Chapter Text
On Friday nights, when the last tourist has finally gone the fuck back to wherever they came from and the fields have gotten too dark or the cellar too cold for any more work, Lovino heads back to the Bodega and graciously rescues an overly grateful Antonio from the doldrums of reconciling the books and declares the work week over. When they finally make to the warmth and privacy of their small and cluttered kitchen, Antonio turns on the radio to the same station that fills the room with the sounds of flamenco and asks Lovino what’s for dinner tonight, because Fridays are Lovino’s night to cook and Antonio’s chance to pick the wine, turning the routine of the week inside out as they slowly lay down the professional and hoard as many hours of the personal that they can find between the demands of the vine and stove.
And because he’s too weak to resist the little smile of delight Antonio has every time he does it, Lovino tosses on the idiotic apron the bastard bought him on their first Christmas together and tolerates the effusive affection Antonio presses over his cheeks, his nose and his lips in an effort to follow the instructions of the goddamned apron and “Kiss the Cook.” Its ridiculous and fucking embarrassing, but its also the first time Antonio has kissed him since the morning when he tasted of toothpaste and not at all like whatever fruity and for shit wine with which Antonio’s decided to torture him, and so he tolerates the embrace and maybe even returns it a little until a different kind of hunger gets the better of him.
While he prepares a true Italian meal that will have Antonio’s taste buds weeping with fucking envy, Lovino calls his brother and listens to him chatter about the comings and goings at the Tenuta. He tosses out bastard in all the appropriate places when Feliciano lingers too long on the subject of Rome or Ludwig, hums in thanks when Feliciano tells him to add more basil to his sauce, and flushes and avoids Antonio’s too fond gaze when he stammers out an, “I love you, too.”
They eat the dinner he’s made (it doesn’t hold a candle to what Antonio can do and when he’s two glasses into the crap booze Antonio bought “just for fun,” he sometimes tells Antonio this just to see the pleasure and pride in Antonio’s eyes) and they talk. Antonio waxes rhapsodic about the fresh strawberries that he can’t wait to incorporate into the restaurant’s menu and Lovino grumbles about the slow bud break with the Grenache and the conversation is really fucking boring and entirely perfect. Antonio’s chosen wine, cheap and easy, pairs well with the tired ease of their words and the way that Antonio somehow always ends up sliding his chair to the same side of the table so he can pick at Lovino’s plate and wind his arm around his shoulders and hold him loose and sweet while their glasses run slowly dry.
No matter how often he protests that its fucking unnecessary, Antonio always makes him dessert, even though its not his turn to cook and he knows the bastard has better uses of his skill than making Lovino something sweet to go with the bottle of Sauternes Lovino can’t help but drag out of the cupboard. He always thinks he must be too tipsy or too exhausted by the time they reach the last bites of whatever sin Antonio’s concocted that night because he lets Antonio dip the spoon between his lips and chase the sugar with a kiss that promises something more intoxicating than any wine in his cellar.
And when Antonio whispers to him that they should leave the dishes for tomorrow morning, or maybe even for Sunday, Lovino has nothing more to add than a mumbled fuck yes. If the evening’s made of clinging warmth, he lets Antonio drag him to the patio and closes his eyes while Antonio presses him into into the thin cushion of the lounger and divests him of his clothes until they’re both half-naked and shameless in the hot night air, giving the moon a reason to be jealous.
But most Fridays, Lovino shoves his chair back from the table and flicks off the kitchen light while Antonio holds him from behind, distracting him as they walk up the stairs to their bedroom with promises and threats of what they are going to do with the hours that remain to them before Saturday dawns. In bed, he takes Antonio in his arms and kisses him to still the needless, ridiculous whispers of affection and desire, so known and still so unfamiliar that he can’t take much before his face goes too red and he’s ready to say embarrassing shit of his own. The sheets fall to the floor and the walls are papered in echoes of curses, sighs, and moans. And though the act changes and hands and lips and bodies touch, taste and move in ways that never fail to surprise him, the sentiment behind each kiss and push/pull is the damnably same..and when its over, Antonio still smiles at him like its the first time Lovino took him to bed and let him inside.
Antonio is soft and sweet against him, mussed and fucking beautiful, even at night, even after long days and unforgiving hours, and Lovino never ceases wondering how it is that such a man would want to fall asleep with Lovino’s scathing mouth still pressed against his throat, feeling the beating of his heart with his lips. But as he succumbs to the pleasure of sleep after a week of work that may take years to yield results, Lovino chooses to trust in the too many times Antonio professes his undying devotion every day of the week and whispers a last demand that Antonio make him pancakes to start their Saturday morning.