Short Prumano one-shot that I sort of worked on before classes.
Gilbert only caught a glimpse of Lovino before he'd slammed and locked the office door that morning. The Italian left the bedroom un-showered, his hair tousled and eyes half closed, shuffling off with a cup of coffee hanging askew from a clumsy fist. A yawn had swallowed any sort of greeting other than a grunt, not that he would have carried on a conversation anyway.
It was true that Lovino was a high-strung little bastard, but normally when he was this overwhelmed, there was an outside source—and nothing Gilbert had ever seen had the power to send Lovino into a working frenzy two days in a row without food or sleep. Sure, Lovino had work, but the best kept secret about the Italian was that he did not procrastinate. For him there was always time to become frustrated and throw down his pencil, scream at the clock, and shove his papers into a cascade of fluttering statements or equations. He'd fume and rant and cry for a few hours, shower, then return and push through.
Something was wrong.
Lovino shrieked so loudly that the sound shot up Gilbert's back, pulling every muscle fiber tight and sending chills in its wake. Silence settled heavily. Gilbert took a halting breath, pressed his ear to the door, and waited, though he could barely discern curses from sobs through the thick barrier. Everything in the Prussian struggled not to rip the door off its hinges. Instead he knocked. Softly.
"Lovino? The fuck is going on?" His hand tightened on the doorknob.
"Go the fuck AWAY. It's none of your damn business!"
Gilbert leapt back as something heavy shattered against the door. "That's it, Lovino, I'm coming in." The door shook with another blow.
"Like HELL. Go the fuck away."
Wincing only slightly, Gilbert dug into his pocket for the blade he'd taken from Lovino's nightstand. He jammed it into the keyhole and started jiggling and twisting and jimmying. It was a messy process-and the brass handle suffered major scratches-but eventually the lock clicked and Gilbert was able to duck into the room—right before a book slammed into the wood where his head would have been.
"I swear to God if you throw anything else I'll—"
Lovino shook his head, dropped the heavy book back onto the desk, then buried his face into his arms. "I told you I was working today." His screen lit up with a series of "asdfas" where his elbow was pressed into the keyboard.
"You call that working?"
No answer.
Gilbert squatted down by the desk and prodded his elbow, expression softening. "Lovino. Look at me." He prodded again when the other did not move. "Oi, Southern half of Italy, I said look at me."
Lovino pushed himself upwards and scowled. "Don't call me that." Tears had run tracks down sallowed skin and bruises mottled the undersides of reddened eyes. He shifted his attention back to the computer and deleted the extraneous text with a sigh, leaving only half a page's worth of analysis and equations.
"I thought you said you'd finished your finance report last week," Gilbert said, sliding the computer toward him long enough to save and fold it shut. Then, grabbing a tissue, he began to dab at Lovino's face, careful of the knot where he was sure Lovino had been beating his forehead into a wall.
"I did."
Lovino made another grab for the laptop, but Gilbert pushed it further away and intercepted him halfway through, collecting him in a tight hold.
"Then what's going on?" He tightened his grip when the other struggled. "And don't fucking lie to me. You already threw a book at my head." He thought to shove the remaining book off the desk with his elbow before Lovino got any more ideas.
"It's my damn brother, okay, you fucking nosy bastard." The fight drained from Lovino as quickly as his lungs deflated, and he went limp against the other's shoulder. His voice was low, defeated. "We were supposed to have our damn papers done by tomorrow, and of course I did my part, but he fucking forgot and went on some stupid vacation or some shit where he doesn't even have a fucking computer. So guess what. I get to do it for him last fucking minute."
"No." Gilbert said.
Lovino lifted his head and knit his brow.
"You heard me. No. If your boss gives you shit for this, I'll give him shit right back then direct him to Feliciano, then we'll both give him shit." The Prussian adjusted Lovino onto his lap and held him, though his own eyes were burning with frustration. "You, on the other hand, are going to bed—"
"But I—"
"Have you looked in a mirror?" Gilbert heaved himself upward, Lovino wrapped around him, and took a few cautious steps toward the door. "In case you haven't: you look like shit. Like the kind of shit you see before someone keels over and dies, and I won't have my boyfriend doing that. Not on my watch." He made it down the hallway with heavy footsteps, stopping every few strides to rebalance Lovino in his arms. When they reached the bedroom, Gilbert tipped over onto the bed, taking Lovi with him, then arranged the covers around the exhausted Italian.
"Goodnight." Gilbert said. His tone left no room for argument.
None came; the minute Lovino's head hit the pillow he was out.
Gilbert began to dial Ludwig's number. Feliciano wasn't going to get off easily.