovino snaps, his voice harsher than he intended. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, if you don’t want to do it, fine. But stop staring at the damn thing like it’s going to explode.”

Feliciano looks at him, his eyes wide and uncertain. “Do you think we’re ready for something like this?”

Lovino scoffs. “Are we ever ready for anything? You’ve dragged us into worse situations, and we’ve survived. What’s the worst that can happen? They don’t like us, and we go back to playing in squares. Big deal.”

Feliciano nods slowly, his fingers tightening around the card. “You’re right. You’re always right, Lovi.”

“Don’t say that too often,” Lovino mutters, sitting on the bed and picking up his guitar. “I might start believing it.”

Feliciano smiles, his earlier hesitation melting away. “Let’s call him tomorrow, then. Together.”

The next morning, the storm has passed, leaving the air crisp and clear. Feliciano stands by the small telephone in the inn’s lobby, the card clutched in his hand. Lovino leans against the wall nearby, his arms crossed, his expression carefully neutral.

“Are you going to stare at it all day, or are you going to call?” Lovino asks, his tone impatient.

Feliciano sticks his tongue out at him before dialing the number. The phone rings twice before a deep voice answers on the other end.

“Hello?”

Feliciano clears his throat. “Salve, this is Feliciano. You gave me your card yesterday? At the square in Capri?”

There’s a pause, then the man’s voice warms. “Ah, the musicians. I was hoping you’d call. I’ve got an opening next week if you’re interested. Nothing fancy—just a short set before the main act. But it could be a good start.”

Feliciano glances at Lovino, who raises an eyebrow as if to say, Well?

“That sounds perfect,” Feliciano says, his voice steady despite the fluttering in his chest. “Where and when?”

The man gives him the details, and Feliciano scribbles them down on a scrap of paper. When the call ends, he turns to Lovino, his face alight with excitement.

“We’re in!” he says, holding up the paper like a prize. “Next week in Sorrento!”

Lovino snatches the paper from his hand, scanning the details. “Sorrento, huh? Fancy place. You’d better not embarrass us.”

“I never embarrass us,” Feliciano says, grinning. “You’re the one who always scowls at the audience.”

Lovino rolls his eyes but can’t suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. “Let’s just hope this isn’t a waste of time.”

Chapter Text

Sorrento

The week leading up to their performance is a whirlwind of preparation. Feliciano throws himself into rehearsals, tweaking their setlist and practicing until his fingers ache. Lovino, despite his grumbling, matches his dedication, fine-tuning his guitar playing and even suggesting a new arrangement for one of their songs.

Their journey to Sorrento is uneventful but beautiful, the coastline unfurling like a postcard as their ferry glides over the turquoise sea. Feliciano spends most of the trip sketching, his excitement spilling onto the pages in the form of hurried, messy lines. Lovino sits beside him, pretending to ignore the growing stack of drawings but secretly impressed by the way Feliciano captures the world around them.

When they arrive, Sorrento is everything they imagined—elegant, vibrant, and alive with the hum of possibility. The theater is a modest building tucked into the heart of the town, its façade adorned with colorful posters advertising upcoming shows. Their name isn’t on the posters, but Feliciano doesn’t seem to mind. He gazes at the theater like it’s a dream made real.

The night of the performance, the brothers stand backstage, their instruments ready. Feliciano paces, his usual confidence replaced by nervous energy. This is their first performance featuring only their own songs—what if they’re not well-received? What if their music doesn't cater to the more refined tastes of a theatre audience? Being a good musician doesn’t always mean being a good songwriter, after all.

Lovino watches him for a moment before stepping forward and grabbing his arm.

“Hey,” Lovino says, his voice firm. “It’s just another gig. Don’t overthink it.”

Feliciano looks at him, his eyes wide and uncertain. “But what if—”

“No ‘what ifs,’” Lovino interrupts. “We’ve got this. We’ve done it a hundred times before. This is no different.”

Feliciano raises his eyebrows doubtfully at that last remark, and Lovino sighs in irritation. “Since when do you care about what people think of our music, anyway? You certainly didn’t when that old hag dumped a bucket of water on you in Benevento.”

At that, Feliciano chuckles. “She was right, though. It was two in the morning, and I was drunk.”

“Well, then go find a bottle of wine to drown your worries and stop moping,” Lovino scoffs, making his brother smile.

Feliciano takes a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “You’re right. Grazie , Lovi.”

Lovino mutters something incomprehensible but gives Feliciano’s arm a reassuring squeeze before letting go.

When they step onto the stage, the lights are blinding, the audience a faceless blur beyond the glare. Feliciano takes his place in the center, his violin poised, while Lovino sits on a stool next to him with his guitar.

The first notes of their music fill the theater, hesitant at first but growing stronger with each passing moment. By the second song, the audience is captivated, their applause after each piece growing louder and more enthusiastic.

There’s a different quality to Lovino’s voice when he sings—still sharp, never losing itself in unnecessary vocalizations. Yet Feliciano can hear the softness underneath, telling him that his brother is just as lost in their music as he is. He glances at Lovino, his smile radiant, and for once, Lovino doesn’t look away.

They finish their set to a standing ovation, the applause echoing in their ears long after they’ve left the stage. Backstage, Feliciano throws his arms around Lovino, laughing breathlessly.

“We did it!” he says, his voice filled with wonder. “We really did it!”

Lovino grumbles something about sweaty hugs but doesn’t push him away. Instead, he lets Feliciano hold him, the sound of their success still ringing in the air.

The applause lingers in Feliciano’s ears as they walk back to their modest room. The streets are quiet, the town wrapped in the soft glow of moonlight. Feliciano still buzzes with excitement, his steps light, almost skipping. Lovino follows a few paces behind, his guitar slung over his shoulder, his expression as neutral as ever, though there’s a softness in his eyes that betrays his pride.

“Did you see their faces?” Feliciano gushes, spinning around to walk backward so he can look at Lovino. “They loved us, Lovi! Really loved us!”

“They didn’t hate us,” Lovino says gruffly, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Feliciano laughs, the sound bright and carefree. “Too late! My head is already huge with pride.”

Lovino shakes his head but can’t hold back a chuckle. He quickens his pace until he’s walking beside Feliciano, their footsteps falling into sync.

When they reach their room, Feliciano collapses onto the bed, throwing his arms wide. “I’m never going to forget tonight. It was… it was perfect.”

Lovino leans his guitar against the wall, sitting on the edge of the other bed. “It was good,” he admits, his tone softer now. “But don’t start thinking this means we’ve made it. It’s one show.”

“I know,” Feliciano says, turning his head to look at Lovino. “But it feels like the start of something. Don’t you think?”

Lovino shrugs, his gaze fixed on the floor. “Maybe.”

Feliciano sits up, tilting his head. “You don’t sound very excited.”

“I’m just… thinking,” Lovino says after a moment, his voice low. “About what’s next. About what this means for us.”

“It means we keep going,” Feliciano says simply. “We keep playing, keep moving, until we find… whatever it is we’re looking for.”

Lovino glances up, a flicker of disbelief behind his eyes. “And what if this was it, Feli? What if tonight was our chance?”

Feliciano smiles softly, a carefree warmth lighting his face. “Then we’ll find another chance somewhere else. The world’s full of them.”

Lovino stares at him for a moment, silent. Finally, he exhales and looks away, hiding the exasperation in his voice. “Yeah. Just like always.”

The next morning, they’re up early, the sunlight spilling into their room like liquid gold. Feliciano hums as he sketches the view from their window, his lines confident and steady. Lovino watches him for a moment, his guitar resting on his lap.

“You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?” Lovino asks suddenly.

Feliciano glances at him, his pencil pausing mid-line. “About what?”

“This,” Lovino says, gesturing vaguely. “The traveling, the music, all of it. You really think it’s enough?”

Feliciano sets his sketchpad aside, turning to face Lovino fully. “It’s not about being enough, Lovi. It’s about… I don’t know. Living, I guess. Feeling alive.”

Lovino frowns, his fingers brushing over the guitar strings. “You really think that’s what we’re doing?”

Feliciano nods, his expression earnest. “Don’t you?”

Lovino doesn’t answer right away. He looks down at his guitar, his thoughts swirling. Finally, he mutters, “Maybe.”

Feliciano’s smile is soft, understanding. “That’s a start.”

The theatre’s owner looks bewildered when Feliciano announces they’re departing—they had been great the previous evening, and he was already thinking about another performance for the two. Are they sure? he asks. With just a bit of patience, they’d make a name for themselves soon enough. It’s a tempting offer, even for Lovino, who had never seriously considered making music his ultimate profession. But Feliciano, ever the infuriating man, just smiles and declines the offer with heartfelt thanks. And back on the road they go again.

Their next destination is Amalfi, a coastal town that seems to rise from the sea like a dream. The road winds along the cliffs, the ocean sparkling below them, the air filled with the scent of salt and lemons. Feliciano leans out of the window of the crowded bus they’ve crammed into, his hair ruffled by the wind, his eyes wide with wonder.

“This is it,” he says, his voice filled with conviction. “This is where we’re meant to be.”

“You say that about every place,” Lovino grumbles, though he’s secretly charmed by Feliciano’s enthusiasm. “Let’s just hope we can afford to eat.”

When they arrive, the town is bustling, its narrow streets alive with color and movement. They find a spot near the harbor to set up, the sound of waves crashing against the rocks serving as a natural backdrop to their music.

The crowd here is different—less polished, more genuine. Fishermen pause to listen, their weathered faces softening. Children dance to the rhythm, their laughter mingling with the music. By the time they finish their first set, their cases are filled with coins, and Feliciano’s smile is brighter than the sun.

That night, they’re invited to a small gathering in one of the fishermen’s homes. The room is warm and crowded, the air thick with the scent of fresh seafood and the sound of laughter. Feliciano fits in effortlessly, his charm drawing smiles and laughter from everyone. Lovino lingers near the edge of the room, a glass of wine in hand, his sharp eyes watching over his brother.

As the night goes on, someone pulls out a guitar, and the music begins again. Feliciano and Lovino are coaxed into playing, their melodies blending with the laughter and clinking glasses. For a little while, everything feels simple, easy.

Later, as they walk back to their room under a blanket of stars, Lovino breaks the silence. “You were good tonight.”

Feliciano glances at him, surprised. “Grazie, Lovi. You were good too.”

Lovino shrugs, but there’s a faint smile on his lips. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Feliciano laughs, his voice light and free. “Too late.”

Amalfi

The days in Amalfi stretch lazily, one blending into the next like brushstrokes on a canvas. The brothers find themselves lingering longer than they’d intended, charmed by the town’s rhythm of life. Mornings are spent exploring winding streets and crumbling staircases, afternoons by the sea, and evenings playing in the square or on the docks, their music carried away by the waves.

Feliciano thrives in the sunlight, sketchpad in hand as he captures the vibrancy of the town—the way the light dances on the water, the splash of color from hanging laundry, the faces of fishermen and merchants. His optimism is infectious, even for Lovino, who grumbles less and smirks more, though he’d never admit it.

The afternoon sun bathes the Amalfi shore in its golden embrace, the sea shimmering with every gentle roll of the waves. Feliciano and Lovino walk along the beach, their instruments left behind for once, allowing the sounds of the surf and distant laughter to fill the silence between them. The sand warms their feet as they stroll, speaking little but content in each other’s company.

“ Palla !” A sudden shout cuts through the salty air.

Lovino turns sharply toward the voice, just in time to see a ball hurtling toward him. Instinct takes over. His feet dig into the sand as he steps back, letting the ball bounce off his chest before tapping it down with his knee. Then, with the precision of years spent playing on cobbled streets and uneven pavements, he kicks it back toward the group of boys further down the beach. The ball arcs perfectly, landing in their midst with cheers of approval.

Feliciano whistles, clapping Lovino on the back. “You’ve still got it, Lovi!”

Lovino shrugs, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I never lost it.”

From the group of boys comes a wave of gratitude, shouts of “ Grazie !” echoing over the water. They wave enthusiastically, one of them even bowing in exaggerated thanks. Lovino, always guarded with strangers, gives a small nod of acknowledgement, while Feliciano beams brightly, waving back.

Later, as they sit on the warm sand, the sound of rushing waves and distant chatter envelops them. Lovino leans back, arms braced behind him, while Feliciano fidgets with a piece of driftwood, drawing lazy shapes in the sand. Their peace is interrupted by the crunch of footsteps.

“Hey!” One of the boys, looking around their age, jogs up to them, his dark hair tousled by the breeze. “That was a great kick! You play?”

Lovino squints up at him, shading his eyes with one hand. “Used to, as a child.”

“Well, we’re short a couple of players. Want to join us?”

Feliciano sits up straighter, his face lighting up with excitement. “Lovi, let’s play! Please?”

Lovino rolls his eyes, already regretting the decision he knows he’ll make. “Fine,” he says, brushing the sand off his hands. “But I’m not playing goalkeeper.”

The boy laughs, extending a hand to help him up. “Deal. I’m Valerio.”

“Lovino,” he says, clasping the offered hand. Then, gesturing to his brother, he adds, “And this idiot is my brother.”

“Feliciano,” his brother chimes in, eagerly shaking Valerio’s hand. “Nice to meet you!”

The shouts from the rest of the group grow louder, urging them to hurry, and before long, the brothers are running toward the makeshift field with Valerio leading the way.

The game starts quickly, the boundaries marked by sandals and discarded shirts. Feliciano dives into the game with his usual energy, weaving through players with an effortless grace that makes the group cheer. Lovino, more focused and deliberate, holds his ground, intercepting passes and sending strong, well-placed shots that leave even Valerio impressed. They move as if they have never stopped playing, their instincts honed by countless games on streets where dodging cars is part of the sport.

“Dai, Lovi! Over here!” Feliciano shouts, his arm waving for the ball.

Lovino’s lips quirk in a sly smile as he feigns a pass, then turns and lobs the ball straight into the makeshift goal. The group erupts in cheers, Feliciano throwing his arms up in mock frustration.

“You’re supposed to pass to me!” he whines.

“Play better,” Lovino shoots back, smirking as he jogs back into position.

The game stretches into the evening, the sky painted with hues of orange and pink. When a stray kick sends the ball into the waves, it’s Feliciano who runs after it. Two other boys follow him, tackling each other in the water, their laughter ringing out over the beach. Lovino watches from the sidelines, shaking his head but unable to hide the fondness in his gaze.

By the time the sun dips below the horizon, they are seated together at a small kiosk by the water, licking at gelato cones and basking in the coolness of the evening air. The group’s lively chatter blends with the sound of waves, and for a moment, it feels as though they are part of something infinite, a memory suspended in time.

Valerio leans back in his chair, looking at the brothers with a grin. “You’re both pretty good. Must’ve played a lot, huh?”

Lovino shrugs, taking a slow lick of his gelato. “We grew up with it. Streets, parks, wherever.”

“And he’s still the better player,” Feliciano chimes in, earning a surprised look from his brother. “What? It’s true. You’ve always been better.”

Lovino doesn’t reply, but his smirk softens into something more genuine. The night carries on, the camaraderie of the group warming the chill in the air, and as they finally part ways, Lovino can’t help but admit to himself that it has been a good day.

Feliciano nudges him as they walk back to their room. “Told you it’d be fun.”

“Shut up, Feli,” Lovino mutters, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward.

The beach behind them fades into the night, but the memory of their laughter and the rhythm of the game lingers, a piece of Amalfi they will carry with them.

The day they leave Amalfi is bittersweet. As they board the bus that will take them to their next destination, Feliciano looks back at the town one last time, his sketchpad tucked under his arm.

“Do you think we’ll ever come back?” he asks.

“Maybe,” Lovino says, his voice even. “If you don’t drag us halfway across the world first.”

Feliciano laughs, leaning against his brother as the bus pulls away. “Wherever we go, Lovi, I’m glad we’re going together.”

Lovino doesn’t reply, but the slight tilt of his head toward Feliciano is answer enough.

Chapter Text

Florence

It takes them a couple of days to get from Amalfi to Florence. It’s not the most intuitive trip—far from it. There were so many places they could’ve chosen that were much closer. They could’ve stopped in Rome, for example, instead of spending just one night there only to catch a new train the following morning.

But once Feliciano sets his mind on something, it’s nearly impossible to make him change it. That stubbornness— capa tost’ , as their mother used to sigh—is one of the few things they truly share as brothers.

It’s a good thing they’re usually stubborn about different things, because the few times they haven’t been, it’s turned into a clash of titans.

This time, Lovino had folded. It’s been happening more and more lately, ever since the trip began—and it annoys him to realize how easily he’s been giving in, especially when it comes to his younger brother. But it’s easier this way. And, truth be told, Lovino hasn’t felt much like fighting lately anyway.

The railway winds northward, carrying them away from the sea and into the sprawling hills of Tuscany. The air grows cooler as summer gives way to early autumn, the leaves on the trees brushing the horizon with shades of gold and crimson. Feliciano sits by the window of the train, his sketchpad resting on his knees, though he hasn’t drawn anything in hours. He watches the landscape blur past, his mind wandering.

Lovino dozes beside him, his head tipped back against the seat, his arms crossed over his chest. His guitar case leans against the window, scuffed and battered but still sturdy, much like its owner. Feliciano glances at him and smiles faintly, a warmth spreading through his chest. For all Lovino’s grumbling and sharp words, there’s no one Feliciano would rather be with.

They arrive in Florence at dusk, the city bathed in a soft, amber light. The streets are alive with energy, the sounds of footsteps and laughter echoing off the ancient stone buildings. Feliciano inhales deeply, taking in the scent of fresh bread and blooming flowers.

“Think we’ll find a place to play?” Feliciano asks as they navigate the crowded streets.

“Probably,” Lovino replies, his gaze flicking between the faces in the crowd. “If you don’t get distracted by every pretty building first.”

Feliciano laughs, his steps light. “How could I not? Look at this place, Lovi. It’s like walking through a painting.”

“You say that about every city,” Lovino mutters, but there’s a softness in his voice.

They find an open square near the Arno River, where a handful of other musicians have already gathered. Feliciano sets up eagerly, his violin gleaming in the fading light. Lovino tunes his guitar with practiced efficiency, his fingers moving as if by instinct.

When they begin to play, the music fills the square, weaving through the chatter of the crowd like a thread of gold. This evening, their wallets still heavy thanks to the performance in Sorrento and the tips from Amalfi, they decide to take a risk and play more of their own songs rather than covering popular pieces. As expected, the crowd is smaller—but welcoming nonetheless.

Feliciano’s melodies are lively and bright, while Lovino’s chords add depth and weight. Together, they create something that feels timeless, as if it belongs to the city itself.

After their performance, they count their tips in a small café overlooking the river. The coins are fewer than they’d hoped, but neither of them complains. The music, it seems, was worth more than the money.

“I think we’re getting better,” Feliciano says, sipping his coffee. His face is flushed, his eyes alight with satisfaction.

“We’ve always been good,” Lovino replies, though his tone is less dismissive than usual. He stirs his coffee slowly, his gaze on the river outside. “But yeah… maybe we are.”

Feliciano leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you think people will remember us? Years from now, when we’re old and gray, do you think they’ll talk about the Vargas brothers and their music?”

Lovino raises an eyebrow. “The Vargas brothers?”

“Well, it’s better than Feliciano and Lovino, the Wandering Messes, ” Feliciano says with a grin.

Lovino snorts. “Barely.”

The next morning, Feliciano convinces Lovino to visit the Uffizi Gallery. Lovino grumbles about the cost, the crowds, and how they should be practicing instead, but he follows his brother nonetheless.

Inside, they’re greeted by the cool hush of the museum, the murmur of tourists blending with the creak of footsteps on the polished floors. Feliciano leads the way, his eyes wide with wonder as he takes in the masterpieces that line the walls.

“Look, Lovi!” he whispers, tugging on his brother’s sleeve. “Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus ! Isn’t it stunning?”

Lovino glances at the painting, his expression impassive. “It’s alright, I guess. Not sure why everyone makes such a fuss over it.”

Feliciano pouts. “You’re impossible. Look at the movement, the light! It’s like she’s stepping out of the painting.”

Lovino huffs and yet, despite his words, Lovino’s eyes linger a second too long on the delicate brushstrokes, tracing Venus’s figure, lost in thought. Feliciano doesn’t notice, already sketching rapidly in his notebook, capturing the painting’s essence effortlessly.

As they wander further, Lovino’s gaze continues to drift, pausing now and then on a painting or sculpture with a quiet intensity. Eventually, he stops to watch Feliciano sketching the statue of Pothos , pencil moving swiftly, confidently.

“Hey, Feli?” Lovino begins quietly, watching his brother’s focused expression. “Why a musician?”

Feliciano doesn’t lift his eyes from the paper. “Hm?”

“I mean, why did you choose music instead of art? You’re good. Any art dealer worth their title would take you in immediately.”

Feliciano hums softly, eyes flicking briefly toward the sculpture. “It wasn’t really a choice. I just like this. Drawing what I want, when I want to—if I want to. And traveling with you, making music together, of course.”

“And is that enough?” Lovino asks. “You’ll have to choose one day—either settle down with an art studio or seriously pursue a career in music. You won’t be able to do as you please forever.”

It’s a topic they’ve addressed countless times, yet Feliciano still has the nerve to look confused as he finally turns toward Lovino. “Why?”

Lovino purses his lips. Because it’s unfair , he wants to say. Feliciano had taken all the talent for himself, leaving Lovino forever in his shadow, yet he doesn’t even intend to do anything meaningful with it. Lovino knows he’s good—his art amazes people, his music makes them stop and listen—but it’s all honed through years of relentless practice, passion bordering on madness. Feliciano, however, possesses something Lovino never will: that effortless spark of pure, raw talent.

So Feliciano should choose. He should embrace one path, become truly great at it, and leave Lovino to be good enough in whatever’s left behind. Because Lovino is selfish, and none of this is fair.

“Because that’s how things are,” he says instead, turning away to look at another piece of art. He leaves Feliciano alone with the statue— Pothos , longing for love. Lovino wonders bitterly when his own passions had dwindled down into nothing more than longing for what could have been.

By the time they leave the gallery, the sun is high in the sky, casting the city in a golden glow. Feliciano hums a tune as they walk back toward the river, his sketchbook now brimming with new inspirations. Lovino walks next to him, hands tucked in his pocket.

“I’m glad we went,” Feliciano says suddenly, his voice light.

“It was okay,” Lovino grumbles, but there’s no real bite to his words.

Their time in Florence passes quickly.

They spend the next few days exploring Florence, playing wherever they can and soaking in the city’s beauty. Feliciano sketches constantly, filling his notebook with images of the Duomo, the Ponte Vecchio, and the bustling markets. Lovino grumbles about his brother’s distractions but secretly enjoys the way Feliciano’s enthusiasm brings the city to life—he wishes he could truly hate it as much as he says he does.

Too soon they find themselves packing their belongings once again.

As they board a train bound for Verona, Feliciano gazes out the window, his heart heavy with that familiar mix of anticipation and longing that always lingers when he leaves a place he’s loved, moving on to the next.

Beside him, Lovino is quiet, arms crossed and brow drawn—not scowling, not exactly, but stewing in some emotion that simmers just beneath the surface. Feliciano doesn’t ask. He never really has to. He’s known since they were kids how to read the signs: the clipped answers, the way Lovino’s leg bounces just once before he forces it still, the sharp inhale he takes before swallowing back whatever bitterness is burning in his chest.

Some days are worse than others. Today might be one of them.

Feliciano leans his temple against the cool glass and watches the city slip away, the skyline melting into open fields and blurred trees. “We’ll find something good in Verona,” he says, not looking at his brother. “I can feel it.”

Lovino doesn’t answer, but after a long moment, he shifts slightly, just enough for his shoulder to brush against Feliciano’s.

And that’s enough.

Feliciano closes his eyes, the steady rhythm of the train beneath them like a heartbeat. Whatever’s waiting for them ahead, at least they’re still heading there together.

Chapter Text

Verona

They reach Verona in the early afternoon, the city bathed in the warm, golden glow of autumn. The narrow streets are lined with pastel-colored buildings, their shutters thrown open to let in the breeze. There’s a quiet charm to Verona, less bustling than Florence or Naples, but no less beautiful.

Feliciano stretches as they step off the train, his sketchpad tucked under his arm. “I can already tell I’m going to love it here,” he says, his voice bright with anticipation.

“You say that about every place,” Lovino mutters, adjusting the strap of his guitar case. “Let’s just find somewhere to stay before you start running around like a maniac.”

They settle into a small inn near the Piazza delle Erbe, its walls adorned with ivy and its windows overlooking the square. The room is simple but comfortable, with a pair of wrought-iron beds and a small balcony that catches the afternoon sun.

Their first evening in Verona finds them in the Piazza Bra, near the grand Roman amphitheater. The massive structure looms over the square, its ancient stones glowing softly in the twilight. Feliciano is captivated, sketching furiously as Lovino tunes his guitar.

They choose a spot near the fountain, where the sound of trickling water adds a soothing undertone to their music. Feliciano starts with a lively tune, his violin singing through the square like a bird in flight. Lovino’s chords are steady and grounding, weaving seamlessly with Feliciano’s melodies.

The crowd gathers slowly, their faces lit with curiosity and delight. A young couple dances to the music, their movements clumsy but joyful. An older man tosses a coin into Feliciano’s case with a nod of approval. The square feels alive, their music at its heart.

When they finish, the applause is warm, and the tips are plentiful. Feliciano beams as he counts the coins, his excitement contagious. Lovino watches him quietly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“You really love this, don’t you?” Lovino asks as they pack up their instruments.

Feliciano glances at him, surprised by the softness in his tone. “Of course I do. Don’t you?”

Lovino shrugs, his gaze dropping to his guitar. “I guess. Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Feliciano echoes, his brow furrowing. “Why only sometimes?”

“Because it’s hard,” Lovino says after a pause. “Always moving, never knowing if we’ll make enough to eat, dealing with people who don’t give a damn about us… it’s exhausting.”

Feliciano nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. “It is. But it’s worth it, isn’t it? When we play, and people listen… it feels like we’re part of something bigger.”

The next few days in Verona are a blur of music and exploration. They play in different squares, their music adapting to the mood of each setting. Some nights are lively and crowded, filled with laughter and applause. Others are quieter, their audience small but attentive.

One afternoon, they visit Juliet’s house, the famous balcony draped in ivy. Feliciano insists on sketching it, of course.

“Imagine it, Lovi,” Feliciano says, his pencil moving across the page. “A love so strong it’s remembered for centuries.”

“It’s a tragedy,” Lovino grumbles. “They both die. Not exactly something to aspire to.”

“But it’s beautiful,” Feliciano argues, his eyes bright. “Even if it’s sad.”

“No. They were both children and had known each other for two days. It's stupid, that's what it is.”

And yet, when he later wanders inside the building and comes out on the balcony, he leans on the balustrade, looking down on Feliciano still sketching. He smirks faintly, a rare flicker of mischief slipping through, satisfied when Feliciano looks up, wide-eyed and delighted, when he starts to recite Juliet's famous line: “Oh Romeo, Romeo, perché sei tu Romeo? Rinnega tuo padre, rifiuta il tuo nome; o, se non vuoi, tu giurami amore eterno, ed io non sarò più una Capuleti”.

By now, Feliciano is grinning back at him, his whole posture ready to join the theatrics with abandon. He raises a hand towards the balcony, the other pressed dramatically against his heart; Lovino rolls his eyes.

“D'ora in avanti tu chiamami 'Amore', ed io sarò per te non più Romeo, perché m'avrai così ribattezzato.”

Lovino raises a brow, unimpressed. “You skipped a line, idiot.”

Feliciano snorts, arms dropping. “What, you wanted to re-enact Juliet's whole monologue?”

“It's a nice monologue. ‘Quella che noi chiamiamo col nome di rosa, anche con altro nome conserverebbe il suo dolce profumo’. Aren't you supposed to be the romantic one between us?”

Feliciano looks almost offended. “I am, and you know that! Sorry if I can't memorise whole Shakespeare plays like you, genius.”

“Oh, don't go blaming me for being a genius. You could barely be bothered to memorise the Divine Comedy’s incipit when we were still at school,” Lovino scoffs, leaning more heavily against the balustrade. 

“Well, now you're just being mean. You know I never liked literature,” Feliciano huffs, and Lovino grins teasingly down at him.

“You're illiterate, that's what you are.”

Lovino steps back from the balcony, unrepentant despite Feliciano’s outraged screeching—at least I wasn't the teacher's pet!—, and finally makes his way back downstairs. Feliciano is still pouting at him, arms crossed and sketches forgotten, and Lovino can't help the half-amused, half-fond tug at the corner of his lips. He walks past his brother, lightly bumping their shoulders together as he does.

“C’mon, let's grab the instruments and find a place to play,” he says without even looking back—but it's the closest thing to an apology he will ever offer, and Feliciano seems appeased enough. A moment later, Lovino hears the shuffling of papers being gathered, followed by quick footsteps rushing to catch up.

Later that evening, as they play in Piazza delle Erbe, they choose more romantic songs and melodies: their own little tribute to the Italian city of love. They move seamlessly from heartbreaking songs like Buongiorno Tristezza, to more upbeat, hopeful songs like Voglio Vivere Così—and somehow, it works. Lovino's voice isn't loud, but it's rich, weaving confidently over the strums of his guitar, and Feliciano knows exactly how to play the violin to highlight it without drowning it out. The result is something hauntingly beautiful, a melody that lingers in the air long after the last note fades.

The streets of Verona are alive that evening, buzzing with an energy that neither Feliciano nor Lovino can resist. They wander from the square into the winding alleys, the golden light of streetlamps casting long shadows on the cobblestones. Feliciano hums softly, twirling a cigarette between his fingers. He takes a couple of drags before handing it over to his brother. Lovino walks beside him, his guitar slung over one shoulder, a scowl resting comfortably on his face despite the warmth of the night.

They turn a corner and stumble upon a small, crowded bar spilling music and laughter into the street. A sign above the door reads La Taverna di Mercurio, its letters painted in bold, uneven strokes.

“This looks promising,” Feliciano says, his grin wide. Without waiting for a response, he pushes open the door, dragging Lovino along with him.

The bar is dimly lit and packed, the air thick with the scent of cheap wine and smoke. A band plays in the corner, their music fast and lively, the kind that makes it impossible to sit still. Feliciano is already weaving through the crowd, greeting strangers with easy charm. Lovino follows reluctantly, muttering about how crowded it is but not making any real effort to leave.

They find a small table near the back, squeezed between a group of chattering girls and a man who looks like he’s been nursing the same drink for hours. Feliciano orders a bottle of wine and two glasses, lighting a new cigarette as he leans back in his chair.

“This,” he says, gesturing around the room, “is exactly what we needed.”

Lovino raises an eyebrow. “We needed to suffocate in a room full of drunk strangers?”

“We needed to live a little,” Feliciano corrects, pouring them both a glass of wine. “Come on, Lovi. Even you have to admit it’s fun.”

Lovino grumbles something incoherent but takes the glass anyway, sipping it slowly. The wine is cheap and a little sour, but it warms his chest in a way that loosens the tension coiled there, and that never quite goes away.

As the night wears on, the bar grows louder, the music faster, the laughter more uninhibited. Feliciano flirts shamelessly with the girls at the next table, his charm drawing giggles and playful nudges. Lovino, despite himself, finds his gaze wandering to one of them—a dark-haired girl with a sharp smile and quick wit. She catches his eye and raises an eyebrow, her smile turning into a challenge.

“Not going to join us, handsome?” she asks, leaning over the back of her chair. Her voice is teasing but inviting, and Lovino feels a flush creep up his neck.

Feliciano smirks, leaning closer to his brother. “She’s talking to you, Lovi.”

“Shut up,” Lovino mutters, standing abruptly. He grabs his glass and moves to the girls’ table, ignoring Feliciano’s triumphant grin.

The hours blur together in a haze of wine, smoke, and laughter. Feliciano takes over the piano in the corner, playing a lively tune that gets the whole bar clapping along. Lovino finds himself surprisingly at ease, trading sharp banter with the dark-haired girl and letting her pull him into a messy, impromptu dance.

They meet a pair of young men in the middle of the chaos, their voices loud and their accents foreign. One of them, a blond with a wild grin, introduces himself as Alfred. “From America!” he declares, as if the whole bar wasn’t already aware. His brother, a quieter man named Matthew, smiles sheepishly and waves his hand at them.

“Sorry,” Matthew says in a soft tone that makes Lovino both want to protect him (though the guy is taller and clearly better built than him) and shout at him to be more confident. “He’s had a bit too much to drink.”

“You’re just jealous of my charm,” Alfred shoots back, clapping Matthew on the back. “Come on, lighten up. We’re here to have fun!”

Feliciano takes an immediate liking to Alfred, their shared energy creating a whirlwind of laughter and antics that the entire bar can’t help but watch. Matthew, meanwhile, ends up seated beside Lovino, nursing a drink while attempting a light conversation with him.

“You’re not much for crowds, are you?” Lovino asks, studying the blond sitting next to him, the way he fidgets nervously with the straw in his glass.

Matthew shrugs, taking a long sip of his drink. “Not usually. But it’s hard to say no to my brother.” He nods toward Alfred, who is currently trying (and failing) to teach Feliciano an American dance move.

Lovino snorts, leaning back in his chair. “I know the feeling.”

By the time the bar starts to empty, the Vargas brothers are thoroughly tangled in the lively camaraderie of their new acquaintances. Alfred insists on buying everyone one last round, and Feliciano makes a toast that’s equal parts heartfelt and ridiculous.

“To Verona, to new friends, and to nights like this!” he declares, raising his glass high.

“To making it out alive,” Matthew sighs, though there’s a faint smile on his lips as he clinks glasses with Lovino.

The night spills into the early hours of the morning, the group eventually stumbling out into the empty streets. Alfred and Matthew wave them off with promises to meet again, their laughter echoing down the alley as they disappear into the night.

Feliciano and Lovino walk back to their inn in comfortable silence, the city quiet around them. The wine has left Feliciano’s steps loose and light, while Lovino feels a rare sense of ease settling over him.

“That was fun,” Feliciano says, his voice soft but content.

Lovino glances at him, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. It was.”

Feliciano smiles, and for once, Lovino doesn’t scowl or look away. They walk the rest of the way side by side, the city theirs for the moment, the night still young in their memories.

Their final night in Verona is spent on the balcony of their room, the city spread out below them like a painting. The stars are bright, the air cool, and the faint sound of music drifts up from the square.

Feliciano leans against the railing, his sketchpad forgotten on the table behind him. “Do you think we’ll remember all of this when we’re old?” he asks, his voice quiet.

Lovino sits on the edge of the bed, his guitar resting against his leg. “Probably,” he says. “You’ll have all your drawings, and I’ll have the calluses on my fingers to remind me.”

Feliciano smiles, but there’s a hint of sadness in it. “I hope we never forget. Even the hard parts.”

Lovino watches him for a moment, his gaze softening. “We won’t. I won’t let you. Not after everything you're making me go through.”

Feliciano looks at him, surprised by the sincerity under the seemingly scathing remark.

“You're going to complain about every single incident forever, aren't you?” he sighs, and Lovino scoffs with a decisive nod.

“You made me play under a downpour in Capri! And I almost fell down a cliff because of you, like, the next day?”

“Oh my God, you're so dramatic! We packed our instruments the moment it started raining! And it's not my fault you slipped! It wasn't even a cliff, anyway!”

“Well, it was high enough for me to break a limb or four. And we wouldn't have been there if you hadn't insisted on exploring,” Lovino shrugs pointedly.

Feliciano leans heavily on the railing, hiding his face in his hands with an exasperated groan, and Lovino huffs in quiet victory.

They lapse into silence after that—Lovino tuning his guitar and Feliciano’s violin, Feliciano returning to his drawings. He’s sketching Lovino on Juliet's balcony, and he wants to finish it before the memory inevitably starts to blur.

As it often happens with them, though, the quiet doesn't last long. Feliciano sighs softly, making Lovino glance up from his guitar with a raised brow just as he mutters: “I'm hungry”.

There's some ruffling from behind him, and then Lovino's voice: “Catch”.

Feliciano barely has time to turn before a paper bag hits him square in the face and lands on his lap. He manages to catch it just before it tumbles down on the floor.

“Can you stop bullying me for exactly five minutes–”

Feliciano's voice dies in a delighted gasp as he opens the paper bag and finds it full of tarallucci. He immediately reaches inside, grabs one, and pops it into his mouth.

“Have I ever told you that you're the best brother in the world?”

Lovino, now laying back on the bed, snorts teasingly. “You're so damn easy to bribe, Feli. I'm almost worried for you.”

For a moment, they hold each other’s gaze. Then Feliciano smiles again, brighter this time, and turns back to the view, grabbing another bread ring.

“Where do you think we’ll go next?” he a

sks.

“Wherever you drag me,” Lovino replies after a beat of hesitation, his tone softly resigned.