His teeth are pearly as he shows them in a breathless laugh.
Ludwig knows that Feliciano's teeth can become sharp granite and treacherous riverbed, that the chatter of his voice can shift to the grinding roar of floods and rapids. His mouth could just as easily taste of drowned bodies as the honey Ludwig tastes when he kisses Feliciano again (they leave it out for him, the nearby farmers and townspeople, though many of them have forgotten why exactly) and the soft hands pressing against Ludwig's back between his shoulder-blades hide a force that could sweep away anything in its path.
And yet, Feliciano is all bright brown eyes shining with the silvery-golden light-flecks that reflect off the river and pearly teeth, warm legs and sweet mouth urging Ludwig deeper, deeper, oh, there…
Ludwig obliges, kissing down his neck (Feliciano's sweat is not salty, but there is a definite mineral taste to it that's, to be honest, a bit off-putting) and taking in the soft moans Feliciano lets out, rolling his hips up slowly to meet Ludwig and bucking hot into his palm when he takes Feliciano in hand. He memorizes again and again the oxbow arch of Feliciano's back and how he tightens and his eyes widen, mouth in a soft "o" before splitting in another grinning laugh.
Nails dig into Ludwig's back, sharp like bits of shell—nearing his peak, Ludwig can tell, Feliciano lets the river show through more until his legs tremble around Ludwig's waist and his stomach tenses and he finally cries out, once, coming in one long pulse before lazily reaching to Ludwig's face and pulling him in for a kiss that tastes of honey and freshwater and green life. He pulls Ludwig in deeper, so warm, tight around him and nails still sharp, brown curls sticking to his forehead.
Ludwig comes with a sigh against Feliciano's lips, fingers sliding on his skin. They lie together, breathing softly, and Feliciano laughs to himself like water rushing over rocks. It is warm in the house, midsummer afternoon, and Ludwig noses at Feliciano's hair and smiles to himself, sated and still hazy and content.
Eventually, Feliciano rolls out of bed, and Ludwig pulls on a pair of pants and follows him out of the secluded little house to the oxbow bend in the river (Feliciano cannot stand to be away from it for long). He sits on his customary rock in the afternoon light, feet dangling in the water, and Feliciano paddles around him, diving and coming up with duckweed in his hair. Almost like the first time they met, when Ludwig had been out walking and he had heard a strange voice from the river that had to have been a nymph but it didn't sound strange and alluring like the songs Gilbert had warned him of, instead sweet and a bit off-key.
They are quiet right now, though Feliciano is always quieter in summer, not like spring when snowmelts make him so energetic that even if he hasn't slept he still darts around in the water and leaps on Ludwig and chatters incessantly, always moving. Summer makes Feliciano slower, almost indolent, content to laze around in the water, eventually settling into a dead man's float on his back and holding Ludwig's hand.
When Ludwig was younger, Gilbert had told him of the nereids and sirens, saltwater nymphs, merfolk in the far north with sleek black hair and round seal tails and the tropics with huge flashing fins and in the deeps with huge pearly eyes and following fishing boats with rows of teeth and long long tails, of the men lost and drowned and taken—don't ever trust a saltwater one, kleiner, an ocean can hide too much, he'd said, and Ludwig had listened in horrified fascination to his stories of entire crews lured away by sirens to starve and rot listening to their song.
Feliciano runs deep, but does not hide. They are not pearls that are his eyes.
