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This is another of my song fanfics. This time, I bring you Un Baile del Corazon or Dance of the Heart by Stephen Bishop, played by Spain x Romano. I've always said we interpret songs in some different ways and when I heard te lyrics of the song, I felt great pain. Which brought me to write about my muses once again. So, while readng do have Un Baile del Corazon playing on the radio. I suggest a good glass of wine, some cheese and biscuits, low lights preferably a candelabra and the music on a low and soothing volume. Enjoy! Love lots!
-Remi
Night. . .falling from heaven above the sound of a guitar.
Drifting through the moonlit sky
Your face
Lovely as the rose in your hair
The passion in your eyes Fills me with the songs of love.
Monday night. The cold crisp of the Italian November bit his skin underneath the Armani down jacket and striped cotton scarf. While walking home from the station, Lovino cursed to himself as he thought of his warm gloves sitting on his cubicle desk. He had been in too much of a hurry to rearrange his desk and somehow must have dropped them while he furiously scanned his messy workplace for his bag. He wheezed from the cold and quickly rubbed his hands together to gather at least a little heat then put them in the side pockets of his jacket.
He turns right leading to a narrow road lined with tall buildings, most of them apartments with a few cars parked in front of them and a few small-scale restaurants. He waves to a few women with regard to his flirtatious nature and turns another right entering another narrow space and located his tall, orange 4-storey apartment. No one was walking around much save for an old man and his dog standing by a car. In the middle of all the cold, there was much warmth from inside the buildings from the fireplace. Lovino walked faster, desperate as well for the warmth of his own fireplace. He stopped at the main door and started searching for his keys. He finds them in the pocket of his faded jeans then he inserts the key in the keyhole. The knob turns and he starts to step in when a soft sound of strumming was heard from above him.
Lovino’s eyes catches a figure sitting out in the open balcony on what seemed to be a wooden rocking chair in just a white over-sized t-shirt, brown khaki pants and slippers. He was singing a soft melody that fit well with the strumming on his guitar Int the cold, dark moonlit night, Lovino felt a sense of warmth and safety, yet a sense of sadness and longing. He lingered for a bit longer outside his apartment, building, silently listening to the stranger’s rich voice and wistful playing until the cold once again bites on his fingertips, numbing them, telling him to save the listening for some other time.
Once inside his apartment room, Lovino could still hear the music playing as if it were closer than he thought. Leaning outside his window, he sees the same figure about two windows from his own. The playing stopped as the head swivels to his direction. Lovino quickly withdraws from the window, his heart beating faster than it normally did. He set up the fireplace after a hot bath and sits on his reclining chair with a book and hot choco in hand, while he listened more to the soulful music that cold November night.
So tell me when will I know
How can you tell
When love is near
Oh I love you so.
Un baile del corazon
Saturdays are always Lovino’s leisure times wherein he could forget work for a while or at least for half a day before he goes back to work at 11 which is simply preparing for Sunday chores. Today’s Saturday starts off the usual. He wakes up at 6 half naked at the top. He would locate his robe then stride towards the kitchen and would brew for himself hot coffee then he whips up his usual Italian breakfast: Lasagna and garlic bread with a side of tomatoes. While that’s cooking, the doorbell would sound and he would open it to greet Ms. Hedevary, his landlord’s wife, a good morning and retrieve from her the usual morning newspaper. He sets the paper down on the circular dining table and along with his coffee and reads while basking himself in the little sunshine that passes through his window. The oven rings telling Lovino his baked lasagna is done and ready to invade his taste buds. He quickly retrieves the lasagna bowl and a few utensils and resumes reading the paper while he munched on glorious Italian food. Of course, it’s not as good as the lasagna is brother used to make but he was pretty much satisfied that it tasted nearly as good.
Yes. Today was as good as any Saturday.
Then his thoughts fly to that cold Monday night.
He hasn’t heard him play for a while. It’s been two weeks since then and he’s only ever heard him, aside from that Monday, was Thursday of that same week but only briefly when the gurgling sound of French resounded from the other building, halting his playing. Just when Lovino was starting to feel it.
Other than that, it seemed as if he had ceased to play altogether.
Not that he was disappointed or anything. It just that maybe someone else was also listening and would like to hear something that sweet yet lonesome. Maybe someone else felt loved and not alone whenever he played that tune, even if it was the same tune over and over again. And maybe someone else would be knocking on his door.
Wait what?
Lovino returns to the present and hears the shuffling of feet from outside his door. He glanced at his wall clock which hung over the wooden drawers. It read 8:00 am. Strange. Not a lot of people woke up at 8:00 let alone be out of their rooms and scurrying like rats. The sounds ceased and there was loud thumping at his door. The day just got stranger and stranger. He put down his newspaper and cautiously peaked through the peephole and what he saw surprised him
It’s that guitar guy. What’s he doing here?
“Hello? Is anyone here? Please help me! He’s after me! He’s after all of us!” the voice from the other side of the door sounded a lot more different from when he was the guitarist at night. It had a cheerful edge but at them moment, it had that sort of panicked and urgent side. It made Lovino think twice of letting him in. What if he was running from someone? Did he do something wrong? Is he a fugitive? Danger must be his name, or something and the last thing he needed was his face with a mask among a clout of reports on the tabloid.
Then again, aren’t I also running away?
Before he could think twice, his hand moved on his own and unlocked his door sending a sweating man running inside and hiding someplace near the kitchen. The scurrying of the feet grew louder and Lovino knew better than to stand by the door and watch as he faces his doom. He shuts it quick and turns to leave only to be stopped by more knocking on the door, a small squeal sounding from the end of the room. Lovino scanned for anything he could use as a weapon and picks up a shoe. Raising it up, Lovino opens up and prepares to strike when a casserole plate was shoved in his face and in front of his stood a panting and sweating blond with thick eyebrows above his blue aquamarine eyes.
“I-Is the Spanish wanker inside?” he said with a deep and strong British accent.
This is what he’s hiding from?
He stared at the abomination spread on the casserole plate and choked back a laugh. “Excuse me? Who?”
“The Spanish wanker! The tall tan man from Spain, Antonio, the one with green eyes and smells like he just got out of the barn! I saw him run in this direction then disappeared. Is he inside?”
“What makes you think he’s in here, Eyebrows?”
“What!?”
“And if he is running from you, I think I know why.” He let his eyes move towards the casserole plate, provoking the Briton. Red immediately spread on the gentleman’s cheeks and as he began thrashing about, a tall flashy man with long blond wavy hair tied to a ponytail. He spoke to Lovino with a heavily accented French English. He apologized and moved the Briton away, whom Lovino found out to be the famous Arthur Kirkland, the horror cook of the apartment who lived with his French boyfriend, Francis Bonnefoy, the flashy man with long hair. Arthur consents to leaving after being promised by Francis he’d eat the leftovers and that they’ll get him some other time.
May he find happiness in Heaven.
Out of sight, out of mind, Lovino shuts the door and turns only to be tackled to the ground by a heavy object, a body to be exact and is drowned in hugs and words of thanks and simultaneous shouts to his ear of ‘My saviour!’ ‘My hero!’ Flustered and unsure of what to do, Lovino pushes him off a bit too roughly.
“What the fuck’s your problem, idiot! Don’t just pin people to the ground, especially not when you’re intruding in their privacy just to escape their own problems! And you’re a fucking man, running from ruined food which definitely I think is a nuclear weapon.”
Lovinos paused in need of air and the Spanish man kneeling in front of him just gaping. Suddenly, he let out a small laugh which eventually became a guffaw. Even his small chuckles were like music. Lovino sort of wondered if all Spanish had that good a voice, even their laugh sounds angelic.
At the thought, Lovino blushed a million shades of red.
“Wh-what’s so funny, bastard!? Don’t just laugh at shit and leave people out of it. It’s fucking rude!”
“Oh. Lo siento, mi amigo! It’s just that you read exactly what was on my mind the first day I met that British gentleman. He’s very nice, you know? Just not a very good cook though. His boyfriend, Francis? He could probably turn rocks into gourmet!”
“Okay one. I did not need to know that. Two, I think my apartment has served as your hiding place for far too long. I think it’s time for you to go.” Lovino stood but a hand took him by the arm and pulled him back down on the floor, sending him crashing.
“What the fuck, bastard! Is it a hobby to pull people down with you!?”
“I’m Antonio! Toni’s good. I’m Spanish, by the way. Hey, did you realize that almost everyone in this apartment is from a different country? Like this one on third floor, he’s from---”
“Would you shut up for a second?”
“Oh. Okay. Have I been talking too much? People always tell me I talk too much. I have this friend. His name’s Gilbert. He says he---”
Lovino snaps and slaps him on the head, hopefully shutting him up.
“That hurts...um...I didn’t quite get your name right, neighbor.”
“That’s because you talk too much.”
“Oh. Well, what’s your name? And country if applicable.” He chuckles a bit at his pun. Lovino snorts.
“I’m Lovino. Lovino Vargas. I’m Italian.”
“OH! An Italian! That makes us compadres then!” He says with a cheerful tone and slings an arm over Lovino’s shoulder. Lovino’s eyes darken and shrugs him off then stands up.He walks to the kitchen while Antonio’s eyes follow him.
“We are not friends. I don’t need the friendship. Now if you think you’re safe to go out, then just go. Or rather. Leave now and go hide in the basement or something.” He doesn’t turn around, fully focused on heating his lasagna that he doesn’t realize his unwanted guests was standing behind him, watching curiously as he moved the pan around and around.
“I see Francis has a rival!”
Lovino jumps, dropping the pan by mistake onto the stove. “AH! I said stop it! Great.” the stove goes off and he swivels 180 degrees to be greeted by a Spanish tanned man sitting comfortably on his only dining table seat, holding up a fork and apparenly, he had helped himself to some of the plates. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting ready for food?”
“No you’re not. Get out.”
“Oh come on, Lovi!”
“No! And don’t call me Lovi!
“But it’s cute!”
“Yeah well I’m a man. Don’t call me cute.”
“You’re cute because you’re cute!”
“No!”
“So I shouldn’t call you cute?”
“Yes!”
“I should stop?”
“Yes!
“Are you going to give me lasagna?”
“Yes!”
“Hurray!”
“Wait, what!? You tricked me!”
“Did I?”
“Shut up. Just. You know what? Go ahead. I’m full anyway.”
“Oh Lovi, don’t be like that. Join me for breakfast. I interrupted you during breakfast didn’t I?”
Lovino stopped. Something in his voice made him turn around and actually reconsider.
“Please?”
“No.”
“I’ll even throw in a few tomatoes I grew myself as a thank you for the food AND for hiding me from that nuclear weapon.” Lovino chuckles a bit and strides toward the table, taking the seat the Spanish offers him and munches on his leftover lasagna. “Don’t call me ‘Lovi’ either, tomato bastard. It’s Lovino.” shrugging him off.
“’Tomato Bastard? That’s not something I hear everyday. “
“I call you whatever you want, as you barged in my room and then partake of my blessings Don’t you think it’s a fair trade, tomato bastard?” he said smirking.
“Touche.”
“Bon apetito.”
-Remi
Night. . .falling from heaven above the sound of a guitar.
Drifting through the moonlit sky
Your face
Lovely as the rose in your hair
The passion in your eyes Fills me with the songs of love.
Monday night. The cold crisp of the Italian November bit his skin underneath the Armani down jacket and striped cotton scarf. While walking home from the station, Lovino cursed to himself as he thought of his warm gloves sitting on his cubicle desk. He had been in too much of a hurry to rearrange his desk and somehow must have dropped them while he furiously scanned his messy workplace for his bag. He wheezed from the cold and quickly rubbed his hands together to gather at least a little heat then put them in the side pockets of his jacket.
He turns right leading to a narrow road lined with tall buildings, most of them apartments with a few cars parked in front of them and a few small-scale restaurants. He waves to a few women with regard to his flirtatious nature and turns another right entering another narrow space and located his tall, orange 4-storey apartment. No one was walking around much save for an old man and his dog standing by a car. In the middle of all the cold, there was much warmth from inside the buildings from the fireplace. Lovino walked faster, desperate as well for the warmth of his own fireplace. He stopped at the main door and started searching for his keys. He finds them in the pocket of his faded jeans then he inserts the key in the keyhole. The knob turns and he starts to step in when a soft sound of strumming was heard from above him.
Lovino’s eyes catches a figure sitting out in the open balcony on what seemed to be a wooden rocking chair in just a white over-sized t-shirt, brown khaki pants and slippers. He was singing a soft melody that fit well with the strumming on his guitar Int the cold, dark moonlit night, Lovino felt a sense of warmth and safety, yet a sense of sadness and longing. He lingered for a bit longer outside his apartment, building, silently listening to the stranger’s rich voice and wistful playing until the cold once again bites on his fingertips, numbing them, telling him to save the listening for some other time.
Once inside his apartment room, Lovino could still hear the music playing as if it were closer than he thought. Leaning outside his window, he sees the same figure about two windows from his own. The playing stopped as the head swivels to his direction. Lovino quickly withdraws from the window, his heart beating faster than it normally did. He set up the fireplace after a hot bath and sits on his reclining chair with a book and hot choco in hand, while he listened more to the soulful music that cold November night.
So tell me when will I know
How can you tell
When love is near
Oh I love you so.
Un baile del corazon
Saturdays are always Lovino’s leisure times wherein he could forget work for a while or at least for half a day before he goes back to work at 11 which is simply preparing for Sunday chores. Today’s Saturday starts off the usual. He wakes up at 6 half naked at the top. He would locate his robe then stride towards the kitchen and would brew for himself hot coffee then he whips up his usual Italian breakfast: Lasagna and garlic bread with a side of tomatoes. While that’s cooking, the doorbell would sound and he would open it to greet Ms. Hedevary, his landlord’s wife, a good morning and retrieve from her the usual morning newspaper. He sets the paper down on the circular dining table and along with his coffee and reads while basking himself in the little sunshine that passes through his window. The oven rings telling Lovino his baked lasagna is done and ready to invade his taste buds. He quickly retrieves the lasagna bowl and a few utensils and resumes reading the paper while he munched on glorious Italian food. Of course, it’s not as good as the lasagna is brother used to make but he was pretty much satisfied that it tasted nearly as good.
Yes. Today was as good as any Saturday.
Then his thoughts fly to that cold Monday night.
He hasn’t heard him play for a while. It’s been two weeks since then and he’s only ever heard him, aside from that Monday, was Thursday of that same week but only briefly when the gurgling sound of French resounded from the other building, halting his playing. Just when Lovino was starting to feel it.
Other than that, it seemed as if he had ceased to play altogether.
Not that he was disappointed or anything. It just that maybe someone else was also listening and would like to hear something that sweet yet lonesome. Maybe someone else felt loved and not alone whenever he played that tune, even if it was the same tune over and over again. And maybe someone else would be knocking on his door.
Wait what?
Lovino returns to the present and hears the shuffling of feet from outside his door. He glanced at his wall clock which hung over the wooden drawers. It read 8:00 am. Strange. Not a lot of people woke up at 8:00 let alone be out of their rooms and scurrying like rats. The sounds ceased and there was loud thumping at his door. The day just got stranger and stranger. He put down his newspaper and cautiously peaked through the peephole and what he saw surprised him
It’s that guitar guy. What’s he doing here?
“Hello? Is anyone here? Please help me! He’s after me! He’s after all of us!” the voice from the other side of the door sounded a lot more different from when he was the guitarist at night. It had a cheerful edge but at them moment, it had that sort of panicked and urgent side. It made Lovino think twice of letting him in. What if he was running from someone? Did he do something wrong? Is he a fugitive? Danger must be his name, or something and the last thing he needed was his face with a mask among a clout of reports on the tabloid.
Then again, aren’t I also running away?
Before he could think twice, his hand moved on his own and unlocked his door sending a sweating man running inside and hiding someplace near the kitchen. The scurrying of the feet grew louder and Lovino knew better than to stand by the door and watch as he faces his doom. He shuts it quick and turns to leave only to be stopped by more knocking on the door, a small squeal sounding from the end of the room. Lovino scanned for anything he could use as a weapon and picks up a shoe. Raising it up, Lovino opens up and prepares to strike when a casserole plate was shoved in his face and in front of his stood a panting and sweating blond with thick eyebrows above his blue aquamarine eyes.
“I-Is the Spanish wanker inside?” he said with a deep and strong British accent.
This is what he’s hiding from?
He stared at the abomination spread on the casserole plate and choked back a laugh. “Excuse me? Who?”
“The Spanish wanker! The tall tan man from Spain, Antonio, the one with green eyes and smells like he just got out of the barn! I saw him run in this direction then disappeared. Is he inside?”
“What makes you think he’s in here, Eyebrows?”
“What!?”
“And if he is running from you, I think I know why.” He let his eyes move towards the casserole plate, provoking the Briton. Red immediately spread on the gentleman’s cheeks and as he began thrashing about, a tall flashy man with long blond wavy hair tied to a ponytail. He spoke to Lovino with a heavily accented French English. He apologized and moved the Briton away, whom Lovino found out to be the famous Arthur Kirkland, the horror cook of the apartment who lived with his French boyfriend, Francis Bonnefoy, the flashy man with long hair. Arthur consents to leaving after being promised by Francis he’d eat the leftovers and that they’ll get him some other time.
May he find happiness in Heaven.
Out of sight, out of mind, Lovino shuts the door and turns only to be tackled to the ground by a heavy object, a body to be exact and is drowned in hugs and words of thanks and simultaneous shouts to his ear of ‘My saviour!’ ‘My hero!’ Flustered and unsure of what to do, Lovino pushes him off a bit too roughly.
“What the fuck’s your problem, idiot! Don’t just pin people to the ground, especially not when you’re intruding in their privacy just to escape their own problems! And you’re a fucking man, running from ruined food which definitely I think is a nuclear weapon.”
Lovinos paused in need of air and the Spanish man kneeling in front of him just gaping. Suddenly, he let out a small laugh which eventually became a guffaw. Even his small chuckles were like music. Lovino sort of wondered if all Spanish had that good a voice, even their laugh sounds angelic.
At the thought, Lovino blushed a million shades of red.
“Wh-what’s so funny, bastard!? Don’t just laugh at shit and leave people out of it. It’s fucking rude!”
“Oh. Lo siento, mi amigo! It’s just that you read exactly what was on my mind the first day I met that British gentleman. He’s very nice, you know? Just not a very good cook though. His boyfriend, Francis? He could probably turn rocks into gourmet!”
“Okay one. I did not need to know that. Two, I think my apartment has served as your hiding place for far too long. I think it’s time for you to go.” Lovino stood but a hand took him by the arm and pulled him back down on the floor, sending him crashing.
“What the fuck, bastard! Is it a hobby to pull people down with you!?”
“I’m Antonio! Toni’s good. I’m Spanish, by the way. Hey, did you realize that almost everyone in this apartment is from a different country? Like this one on third floor, he’s from---”
“Would you shut up for a second?”
“Oh. Okay. Have I been talking too much? People always tell me I talk too much. I have this friend. His name’s Gilbert. He says he---”
Lovino snaps and slaps him on the head, hopefully shutting him up.
“That hurts...um...I didn’t quite get your name right, neighbor.”
“That’s because you talk too much.”
“Oh. Well, what’s your name? And country if applicable.” He chuckles a bit at his pun. Lovino snorts.
“I’m Lovino. Lovino Vargas. I’m Italian.”
“OH! An Italian! That makes us compadres then!” He says with a cheerful tone and slings an arm over Lovino’s shoulder. Lovino’s eyes darken and shrugs him off then stands up.He walks to the kitchen while Antonio’s eyes follow him.
“We are not friends. I don’t need the friendship. Now if you think you’re safe to go out, then just go. Or rather. Leave now and go hide in the basement or something.” He doesn’t turn around, fully focused on heating his lasagna that he doesn’t realize his unwanted guests was standing behind him, watching curiously as he moved the pan around and around.
“I see Francis has a rival!”
Lovino jumps, dropping the pan by mistake onto the stove. “AH! I said stop it! Great.” the stove goes off and he swivels 180 degrees to be greeted by a Spanish tanned man sitting comfortably on his only dining table seat, holding up a fork and apparenly, he had helped himself to some of the plates. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting ready for food?”
“No you’re not. Get out.”
“Oh come on, Lovi!”
“No! And don’t call me Lovi!
“But it’s cute!”
“Yeah well I’m a man. Don’t call me cute.”
“You’re cute because you’re cute!”
“No!”
“So I shouldn’t call you cute?”
“Yes!”
“I should stop?”
“Yes!
“Are you going to give me lasagna?”
“Yes!”
“Hurray!”
“Wait, what!? You tricked me!”
“Did I?”
“Shut up. Just. You know what? Go ahead. I’m full anyway.”
“Oh Lovi, don’t be like that. Join me for breakfast. I interrupted you during breakfast didn’t I?”
Lovino stopped. Something in his voice made him turn around and actually reconsider.
“Please?”
“No.”
“I’ll even throw in a few tomatoes I grew myself as a thank you for the food AND for hiding me from that nuclear weapon.” Lovino chuckles a bit and strides toward the table, taking the seat the Spanish offers him and munches on his leftover lasagna. “Don’t call me ‘Lovi’ either, tomato bastard. It’s Lovino.” shrugging him off.
“’Tomato Bastard? That’s not something I hear everyday. “
“I call you whatever you want, as you barged in my room and then partake of my blessings Don’t you think it’s a fair trade, tomato bastard?” he said smirking.
“Touche.”
“Bon apetito.”
