Every evening, at precisely 9pm, Ludwig would take a shower. He would use unscented shower gel, and dry off with a standard quality white towel. Then, towel around his waist, he would shave with steady precise strokes, and watch the foam and water as it whisked away down the drain. He would glance briefly at himself in the mirror, to check his face for any irregularities or signs of fatigue, then switch of the stark tube light of his bathroom. He would pull on a tank top and some shorts, before un-tucking the cold sheets and climbing into a cold bed. It would be 10pm.
He would fall asleep, dreamless, in a blue-moon bedroom. He would rest.
Then it would start.
Strange, shifting people and places behind his eyelids, calling him by names he didn't know. Grey, faded faces and rushing whispers. Pain and disorder. Forgotten promises. A small hand reaching for his.
Then he wakes, his had outstretched, skin clammy, his cold empty bed suddenly hot in all the wrong ways.
Then he would do what he always did; get up, splash cold water in his face, and try to repair the damage to his messed up sleeping pattern.
At sometime between 8.55pm and 9:05pm, Ludwig would take a shower. He would use a natural scented shower gel, and dry off. Then, towel around his waist, he would shave with steady precise strokes, and watch the foam and water as it whisked away down the drain. He would glance briefly at himself in the mirror, and smile at his own contented expression. He would blow out the candles in the bathroom, and light the ones in the bedroom. He would pull on a tank top and some shorts, and climb into bed. He wouldn't look at the clock.
He would fall asleep, dreamless, in a gold-glow bedroom. He would rest.
Then it would start.
He would feel a weight next to him on the mattress. He would hear soft quick breaths, feel them on his neck. Arms would slip around his torso, a soft kiss on his shoulder. A smell of warm bread, herbs and fresh air. A brief mumble of something in Italian he couldn't understand, but would make him smile anyway. A hand in his.
Then he wakes, the other's limbs meshed with his. To morning light through the curtains. His bed full and warm in every way he could ever want it to be.
Then he would do what he always did; reach across and hit the button on his alarm clock, to spend five more minutes being held by Feliciano before he got up.