A/N: I wrote this because I wanted to portray Feliciano as more than just a weak, clingy follower. I hope I did well. Feel free to comment/review :)
"Now, who can tell me the symbolic meaning behind the death of Candy's old dog?" In the back of his English classroom, Feliciano yawned, resting his head on top of his crossed arms. The mid-May weather was inviting, balmy, and perfect for falling asleep. It was almost lunchtime, and the teenager was tired after a hard math lesson earlier. The last thing on his mind was the death of a poor, innocent fictional dog. He yawned a second time, his thoughts drifting lazily to warm, sunny fields of grass and wildflowers. His mind simulated the floral scent of the latter; he smiled lazily to himself, as his teacher's voice became the calling of a little bird. "Feliciano, tell the class what it means." A few classmates snickered, driving the happy, sunny images from his head. His eyelids lifted slowly, his mouth was drawn open slightly and the classroom came into focus.
"It means . . . I don't like this book. It's too sad." The snickering emerged once again, jolting him to a more awakened state. His peers were laughing at him, but he didn't know why. It usually meant that he had said something strange, though he didn't see anything wrong with his response. The book was sad, and he had no intention of analyzing its depressing contents. His teacher didn't seem too amused. She smacked her head with her aging hand, muttering something along the lines of 'Feliciano' under her breath.
"I'm sorry you aren't enjoying Mr. Steinbeck's work, but I'm afraid that you're going to have to pay attention. There's only fifteen minutes left, dear. Please join our discussion." Her words weren't harsh; on the contrary, she spoke to Feliciano the way she would speak to her five-year-old son. Most people did, and it didn't really affect him much. He never liked it when people used big words anyways; he was always a little slow, and didn't have much of an attention span for school. Except in art class and cooking class, where his natural talents won the oohs and ahs of his classmates and teachers. Feliciano nodded, though his mind ached to be somewhere else. School wasn't his forte, but his parents and his brother always told him that you couldn't get a degree in daydreaming.
After an agonizing fifteen minutes of discussing foreshadowing as well as death, Feliciano was free for his lunch break. He smiled gleefully to himself; he had been waiting all day to eat his delicious carbonara. His strides were wide, carefree. A tuneless song emerged from his lips. He strolled through the hallways, whistling and swinging his arms. Lunch was easily the best part of his day—
"Oy, Vargas! Why don't you analyze the symbolic meaning behind my ass?" Rambunctious laughter followed and the auburn-haired teen froze. They had come for him . . . nameless teenage boys, who haven't had any kind of friendly interaction with him. He knew none of them, just their faces; their leading man had wavy blonde hair, a stubby nose, and a stocky figure. What would Lovino do? He asked himself, thinking of his snarky, angry brother. He would roll his eyes and retort back . . . but Feliciano was never able to do so; every time he tried, cruel words would die in his throat, and he would fire at them with an airy stutter. Fear enveloped him. He usually ran away, but the hallway he stood in was a dead end. Quickly, his harassers were closing in on him, circling him like a pack of vultures. Feliciano yelped, squeaking like a mouse in a cat's claws. He tried to look away, but the cruel laughter sent shivers through him. He could not tear his honey-colored eyes away from these boys. Once again, these mean, insensitive beings would take advantage of helpless Feliciano Vargas.
"Please don't hurt me," he squeaked uselessly. "I did nothing wrong! I'll give you some of my pasta, if you want, and I was really excited to eat it, but now that you're here, I'll share . . ." his words did nothing but lure the vultures closer to their prey. Feliciano knew that he should try to defend himself . . . but hurting people was the last thing he ever wanted, and his shaking knees and paralyzed feet left him without aid as always.
"I think the pasta makes him dumber," one boy, a tall, muscular brunette sneered, his voice low and sharp.
"Maybe it's drugged. Hey Feli, what are you on?" Any response Feliciano may have had died in his throat. They were coming closer; were they going to beat him? Touch him? Taunt him endlessly, their cruel faces right in his? He swallowed nervously, shaking more than ever. Please, God, I did nothing wrong!
"Get your dirty asses away from him!" a new voice rang dryly in the air. It was deep, thunderous, and familiar. An extremely fit, extremely angry boy with slicked back blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and prominent ears, jostled two teens; their faces melted from sadistic delight to disappointment. Nobody challenged Ludwig Beilschmidt, the school's second-top arena fighter. He charged through the circle of students like a bull, grabbed Feliciano's arm, and pulled him away from the danger. Feliciano sighed in relief; his best friend always saved him at the right time.
Once the two were away from the danger, they settled by their usual table in the cafeteria, which sat by the student store and the vending machine. Suddenly, all of Feliciano's troubles melted away as he pulled out his plastic container of pasta. He twirled a large portion and stuck it in his mouth. The bold flavors of the dish exploded in his mouth and he sighed, absorbing every taste his tongue could detect. At last, he was at ease—no classes, no bullies, just pasta.
"Feliciano, you do realize that I cannot save you every single day," Ludwig interrupted, causing honey eyes to focus on something other than food. "You really should make an effort to stand up for yourself! I get the impression that you're not even trying—"
"Ludwig, I am trying, I just can't do it! They scare me, and I try to tell them to go away, but the words don't come out and I forget to run away . . ." Feliciano shoved another forkful of pasta into his mouth. "I'm not like you. You're big and strong, and nothing scares you." Ludwig shrugged, looking down. He muttered something, but Feliciano couldn't hear what he was saying. It didn't trouble him much; his lunch brought him close to heaven, and his friend was looking out for him, whether he wanted to or not. "You're a really good friend, Ludwig. Thank you for saving me." Ludwig's cheeks flushed a little, not expecting Feliciano's words.
". . . You're welcome," he stuttered back. Silence emerged between the two, as they ate. Feliciano tried to offer him some of his pasta, but Ludwig refused, barely making eye contact. The pale, skinny teenager sighed, watching the burly blonde swallow his water. It was pretty remarkable that the two became friends, as Ludwig was everything he wasn't. Ludwig was serious and strong while Feliciano was carefree and terrified. Unlike his classmates, who called him a weak coward twenty times a day, Ludwig saw more in him—he actually believed that some part of Feliciano could stand his ground. The daydreamer, however, didn't believe it himself; how could he, when everyone around him told him he was pathetic? The world wasn't built for the kind of heart. Like a dagger, the English discussion resurfaced, stabbing Feliciano's thoughts. Steinbeck demonstrates that in the real world, the weak cannot survive through the shooting of Candy's dog. The dog, of course, did nothing wrong, but it was shot simply because it was old and useless. The realization felt like a wound to the chest. You can't get a degree in daydreaming. The reasoning for that was the fact that daydreaming had no purpose. All of the young boy's fantasies of soft, grassy fields, or cool lakes the color of Ludwig's eyes could not be sustained in real life. He referred back to the novel once more; Even though there is a point where George and Lennie come close to reaching their dream, it dies the moment of Lennie's death. Their dream was too innocent to be real. He was mocked, teased, taunted in every way—out of high school would be no different. He was the old dog, he was an unreal dream—a dream Ludwig clung to, believed in the way the men did in the book.
"Are you alright?" Ludwig asked, concern in his eyes. The sound of his voice led Feliciano back to the cold reality he had no place in. "You seem lost—"
"I'm really useless, aren't I?" Feliciano couldn't resist asking; more than anything, he wanted Ludwig to reassure him that he could succeed, that he was more than a waste of space. "I can't defend myself. No matter how hard I try, I get too scared, and I need you to save me . . . I don't want to be weak, Ludwig, but I am!" His voice grew heavier, panicked. "There's no place for a coward like me."
Ludwig's face was pure shock. "Feliciano, where did these ridiculous thoughts even come from?"
"You know I'm a coward, don't even try to deny it!" his eyes grew moist. "You're so strong, Ludwig. What's a strong person like you hanging around a flower for?" I don't want to see you broken and lost. "Surely you can manage . . ." he blinked; the first tear rolled down his soft cheek gently, followed shortly by others. He lost the end of his sentence sometime after the third tear. The sound of his despair was a quiet whimper, the noise a lost puppy would make. He didn't look up, even when he felt Ludwig's stable arms enclose him and pull him into a well-defined chest. Ludwig's breathing was secure; his chest rose and fell evenly. Feliciano fell into the rhythm of it, focusing on the sound of his friend's voice.
"Feliciano," he began. His voice rose from his chest and rumbled in Feliciano's ear. "I can't manage on my own. You may think you're dependent on me, but . . ." he shook his head, though Feliciano paid no notice. "Look, no matter what anyone says, I think you're strong. True, you may run away when you sense danger, but your heart is solid. Why opt to be the toughest in the world when you can love life so passionately?" Feliciano stared into Ludwig's stern face, his eyes glazed with tears. "I . . . I am proud to be friends with you, Feliciano. I need your love in my life . . ." Rosy color filled Ludwig's cheeks. He began to stammer a couple of incoherent sentences as Feliciano reflected on his words. They swelled in his chest, filling the dark void of his brief, earlier panic. Ludwig always knew exactly what to say, and Feliciano believed every word. Those intense blue eyes did not lie to Feliciano Vargas. Could love ever be enough to get by? "Feliciano, I . . . confess, I've had feelings for you for some time . . ." Should he end up on a street, he would be proud, because he would still make the most of every day. " . . . I love you, Feliciano." Ludwig held him tighter, but his breathing slowed and his heart pounded. Feliciano noticed, as he listened intently to Ludwig's unsteady chest, his friend wasn't as fearless as he assumed.
Feliciano laughed lightly, easily. "I might have to say the same to you." He nuzzled close to his friend, warmth radiating through his veins. As his eyes closed, the sunny wildflower patches emerged, but this time, Ludwig sat with him. The breeze ruffled their hair as they napped under the sun, the sweet scent of pollen lulling him into a deeper sleep. No teachers interrupted them, no classmates taunted them; Feliciano had time on his hands. As Ludwig's hand clasped over his, one final thought formed:
John Steinbeck was wrong.
A/N: Hope everyone enjoyed this! Writing this taught me how to make literary analysis more enjoyable . . . maybe I'll write some more like this for English next semester.