Two figures, both dressed in protective white clothing, stand across from each other. Under their feet is a large, slightly springy mat designed for gymnastics. In each of their gloved hands is a thin sword-a sabre. Their other bare hand hovers behind them and out of the way.
One figure, significantly shorter and smaller than the other, holds his sabre with a firm yet easy grip, and his stance is relaxed yet confident. His mask obscurs his facial features, but looking from the back, a head of reddish-brown hair can be seen.
His opponent, a tall and built man, stands in a much more awkward stance, as if he isn't quite sure he's doing it right, moving the sabre around in his hand as he constantly readjusts his grip. His slicked-back blonde hair is much more obvious than the other's brown hair, despite the mask.
Fencing matches are always incredibly calm before beginning, as the opponents size each other up and plan their techniques out.
A timer goes off with a short ding, and the match begins. The smaller of the two explodes into action, immediately attacking with a quick arm thrust aimed for his opponent's upper arm. His feet move in short and light steps, as if he's hardly even touching the ground, and his arm movements are almost impossible to follow. He is strung on a live wire, but using the energy and reflexes with utmost grace.
The blonde-his opponent-barely has enough time to think of defending before the tip of the sabre is digging into his bicep, scoring the brunette a point.
"Wh-Wha-" the blonde begins, his mind unable to keep up with the pace of events. The match only lasts less than two seconds.
"Come on, Ludi, keep up," the brunette responds cheerfully. "That was just a thrust, easy to defend with a parry. I'll do the same one again, okay?"
The blonde swallows and takes his original stance, now more nervous and unsure than ever. The brunette bounces backwards to his starting point, also taking his starting stance. They face off for a moment before the timer goes off again, and another match has started.
The shorter man's technique doesn't change at all; he goes into the same thrust, sabre aimed at the blonde's arm. This time, however, the blonde moves his arm up with the intention of parrying… Only to hit his mask, startling himself into falling backwards. His heart races in alarm, and he is unable to do anything other than stare at his opponent, who is still in his thrusting position.
Sighing, the brunette removes his face mask, revealing the symmetrical part of his hair and a stray strand curling to the side. His cheeks glow with energy; a bead of sweat rolls down his forehead. His amber eyes are bright, and his eyebrows are pulled slightly upward and together. A sympathetic smile is stretched across his face.
A short giggle spills from his mouth as he tucks his mask under his arm, putting his sword hand on his hip. "Come on, Ludi! You totally had that one! What'd you go hitting yourself in the face for?" His accent tells that he is Italian.
The smile and laugh warms the blonde's insides, and his face turns red with embarrassment.
"I- I didn't do it on purpose!" he insists, deep voice just a little bit higher than normal. His strong accent indicates German heritage. "You're coming at me too fast! How are you doing it?"
The Italian giggles again, the spasms of his torso visible thanks to the tightness of the fencing outfits. "Lots of practice! You'll get this good too, don't worry."
The German sighs, removing his mask and wiping perspiration from his face. Though these are their first actual matches, they have been practicing all morning.
"Honestly, Feliciano, I don't know how you do this," he mumbles, casting his blue eyes downward. His immaculate blonde hair is starting to fall out of place, strands hanging in his face. When he looks back up, the Italian is offering a hand.
"Danke," the blonde mutters in German, grasping it. He has to use a lot of his own strength to get back up, considering how much smaller Feliciano is, but he's still surprised by how firm the other's grip is.
When he's back on his feet, his personal space is invaded, a pair of arms wrapping around his torso. Feliciano's head is on his chest for a moment and then those amber eyes are looking up and meeting his blue ones.
"Don't worry, Ludwig, you'll get it!" the brunette promises, smiling widely, before skipping back to his starting point.
Ludwig stares after him for a moment, frozen, his body tingling where he had been hugged. He knows his face is bright red because he can feel his insides twisting and knotting up. As he goes back to his starting stance he's unable to focus on whether he should attack or defend or thrust or parry or at what times because the only thing his mind can focus on is the Italian's wide, innocent eyes and childlike smile. He quickly puts his face mask back on, and readies his sabre.
His heartbeat is reverberating through his entire body and making his hands shake. He's only able to center himself when Feliciano puts his face mask back on and gets in his ready position. They are both still-or, as still as Ludwig can be-for a moment until the timer goes off.
Feliciano uses the same technique again, a fast yet graceful approach and a deliberate thrust at his arm. This time, Ludwig is certain he's ready, and parries away the sabre before it can touch him. He then follows through with a counter attack-or, as Feliciano would bug him to call it, a riposte- aimed for the chest, and is confident he'll get the point. He feels powerful, like nobody can beat him.
Unfortunately, this is exactly what the Italian is counting on happening and, instead of going easy like a good instructor would, he decides to go for the point. He lifts his own blade so it's just a few centimeters from his chest and effectively blocks the point of the opposing sabre, knocking it off target. He then flicks his wrist and the side of his sabre lands firmly in Ludwig's torso, ending the match.
They're both breathing hard, and stay like that for a few seconds. Eventually, the German sighs in defeat, stepping back and removing his mask. His mind still isn't quite able to comprehend how Feliciano, adorable yet klutzy and lazy, has won Italy the fencing world championship two years in a row. He also doesn't understand how he himself can be so bad at it; he's generally a very athletic person, as can be assumed from his build, and has never done so poorly before. He looks over at the Italian, expecting to see him taking off his mask and wiping sweat from his face.
As a result, he isn't at all prepared when he sees Feliciano barrelling towards him with his sabre and a mischievous smile on his face. He instinctively takes a step back, but falls to the ground when he feels the sabre tap the back of his knees. He manages to catch himself on his arms, and grunts when a heavy body falls on him.
"Yay, you caught me!" Feliciano exclaims from where he's now straddling Ludwig's torso. He puts his arms on either side of the blonde's head to support himself. He starts laughing.
Ludwig, though alarmed, can't help but find the Italian's laughter contagious; it's high-pitched and adorable, and sometimes just a little too loud, and he absolutely loves it. Before he can stop it, a deep rumbling begins in his chest, and soon they're both laughing until their sides hurt. At some point Feliciano drops his arms and lays on Ludwig's chest, letting the laughter shake his whole body and make him laugh more.
They stay like this, on the floor of the local recreation center's gym, on springy gymnastics mats, not caring if people are walking by and can see them.
"L-Ludi, you're a h-horrible fencer," Feliciano eventually manages to force out. Neither of them can breathe, so speaking is a challenge.
"And you're too… D-damn good, F-Feli!" Ludwig responds. It takes almost five minutes for them to completely calm down. But neither of them want to move. Instead, they just relax, and bask in each other. Feli starts quietly humming something, his head resting just above Ludwig's heart. Their hands are together, fingers intertwined, somewhere above Ludwig's head.
They don't know how much time passes. Feliciano looks up, cheeks flushed and eyes glowing, and scoots up so his head is hovering right over Ludwig's. They look at each other for a moment, really look, before quietly giggling again.
"Thank you for the lesson, Feli," Ludwig says softly, smiling.
"You're welcome," Feli responds. "But don't you think I need some sort of compensation?" His eyebrows go up in a way that is almost innocent. Almost.
"Like what?" the German asks, slightly confused. Then, Feliciano is lowering his head, and they're kissing. It's nothing too intense, but it lasts for a while. A moment later, they break apart.
"I suppose I can consider your debt paid now," the Italian says cheerfully. They laugh again, and Ludwig decides he doesn't mind being terrible at fencing.
In which the author actually knows nothing about fencing, and any feedback regarding that element is welcome!
Based off of a tumblr post that can be found here (remove the spaces): germanystuck. tumblr post/ 50064626379/ germany-and-italy-in -a-fencing-match- only-italy-is
(also just a fabulous blog feel free to follow it!)