Rosewood Stradivarius

by Aepfel

Roderich is an incoming Freshman at Hetalia Academie, where he is quickly swept into a relationship that is less than perfect and falls into disaster all too quickly. He later becomes best friends with an awkward, perfect, flawed German named Ludwig, with whom he falls head over heels in love. The catch? Ludwig is straight.

A small college, nestled away in the Illinois South. A few miles North of Chicago, lies a liberal arts college of ambiguous name and academia. Said college is small, of perhaps six or seven hundred students, and from all walks of life. One might even say that the student body as a true melting pot of cultures- at least one student hailed from or had heritage from seemingly every nation in the world! Hetalia academie.

This year's freshman were going about the process of moving into their dorm rooms, settling in and acquainting themselves with their roommates.

Except me.

I, Roderich Edelstein, hailing from Salzburg, Austria, was lucky enough to be in a single room. I did not request such a thing, it merely so happened that my roommate dropped out of school and transferred his application to another. Oh well—more bed space for me. And my studies will have far fewer interruptions if I have my dorm to myself. Ah, this will be a nice, relaxing year, nein?

I had unpacked my things rather quickly. Only a few bags were legal for me to carry on the plane from Vienna to Chicago, just as the taxi from the airport to the college, itself, was limited. I had brought along only the necessities; my clothes, my laptop, a bed set, and my violin. My textbooks were ordered and would be ready to pick up in the bookstore the next day.

For now, it was time to relax. My bed was set up and all meetings were reserved until the next day. I would have no interruptions until dinner into my relaxation time, a good two or three hours to just… play.

With hardly any hesitation, my violin, a red Maplewood Stradivarius of professional grade, was prepped, tuned, bow rosined and instrument shouldered and ready to go. I set my bow upon the strings and positioned my hands, a practiced motion, and began to play a simple pastoral theme.

How better to announce a new chapter in life, the transition from secondary school to college, from Europe to America, from Upper Austria to Illinois, than with Pier Gint's oh so perfect piece, Morning Mood?

I had, of course, left the door to my room open, as such skill as my own violinistry was meant to be heard! Music was meant to be shared! A happy sigh and a soft 'Ah…' echoed through the doorway as I played, hardly a measure passed that went unappreciated by a passerby.

Luckily, most of them went about their way and left the musician to his work. My music flowed down the hallways and would be heard by any resident of my dorm if they quieted down and lent their ears, which most seemed to do.

Most of them.

One student, a senior as he described himself, lingered in the doorway, leaning against the frame a significant amount of time, smiling at me softly. I had hardly registered his presence until I came to the conclusion of the piece and opened my eyes to a pair of soft blue, cerulean eyes framed by long, silken waves of blond hair. I must admit, those soft features and gentle smile took me aback and left me staring silently, speechless for several moments before I unshouldered my precious Stradi and nodded in greeting to my visior.

"Servus,"

The senior seemed to recognize the dialectical greeting and replied with a Bonjour, of his own before slipping into my room and just casually taking the seat across from me—the one that would have belonged to my roommate should I have had one.

He introduced himself as François Bonnefois, and was a rather pleasant conversation partner. He knew of Gint's great works, and was acceptably familiar with that of my other favourites, from Bach to Haydn to Handel. He was not as musically adept as myself, naturally, but was of significant cultural intelligence.

He claimed to be born in the villa of Lyon, France, moved to Nimes at a young age, studied his Freshman year in Paris, 'The city de l'Amoure~' he passionately described while he gave a series of expressive gestures, simply outlining out truly passionately he loved his home country.

I can greatly respect one who loves their own nation and culture, but what really struck me was his willingness to respect my own. He smiled and nodded as I described the wonders of the Alpine regions of Austria, offered a delighted clap as I detailed the wonderful baked desserts my mother and I made so often back home, and offered his own stories as I told the tale of how I became the youngest violinist to play in a professional orchestra in Austria.

He was truly delightful company, if his sense of humor was rather… out there. He seemed to take any chance he could to turn my speech into innuendo, and while quite humorous, was far from proper for two young men who just met. In Austria, in any case. I was not yet familiar with how things worked in France, nor in America.

I truly had a lot to learn about this very urban society. The college was close enough to Chicago to smell of factories and catch a whiff early morning smog, but distant enough to be slightly wooded and surrounded by an absolutely gorgeous landscape almost as mountainous as my beloved Austria. I was going to have a good year, I could tell. If the average student here is half as cultured as Monsieur Bonnefois, I would have no trouble making friends.

My new friend took his leave after our good hour or so of chatting. He left just as stylishly as he arrived, with a warm smile, a controlled twirl and a blown kiss that upset me in ways I didn't think possible. Upset? Nein, that's not the right word. It definitely had an effect on me, and it was most certainly not negative. Intrigued me, perhaps.

I went about putting away my instrument, satisfied with my amount of practice for the afternoon, and reorganized the order of my shirts in the closet, a quirk of mine. You see, whenever I feel rather nervous, I reorganize and sort things. This also happens when I am quite bored, so I suppose it could have been that.

Either way, it would be time to head to the cafeteria shortly for my first meal away from home, should you not count the semi-quality Danish I acquired at the airport upon landing in Chicago. I supposed it was time to check out the cuisine Hetalia Academie had to offer, and collected my I.D. card and headed my way out of the dorm and towards the Himaruya Commons, the name given to the dining building.

Not truly to my surprise, the food was acceptable, but not of perfect quality. Francois had informed me of this earlier, but he could live with it, and so would I. The food was of significant choice, with options ranging from a barbecued chicken dish to a cheesy shrimp alfredo to the classic American meal of a cheeseburger and fries.

I opted for the chicken, given my aversion towards seafood of any sort, and distaste for the kind of cheese used on the sandwich—some kind of oil based processed product I would be hesitant to use even as glue.

With tray in hand, I made my way to the socially safest place possible: the lone table in the far corner of the dining hall. I did not want to sit with the wrong group and find myself labeled undesirably on the first day, would I?

Most students, having arrived earlier than myself, and thus had lunch already with their fellow classmates, had already formed off into cliques.

The inner analytic mind I never tried to suppress went about taking notes on the general locales of each student, and paired them off into groups within moments. The ones who seemed to be at the college for the art of cuisine were sitting near the entrance to the kitchens, chatting animatedly about the foods avalible and passing comments and constructive criticism to the staff that passed their table. Notably, among them was my French friend from earlier, a man of darker skin and spikey hair who seemed to enjoy being much closer to Francois than I had earlier consented to, and a rather loud young brunette with a wild curl, notably bright amber eyes and a strange verbal tic that sounded oddly like the syllable 've.'

At the next table, I observed an older, possibly non-traditional student of almost-white blond hair and a scarf despite it not being anywhere near cool enough to solicit wearing such an accessory sitting next to a nervous-looking trio that I really could not describe to much detail as to how, well, distinct they were. The three were, upon closer observation, rather distinct, but at first glance appeared to even be a set of triplets. How odd. The scarf-laden student was talking cheerfully at the other's, who simply nodded along and smiled in return.

My gaze was soon drawn directly in the direction of a not very pleased squeal of indignation, followed by a rather annoying-sounding bout of laughter. The mere sound was very self-assuming and not really attractive. A young lady of pudgy mirth was dashing after a pale older boy with hair that seemed to live with a significant amount of chocolate nestled in his arms, laughing almost manically as he ran.

A long-haired man of Asian descent was suddenly in the one of wild hair's path, a wok in hand. "Akkelsen!" The Asian yelled, connecting the cooking device to the student's head and grabbing the chocolate before trotting over to the girl, whose hair was longer than I had previously thought possible.

The Chinese man handed over the sweet muttering something that, from my distance, appeared to be an apology. I had to stifle a chuckle when the evidently Greenlandic lady suddenly covered the other's face in smooches while making what could only be described as happy Ata noises.

The staff worker seemed very confused at first, which brought even more humour to the situation as his cheeks began burning a bright red color that matched the smudges of lipstick of the same shade before he dashed off into the kitchen, leaving Ata to enjoy her chocolates in peace.

By then my interest was diverted elsewhere, simply observing the other students of the cafeteria. They all seemed to group by common interest and hardly any of them musical. I simply ate the remainder of my meal in silence, quietly observing the others and trying not to judge the meal too harshly.

I was among the first to finish eating, and thus one of the first to leave. No longer than a minute had I been outside the cafeteria doors than did a hand land on my shoulder and spin me around to face the same wall of silken blond hair from earlier.

I greeted my friend politely and nodded respectfully. He was my elder, after all. We chatted for a few moments, comparing notes on the meal, before he inquired as to why I was sitting alone.

I could only shrug and tell the truth; that I preferred to sit back and observe a culture for a while before choosing where I belonged within its boundaries. He took amusement to this and extended an invitation to come join him, Sadik and Feliciano at their chosen table any time I wished. A warm smile and a repeat of his earlier stylish getaway was given after I accepted the invitation and promised to be sitting there with them at lunch the following day.

I really was quite pleased with the school so far, and, thank you jet lag, found myself collapsing into my bed, not even bothering to crawl under the covers first, and fell virtually immediately into a deep, restful slumber.

There were hardly any dreams that night, only pure, perfect sleep that lasted well into the next morning, a free day, danke Gott. I rose from my bed at perhaps eleven or so, perhaps thirty minutes after, and began changing clothes, slipping into the shower for a quick wash before donning a simple pair of slacks and a casual polo shirt. The first meet for the day was for a simple convocation announcement.

A signing of the Honor Roll, a large poster that would be hanging in the Himaruya Commons until graduation four years later, as well as a few short, inspirational speeches later, I found my arm suddenly hooked into Francois' and was being escorted to the cafeteria while the Frenchman and the Turk chatted animatedly in what seemed to be a mixture of Turkish and French.

The two were old buddies, close since childhood and growing ever closer as time went on. I could hardly understand the conversation, save a word or two of French, tokens from music appreciation, and a few phrases of Turkish, a trait Austrians simply had to familiarize themselves with given the rather significant numbers in which Turks were immigrating to my glorious homeland.

The food today wasn't quite as diverse, our only options being a greek-style flatbread pizza or the same oily cheese-burger that was offered yesterday, and every day for the rest of my time here at the college, according to Sadik. I simply went with the pizza option, glad that the only feasible option was that of a rather healthy choice. The cheese was light, the bread crispy and not over-seasoned, toppings sparse and not overbearing, but not so few and far in between that one did not get a good amount of flavor in each bite.

Feliciano was pleased with my review of the food, and almost knocked me out of my seat with a sudden hug of greater force than I would have given the fellow freshman credit for. It took both mine and Francois' strength to pry the clingy Italian off of myself, while the Turk simply leaned back and laughed his head off.

This was met with a glare and a bit of scolding from the blond, and Sadik only found such humorous. The dark-haired student leaned forward and gave an obviously lewd comment and nodded towards me, to which Francios laughed and shook his head. Sadik replied by merely tilting his face forward and quirking a brow inquisitively, almost daringly.

I simply shrugged off the exchange and went about eating my meal, thankfully dodging any more flyinf hug attacks from Feliciano's surprisingly strong frame. Towards the end of the meal, the Turk and the Italian rose and went off, claiming that they had a class to attend to, leaving myself in Francios' care for the time being.

We chatted about simple matters, the weather, adjusting to the new climate, which was surprisingly similar to that of Austria, classes taken this semester… It turned out that he and I would be taking psychology together, and thus it was definitely for the best, in the Frenchman's terms, that our meeting and inevitable friendship was clandestine.

Come on, Roddi! It's time to get some ice cream!

The other suddenly suggested that it was time for desserts, and no, the ones the cafeteria had to offer were far from the quality that I deserved. I hardly had room to argue as the two of us made our way out into the parking lot. We strolled along a few hundred meters, a block or two off of the campus to what seemed to be a small, mom-and-pop style dairy bar.

We were greeted with warm smiles and an achingly familiar hug by a grown Italian man who introduced himself as Romulus Vargas, owner of the gelato bar, my mistake, and grandfather to the two most perfect grandsons possible.

Francios and Romulus spoke a few moments of idle chatter before I was introduced to the Italian as a new friend and member of their little group. Heh. It seems I would not have to chose a circle after all—one has chosen me. I supposed those tended to be the best circles of friends, ja?

Either way, Signore Romulus was delighted to meet me, and nearly crushed my hand in his handshake before ushering myself and my friend to a table, noting that he would bring out the usual in a few moments, just be patient!

Francios and I sat in relative silence for a few moments, waiting until the brunette returned with a pair of small bowls of chocolate gelato and a bright smile. Once he left again, Francios began questioning me about my personal life.

I went through my story, from the lack ot many friends in secondary school to the only two people I've ever dated, a lovely exchange student from Spain, of whom I casually left out the same-gender tid bit, and an accidental fling with the neighbor girl. Tsk, tsk, tsk, I received a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and assured that I would find someone eventually that suited myself in academia and looks.

Wait—looks.

I quirked a brow in curiosity and inquired as to what the other meant by such a thing.

"Looks, Roderich Edelstein. You are a rather handsome young man, and smart, too. You are deserving of someone who will treat you well and appreciate the finer things in life with you."

"Ah… Nein. I am not that special. Who would want to be in a relationship with a boring violinist?"

"Many people would, mon ami."

"Are you one of them?" I offered in an originally joking manner, but found that the reply I received was far from joking.

"Perhaps."

I could only blink and stutter out a half-witted reply, something along the lines of how I wasn't particularly interested in a relationship, nor was I really even looking at the time.

Francios only shook his head and insisted that I go on one—just one date with him, and that I would not be sorry.

"After all, is this not technically a date, in and of itself?"

I had to admit, my friend was charming and humorous and very much a quality companion. But I had not been in a relationship in years. Did I really want to try one now…?

Eventually, however, I was convinced to go to dinner and a movie with him, one night the next week, and thus began my relationship with the college's biggest flirt.

Roderich Edelstein and Francios Bonnefois lasted perhaps a month. We were an interesting couple, to say the least. He certainly wanted to move a lot faster than I did, and while he was very persistent, Francios very much respected my lines where I drew them. Intimacy that early in the relationship was not something I was comfortable with, and in that month, we grew up to the point of kissing snuggling late into the night, but hardly much more.

Where I truly drew the line?

That phrase.

That one phrase that once spoken, a relationship is either strengthened or broken.

Je t'aime.

I love you, Roderich…

I was shocked, appalled and ran out of the room and back to my own dorm immediately. I felt terrible afterwards, and avoided eye contact with all three of my found friends for quite a while. I could hardly face up to that phrase, nor could I look the Frenchman in the eye for at least two weeks.

During those two weeks, a second problem arose.

For my music theory class, each student was to be paired off with another to complete a composition project for an early midterm grade. I had only my three friends, really, and none of them were in the same music class as I, thus I found myself paired with another European native.

The broad-shouldered blond had been living in America for much of his remembered life, with his brother and sister-in-law in downtown Chicago. The brothers were both born into the Beilschmidt family of Berlin, and the sister from a bit farther North, in Potsdam.

Ludwig and I were strictly down-to-business with our project. Our few meetings were filled to the minute with efficient, quality work. I was rather impressed with the German's ability to keep every minute planned and to stick to the plan with hardly an ounce of deviation. I had thought I was a stickler for schedules, but, nein, Ludwig quite showed me up on that, and made me feel rather, well… relaxed.

It was nice, and I enjoyed his company. He turned out to be the roommate of my French friend, and through Ludwig, Francios managed to pin my schedule down and have me cornered one day. I was going to have to face the music about our relationship sooner or later, it seemed.

And this selection was nearing its finale, undeniably. I simply did not reciprocate the same passions that Francios did, and so, the relationship was doomed to fail, no matter the circumstances. He and I were done.

A relationship terminated, and project completed, I was alone again. I did not wish to return to my initial group of friends, for I could see how my continued presence hurt the Frenchman's soul.

I simply chose to become a hermit, and hide away in my dorm, ignoring the rest of the school in favour of my studies and music. With no more boyfriend to take away my time, and no more project to occupy my mind, I could focus solely on my academics and music. And that was truly all I needed. To study was why I came to school in the first place. I was by far not here to find a significant other nor to make friends. I was here to get a degree in music, and become a legitimate orchestral violinist, not simply the prodigy guest in the second string.

I was very withdrawn from the rest of the campus community for quite a while. Midterms had passed and it was now fall break. My home being on the other side of the world, I was pretty much left with no choice but to remain on campus while most students went home for their break. Sleep was a thing very much cherished by a student of any level, and college was no exception.

I slept for the vast majority of break, enjoying to the fullest extent possible the getting away from the monotonous norm of classes. However, in accordance with break, it left those unable or unwilling to return home for the three days of freedom very much in each other's sights.

I found not only myself, but only a small handful of other students left on campus, including myself, the Russian student with the scarf, whose name I learned to have been Ivan Braginsky, an overly excited American who evidently lived only a block away from the school, a quiet Asian who seemed to always have a camera at the ready and, among a few others… Francios.

In foresight of having fewer students, the cafeteria staff put away a good number of the tables avalible. A good number? Hah- Try all but one of them. Alfred, the American, was the most outspoken one at the table, with an opinion on everything and, contrast, nary a lick of manners. He even licked the oil cheese burgers that the staff gave to us each day. I simply could not understand what went on in this child's mind. Much less how he even managed to make it into such a prestigious school. He must have had some special hidden talent for some practicum I was not familiar with.

During this time, under the radar of Alfred's over spirited explanations of how he was sure the American government could fix itself overnight, I began conversing with Francios again. It did not hurt me, none to my surprise, to learn that my French friend had managed to move on, that he was beginning to seek the attentions of a miss Anri van Klaas, a sweet young lady of Belgian descent.

I was more relieved than anything to learn that my ex boyfriend would have his sights set elsewhere, and not on myself. I would no longer have to worry about paining him by simply existing. Of course, that was never really my problem in the first place. Perhaps it was simply selfish of me to not want much more to do with the Frenchman? In any case, that relationship is over, and I was free to chat idly with the other members of the single Fall Break table.

None of us were really of the same group, nor even of the same classes. I did have a music class with a timid, unassuming boy who looked intriguingly similar to the loud mouthed American sitting across from me, but we hardly shared a similar favored composer or style. It is hard to bond with those you simply have nothing in common with.

A majority of the meals those three days ended in an argument between Francios, Alfred and Ivan about the legitimacy of same sex marriage and wether or not being gay was right. I tended to stay out of it, but they all knew my position. They'd seen me and the Frenchman wandering campus together, hand in hand all but kissing in the middle of the courtyard.

They all knew what I was, but, thankfully, they left me out of the arguments and allowed me to eat in peace. Well, relative peace. The flinging of hatred and angry words did make it hard to concentrate on my own thoughts, and eventually I resorted to wearing noise cancelling headphones during meals and losing myself to the worlds of Haydn and Handel.

Now, the events of Monday's midday meal were truly a mistake on my part. Through sheer habit of sitting at the only table in the dining hall, I went to that same table, hardly registering that the rest of the tables had been set out. I was caught unaware that I had seated myself at Ivan's table, and yet more off guard when he suddenly lashed out violently at me.

It took me several seconds to realize that I was on the floor, staring up at the ceiling while the minestrone soup seeped into the thin fabric of my polo shirt, and my tea spread across the floor. What came as the biggest surprise, though, was that I wasn't being attacked forther, but the commotion of a fight was indeed going on.

I managed to sit up and get a good look at my savior, the same burly German that I had been assigned to work with earlier in the year. The two blonds were at each other's throats and hissing and spitting in their respective mother tongues at each other. I shook my head and tried my best to get my thoughts straight. I could hardly register events fast enough to react properly and simply scrambled backwards out of the way as another person—Danke Gott, campus security!—was suddenly there and prying the two apart.

"Braginsky! Beilschmidt! Back off, now!" The uniformed man shouted as he forced himself between the two and shoved them roughly away from each other. A quick, harsh glare at each, and the Russian simply smiled in a rather unnerving manner, took a step backwards and assumed his previous perch at his table, not giving another word as he resumed eating his meal.

Ludwig, however, was a different story. The German's teeth remained gritted, jaw set, and brow furrowed furiously. It seemed that only his immense respect for Basch's authority was the only thing holding him back from continuing the attack.

While the Russian melted back into his usual lunchtime routine, Basch and Ludwig helped me up and inquired about my well-being and helped brush me off. Once the Swiss security guard was satisfied with the peace of the situation, he was off, leaving me to the German for company.

Despite the heat of the soup when it was served, I found myself quite chilled by then. The heat of the spread liquid dissipated rather quickly, leaving me feeling quite sticky and very uncomfortable. I was standing by then and trying to peel the mess of my shirt back off of my skin so that I could breathe a bit easier. After a few tugs, I gave up on getting comfortable with my shirt, and became very conscious of the fact that every student in the cafeteria was staring direct at me. More than that, they were speaking to each other in hushed whispers that could only mean gossip. Which meant negative views on my image were being put out there.

I quickly grabbed my glasses off of my face, to divert my attention to cleaning them off and hopefully not pay much more heed to the face that the entire student body was staring at me, or so it seemed. I gave a heavy sigh once I realized I could not find a clean section of my shirt to use to wipe the creamy soup off of the lens and simply folded them in my hand, turned and headed out of the building, leaving my dinner on the floor along with a majority of my dignity.

As something like that was inevitable in a story such as this, I managed to fall, again, tripping over a binder that lay in the floor and fell flat onto my face. With a groan I propped myself up on my arms and shook my head. Of course, my foot hand chosen the middle ring as a stepping spot, and if I had not have, luckily, been wearing thick soled shoes, would have quite likely have been cut down to the bone, judging by the deep gash in the leather I observed later that evening.

I turned over and sat up, collecting the binder to give it a better look. It appeared to be a music class binder. I blinked and looked closer at the paper on top. It seemed to be the recent midterm, which, of course, I had aced without even trying. But this? This test was pitiful. The taker showed knowledge of the basics of who composers were, and how to identify a piece… but the abilities when it came to describing and labeling the styles… left quite a bit to be desired.

A sudden noise above me told me that I was not alone in the hallway. I looked up quickly to see a hard pair of azure eyes, sharp and almost shallow, staring down at me while a golden brow was furrowed in seeming annoyance.

"I believe that is mine."

The other's voice was just as deep, gruff and somewhat melodic as I remembered it being while we were working on the music project together. A quick glance down, flicking my gaze over to the name at the top of the paper reminded me of my companion's name.

"Ah—Tytmir, Ludwig…" I muttered as I started scrambling to my feet. However, getting up on my own proved to be unnecessary as the other grabbed my arm and pulled me into a standing position rather quickly, almost roughly.

"Danke." I supplied with a light smile, trying my best to be polite in this instance so that I might be able to escape back to the safety of my dorm room as quickly as possible.

Ludwig reached out to grab the binder and jerked it out of my hold before I could offer much in the way of protest.

"You didn't do so well…" I commented quietly as I took a step backwards, lowering my gaze a few degrees.

He huffed a bit and hugged his binder close to his chest. "Ja. I know. Music is-"

"Difficult for you. I remember you struggled with the project.." I replied as I lifted my gaze back to meet his evenly.

He blinked and stared in silence for a few moments before giving a slight nod.

"I can help you… if you'd like…."

He simply stared for a moment.

"With your music. I-I could tutor you… Help you study." I offered, pairing a light smile with my words. In reply the blond student nodded and turned his head away.

"I apologize for the ruckus. You did not deserve what he-"

I raised a hand to silence him. "Nein. It's alright. I'm fine now…" I shook my head gently. "Listen, ah… Ludwig, I will be in my dorm. R-room six. Jus' drop by whenever you wish to study."

On that note, I left him alone, arms wrapped around myself tightly as I made my way out of the cafeteria building and towards the dorms. I glanced back as I pushed the door open, and heaved a sigh of relief as I noted that I was not followed. I was able to enter my room in peace and go about stripping out of my soup-soaked clothes and into the shower.

The spray of hot water was quite welcome and very enjoyable. The feeling of washing off the sticky soup was rejuvenating and refreshing. However, despite the calming effects of the running water and scent of the wonderful apple soap, I found that my heart would not stop racing.

It was not until I had long since exited the shower, gotten dressed in night clothes and prepared a small bowl of ramen to hold me over until the morning, when I could have breakfast, and settled into my desk to begin composing did I even manage to get my heart back under control.

The only thing that could really, truly soothe me, no matter the situation, was the feel of pen on the flawlessly blank staff paper. To fill the blank staves with the sounds that constantly warred within my mind was the ultimate relaxation. Slowly my breath evened to a trance-like level of quiet, and any stiffness remaining in my joints eased away while I penned away that violin concerto that had been festering on the edges of my consciousness since lunch, that I had only just now gotten around to penning.

I continued my therapeutic actions of composing for several hours, well into the evening and almost into the hours of the early morning. At perhaps two in the morning I had slipped into my bed and curled up, immediately slipping into a deep sleep of pure rest.

Much earlier than any sane human being should ever be awake, a series of sharp, rapid knocks came to my door. I was jerked from sleep and trudged my way over to the door, rubbing my eyes sleepily in the very light glow of pre dawn. My hair was certainly in a mess and I was fairly certain that a tank-top and boxer shorts were not proper clothes to greet company in, but this early surely no one cared…?

What sleepiness I had was almost instantly dissipated as I opened the door to reveal a fully dressed, pressed and prim Ludwig, binder and textbook in his arm and a half attempt at a nervous smile on his face. I blinked in surprise, eyes wide as I stepped aside instinctively to allow the other entrance into my room, really not thinking about what I appeared.

If Ludwig noticed, he by far did not forget to let me know. No, he did not outright tell me how odd I looked, but the judgmental gleam in his eyes and inquisitive quirk of his brown as he looked over my sleep attire was enough to let me know that he and I very, very much opposites of each other. He was not one to sleep in, and I was never one for getting up even half this early.

I quickly excused myself and grabbed some clothes from my dresser, the first outfit I could find and hurried to the bathroom so that I could change swiftly into the athletic pants bearing the college's name and logo and the thick hoodie sporting my graduating class year across the breast. I ran a comb through my hair as quick as I could in an attempt to make myself at least somewhat presentable.

Why am I even trying this hard?

Am I trying to impress him..?

If I am, sweatpants and a half-assed hairdo will far from win him over….

I shook the thought from my head and made my way back into the main room, offering an apology and a soft, nervous smile as I gestured towards the empty desk opposite my own.

"Do, bitte, have a seat, Ludwig. I do apologize for that. I'm just not used to waking up th-this early." I winced at the stutter that found its way into my voice, distracting myself from it by simply seating myself at my own desk and began shuffling among my composition papers in search of my textbook and lecture notes.

Ludwig simply frowned and nodded a bit, offering an apology for assuming that I would be up this early, and not having given significant notice before his arrival.

"Nein, nein! I-Its fine, I promise. I do need to start getting used to waking early. My schedule for next semester will likely require an eight a. m. class or two." I replied with a shrug, uncovering the binder that had my lecture notes from beneath a stack of unused composition sheets.

Naturally, I managed to knock the stack over into the floor. I spat a curse word or two under my breath and scrambled to pick them up, assuring repeatedly to my companion that I was usually far more organized than this. I heaved a sigh and managed to get the papers in a semi-neat pile on my desk, making a mental note to make them more neatly placed later, after Ludwig and I had our tutoring session.

After that, the meeting was rather uneventful. I simply quizzed the blond, to find out what he did know, to find out what I had to work with to make him into something with enough musical knowledge to be able to make a more acceptable grade on his musical midterm.

As I had assessed on the day previous with my brief look at the German's exam, Ludwig did indeed have the strength of knowing which song belonged to which composer, and which composer to which era, but when it came to the finer points of identifying style, genre and shades of grey classifications of musical works, he was absolutely hopeless. My companion was a man who wanted to view the world in black and white with very clearly marked definitions and boundaries.

It took some time to explain that hardly anything, from politics to history to art, hardly anything except perhaps math could be viewed in such concrete, narrow-minded visions. I was in for a challenge, to make Ludwig see, and yet more of one to get him to understand that the world is not textbook, and music was even further from it than life was. It made perfect sense for him to be at the school to study engineering. He wanted manuals and concise labels on everything. It almost pained me to inform him that there was no be all end all manual to understanding something as abstract as the ultimate art form.

We spent nearly an hour, doing nothing but discussing differing worldviews: My liberal, open-minded, agnostic, inquisitive mindset, versus his conservative, reserved, stubborn view of the world and all that reside upon her. Surprisingly, however, instead of bashing my thoughts on life, as I was so used to hearing from members of my hometown and classmates back in secondary school, Ludwig simply listened and gave my thoughts a chance. It was very nice to have a conversation partner with such an open mind for a change. Intelligent, controlled, peaceful debates were certainly a pastime of mine, and one I looked forward to having with Ludwig often in the future.

Ludwig informed me that he had a class then, and thus had to leave me to my devices for the time being. We scheduled to meet again that evening, after dinner, and discouraged another meeting so early in the morning. My companion took his leave and myself, having at least four hours before my first class of the day even started, went straight back to bed, collapsing onto the softness almost before Ludwig had the door closed.

However, instead of immediately falling asleep as I had predicted I would, slumber eluded me. My thoughts raced with the sight of Ludwig writing rapid notes and muttering to himself as I described the intricacies of Frederick William the Great's flute concertos, as I outlined the movements of Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, and launched into a monologue depicting the beauty of Schubert's art songs.

By the time I managed to dispel those images and clear my mind, just enough mental peace and stability to slip into a light slumber, my alarm began going off, signaling that I had thirty minutes to get dressed properly and head off to my psychology class.

By this time in the school year, classes have become second nature, and all shortcuts to get from point A to point B, anywhere on campus have been found, mentally mapped out, and all travels were as efficient as possible. I made my way to the class, which, being a review day, was rather sparsely populated. By that, I mean it was Francios and myself; no one else. Not even the professor showed up.

He and I simply nodded at each other as we waited the fifteen minutes of required time, in case the professor was simply running late to class. Of course, none came, so I simply stood and was about to head for the music room for a bit of piano rehearsal when Francios called me over to talk for a moment.

Fearing that he might try the worst, I was hesitant in my approach, keeping a wary eye on him as I took a seat in the next row, raising a brow in curiosity.

"So. I heard that you and Luddi are growing close."

I could only blink in confusion at such a brash opening statement and shake my head.

"I am only helping him with his music grade. Nothing else."

The Frenchman was not pleased with this answer, but gave a light chuckle of amusement.

"Mon ami, you are kidding yourself! Anyone can see from a mile away that you feel for him! Did you not notice yourself how flustered you were when he helped you up? Oho, mon cher, you are transparent. You look at him in a way you never looked at me. I must warn you, though… My roommate is not easy to deal with. You must be careful with how you speak. He is easy to offend."

"Easy to offe—Nein. I spent an hour with him, and we had a perfectly civil conversation."

At such a comment, one of Francios' perfectly trimmed brow raised, an expression of evident disbelief.

"Ohon, so you are telling me that you got the confrontational, loud, controlling German to calm down and play nice…? What is the secret? Or! Ooh, perhaps he likes you, too~?"

At such a suggestion I merely rolled my eyes, collected my backpack and stood.

"Nein. There is no love, mutual nor unrequited. It is simply a platonic partnership, eh? Please, don't meddle in my affairs."

I shouldered my bag and made swift escape from the room, opting to not even spare the other a glance of any sort as I closed the door behind me and strode with all intents and purposes as quickly towards the dorms as I could, hoping to avoid any more confrontations with another personage.

And, damn my luck, I had no reason to hope. As I made my way back, my path was suddenly blocked by an overly affectionate Italian with an over fondness for hugs. I instinctively flailed and tried to pry the smaller boy off of myself, but to no avail. I could do nothing but struggle while he ranted and raved about how much he missed me and my presence at the lunch table, that he missed his friend and wanted his pizza loving Austrian back.

It took me a good ten minutes to get it across to him that I would, indeed, be returning to the table, and would really rather not be presumed as a 'pizza loving Austrian.' There is a difference between appreciating a certain food and actually loving the thing, nein?

Once I finally got the other to calm down enough to talk sensibly, we simply chatted idly about the food as of late, the lesser quality burgers that seemed to deteriorate in edibility at each and every meal by varying degrees each time, the acceptable pasta dishes and Yao, one of the culinary art students interning in the cafeteria, and the one who had rescued the Greenlandic woman's chocolates from the Dane on the first day of school, his insistencies on providing a dish of Chinese origin each and every day, and the rather good desserts that the staff managed to put out each meal.

We spent a good thirty minutes chattering on about the food, eventually managing to cut our conversation short and head on to our respective classes, English composition, for myself. A class I really quite despised. It was almost nothing but writing prompt after writing prompt, with droll lectures in between. English was hardly my native language, and they expected me to be able to write it on a scholarly level! Ha!

I simply trudged through the lecture, able to keep myself awake by doodling a variety of staves and notes in intriguing positions all over my notebooks, with hardly a lecture note in sight. I was here to learn how to be a proper orchestral violinist, not the author of the next great novel of the century. I honestly did not see the point in this class, but, it was required in order to get a diploma four years from then.

Eventually my daily routine brought me back to my dorm for a few hours of peace and quiet. Time to be alone with my Stradivarius and the pure musical stylings of Bach. A rosined bow and tuned strings, hands set and a quiet shouldering motion, and I launched into the Brandenburg Concerto No. 3. The soothingly smooth transitions from phrase to phrase that the Germanic composer was so skilled at writing made ever piece of his work immensely enjoyable to play as well as listen to.

As of all of my alone rehearsals, I had left the door open, so that any passerby could pause and listen to the musical poetry I could tease from the strings while hardly even trying. Honestly, these Americans were far too easily impressed by a good instrumentalist. It was not until I had glanced up at the door that I realized I had an audience. More than that actually, I had an audience whose interest was piqued and acutely attuned to the musical spiel I was gracefully spinning for the public of the college to hear.

I offered the guest a warm smile and as much of a nod as I could manage before closing my eyes to continue pulling the beautiful series of notes and sighs from the bow as it whispered across the strings and set the air in perfect vibrations that simply sung.

I soon finished the concerto and laid the instrument aside while my guest gave a quiet round of clapping, slipping into my room and taking the same seat he had taken early that morning for our initial study session.

The two of us quickly delved into a deep analysis of the concerto, describing with as many metaphors and examples as possible exactly how flowing and dynamic the piece was. Eventually, after perhaps forty minutes of discussing the every detail of the piece, playing it again, listening to a few professional recordings of it and looking up the sheet music for Ludwig to look at while I played it a third time, we began simply… chatting.

It was amazing how much we shared in common when one looks at how truly different we are. We both enjoyed the taste of a good beer, complained about the legal age limit imposed on the youths of America, exchanged a few recipe ideas for what to do with a pack of wurst, and even compared familial and financial situations.

Like myself, Ludwig had been only raised by one parent. The major difference? Ludwig's father was a soldier, a citizen of the DDR Germany and a veteran of the second World War, while my own mother was a liberal, a feminist and not the good kind. She was the aggressive sort, that thought men were good for nothing and would only put women down.

Unlike the other, I did not grow up with a sibling. Ludwig had his big brother to provide for and guide him into adulthood when their father passed away several years before. Ludwig lived with his brother and his sister-in-law in a cheap tenement in downtown Chicago, while Gilbert owned and operated a second rate mechanic shop. Both of us were attending the school almost solely on scholarship, my own in the musical performance arts, and his in the pursuit of an applied engineering degree.

We shared life stories well into the evening, missing dinner and simply enjoying each other's company over a couple cups of coffee from the instant bean press I had purchased within a few days of my arrival on campus.

Eventually, however, despite the immense intrigue I had in my companion's story, and averseness I had to doing so so very early in the evening, I began to nod off, even the coffee not being of much help to my predicament. My drowsiness seemed to amuse the German more than anything, who simply leaned back in his chair and gave a faint echo of a smile while azure eyes twinkled in a light hint of laughter.

That was definitely a face I'd be dreaming of later on.

It did not help at all when I began to wake up, at perhaps five or so in the morning, my room empty, door locked, and myself… in bed. I had fallen asleep at some point during the evening and must have left my guest to his own devices. Gott, I'm such a terrible host.

The thought had no even occurred to me until much later that evening, during dinner, while comparing opinions with Feliciano about the rather quality canolli that the cafeteria had provided for dessert this fine Wednesday evening, that I had not been even on my way to the bed when I fell victim to the sandman's clutches.

For several weeks it went on as such, our evenings spent together, chatting only initially about music, and inevitably towards less academic subjects, from what our favorite ways to prepare a pork loin to the most efficient strategy for keeping one's schedule efficient and well organized. We never deviated from our schedule, always exactly two hours every evening, immediately following my usual violin practice, and not a minute more nor a minute less.

We were simply close study buddies, despite hardly an ounce of actual study being done anymore, since Ludwig's grade, not only in his music class, but in politics and writing, as well, improved by leaps and bounds, setting my companion's grade point average to nearly a perfect score.

If you asked anyone, really, anyone, what we were doing every night, we had notes and evidence of intense intellectual discussions to prove that we never deviated from our debates and tutoring sessions. The only thing that truly changed over time is how much of those sessions were spent studying, and how much was rushed, and how often I attempted to get closer to my friend.

Physically.

It was perhaps around Halloween that I truly realized that what I felt for Ludwig was much more than mere friendship; it was true attraction. The first time I tried to get closer to him, simply by placing my chair a few inches closer to his before he entered the room, he hardly noticed.

The second attempt, was when I decided to be much brasher and actually… touched him. More than a friendly pat on the shoulder or a brotherly, playful shove, I placed my hand on his arm and left it there for several seconds. He simply grabbed my wrist and with surprisingly gentle motion, pried my hand away.

To be rejected like that would hurt anyone, I would assume. But the way he explained his reasoning, they made sense.

He simply did not want to swing that way.

It was not the first time that a crush of mine had rejected me on sexuality alone, but it was the first time I was actually friends with and rather close to the subject, and had distinct, identifiable and undeniable feelings for the companion, not simply acting upon the desire for being physically pleasured. I had fallen in love with Ludwig's mind and being. I enjoying to look at him naturally, but that was merely a set of bonus points. While Ludwig was a beautiful, beautiful man, it was his mind that intrigued me so.

One night, somewhere around the middle of October, we had another of our study sessions, over the life and times of Johann Sebastian Bach. I had been up late studying for a psychology exam that I had taken that morning, and thus I was rather tired throughout the session and continuously dozed off, snapping back to wakefulness just before falling out of my chair.

"Roderich, I do believe you are too tired to go on." Ludwig muttered as he closed his notebook and placed it in the satchel next to his chair. "You need to get to bed."

I gave a light laugh and simply closed by own notebook, giving a dismissive wave. "Nein, I am-" I had to pause for a wide yawn. "I'm fine, Luddi… I promise."

Before I could offer much more in the way of protest, I found myself suddenly slung over Ludwig's shoulder and being carried to bed. Despite my struggling, which was weak, to speak as good as possible of it, I could not get out of his grip until he leaned down to deposit me onto the bed and shake his head, chuckling softly. I hadn't even noticed that my arms were wrapped around his neck, thus trapping him there hovered so close to me. Or, rather, giving him an excuse to remain close.

It took me quite by surprise when suddenly his lips were pressed firmly against mine as his rather muscled arms cradled me in rather close proximity to his warmth. In an instant I was completely awake and responsive, pulling Ludwig closer to me, onto the bed with me, under the covers with me.

We clung to each other, his warm, broad hands rubbing my back and massaging in all the right places to leave me rather relaxed and just melted into him. I allowed my hands to wander lazily over his shoulders and chest, kneading and rubbing gently, murmuring soft encouragements as he slipped his hands underneath my shirt.

His hands were perfect, the most wonderful balance of soft and calloused, warm and perfect. Soft noises of pleasure escaped my lips as I latched onto him, kissing passionately and parting my lips to his asking tongue while his knee found its way between my legs.

We rolled to the side, so that instead of laying beside each other, he was on top of me, pressing his weight down and possessively marking my neck as his own. I moaned out in pleasure as his hips settled hotly between my thighs and began grinding down at the most pleasing, perfect of angles and intensities. My legs instinctively hooked around his waist as he pulled me tightly into him, kissing my neck and shoulders with the perfect amount of roughness and possessiveness that was enough to make anyone absolutely melt into a moaning mess of ecstasy.

Our clothes simply seemed to slide off of our bodies, leaving us exposed to each other's perfect bareness within moments. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, as if he had done this a hundred times before. As his hand slipped down between my legs and massaged my thighs so firmly, possessively, I couldn't help but move my legs further apart for him.

Wanton moans and vocalizations of pure pleasure escaped my throat as his hand, well coated in lubrication from the bottle he simply happened to have on his person began teasing and playing with the entrance to my ass. Hips bucked involuntarily and breath hitched with mindlessness as he prepared my entrance for his claiming flesh.

And what ecstasy could compare? How could I possibly form words to express what I felt then, so truly happy and pleased to belong to this fine piece of German man? I gave myself to him completely, and he happily, eagerly, perfectly took everything I offered, his length plunging into myself, filling me and making me whole.

He moved swiftly and efficiently, the only comparison I can think of at the moment being the power and perfection of a piston exploding into the realm of an engine, propelling the throes of passion into new, soaring heights I never could have even imagined on my own. Or could I? This was all too perfect, every aspect of it. Surely I must have been dreaming for everything I wanted to suddenly be mine with hardly a struggle. It was, put simply, too good to be true. What was the catch?

Oh.

Right.

It was, indeed, too good to be true.

I woke up the next morning, alone. My sheets were ruffled and tangled around me in contours I hadn't known that they could be in, and I was quiet effectively drenched in sweat and – eugh. My pants were wet and sticky. This was far from appropriate.

I dragged myself out of bed with a groan, shaking the stiffness from my limbs before heading over to the dresser to collect some clean clothes to change into after my daily morning shower. The cold water was soothing and refreshing, a welcome relief after the events of my dreams the previous night.

I soon dragged myself out of the shower, dressing as I walked in a rather casual outfit compared to my usual slacks and dress shirt. I took note in the mirror that a bit of a bruise was forming on my temple, probably from hitting my head on the bedpost during my tossing and turning during the night,. A simple pair of denim jeans and a hoodie bearing the name of the school across the chest, a rather simple, comfortable outfit in which I can blend into the background and hide from the majority of prying eyes for the day.

I should have realized much sooner. I could not understand how I did not notice that there was no pain. Wasn't there always pain paired with the pleasure? Wasn't there always whimpers border lining screams of ecstasy as one's most intimate bodily regions were claimed by the flesh of another? How did I not notice?

I felt like an idiot, a gullible, desperate idiot. When had I become so lonely that I dreamt of a perfect man in such a wonderful light? The sheer perfection of every moment should have tipped me off. Never had I known or read, even in less than appropriate novels of adult rating, a scene of such a thing to be so… perfect.

Why was I kidding myself? I saw Ludwig as absolutely perfect, and it was all because I could not have him. Ludwig was my forbidden fruit over which I became a desperate mess. Something about that man just tempted, taunted and drew me in, then pushed be back. I can't have him, and that's what made me want him all the more. Why does love have to do these things to us?

He knew. I just felt as if he know every detail of the dream. All through music class I could pay attention to hardly anything more than Ludwig's form as he shifted slightly, taking notes diligently and paying such close attention to the lecture. I could feel his eyes bearing into my back as I left the classroom, textbook hugged tightly into my chest and stride much longer and quicker than usual.

It hurt to know what I truly felt for my companion. I wanted him much more deeply and wholly than I could really comprehend. I wanted to give myself to him and damn the consequences. But, alas, I could not. He did not feel the same way about me that I felt about him. I was fighting a war I knew I could not win, and continued fighting would only bring myself pain.

I did not even go to lunch that day. Instead, I simply stayed in my dorm and curled up on my bed and tried to sleep. But sleep never came. I was laying there for several hours when there was finally a knock on the door.

"It is open." I called in a slightly hoarse voice, pulling my pillow tighter into the embrace I had it locked in.

"Roddi…? Are you okay?" A worried voice carried as the visitor tiptoed quietly into the room and soon took a seat next to me on my bed. My back was turned to the other, but by the verbal tic of his, that little 've' noise he made so incessantly, I knew exactly who it was.

"Nein, Feliciano… I am not."

"Ve….. Want to talk about it?" He inquired, placing a sympathetic hand on my shoulder and rubbing a light massage into the muscle.

I merely shook my head and snuggled deeper into the blanket.

"Roddi, something is bothering you."

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious…" I muttered, shifting a bit away from my companion.

"What is it? What's wrong? C'mon, amico!" He whined and flopped down before pulling me into a sudden embrace, causing me to instinctively flail and splutter.

"Feliciano Vargas! Let go of me!" I yelped, struggling to get out of the famous by now Italian bear-hug that tiny brunet was so capable of dealing out.

Eventually I did manage to get the little guy to let go of me, albeit not until I admitted that I was falling in love with someone I shouldn't. At that, he let go, faced me and tilted his head.

"Is it that big German guy?" He asked with a rather odd tilt to his head that seemed to make that one wild curl of his bob, almost inquisitively. I knew his pain when it came to odd curls, having one of my own no matter how I styled my hair, no matter what gels or sprays or waxes I used, it never would even try to stay down. Rather annoying, really, but eventually I did accept it was something that made me who I am.

"Ludwig Beilschmidt, ja…"

"Oh… Roddi, you know he's-"

"Straight, yes. I'm aware." Painfully so, I mentally added. The two of us sat in silence, simply sharing the same vicinity. I must admit, the company felt quite nice.

"Hey. I brought you something." He said after perhaps ten or twelve minutes of silence, then produced from his jacket a bottle of… was that…?

I sat up immediately and took the dark bottle in light, almost shaking hands. "Du hast.. Wiengeld…"

"You said you liked beer, and its your birthday, isn't it? I had a whole case of Austrian beer shipped in! I put it in your refrigerator already."

At that I winced a bit, as I much preferred to drink my beers warm, but I supposed I could simply take them out and store them under the bed for a while.

"Dankeschoen, Feliciano. A-and, yes.. it is."

"How old are ya now? Wait, wait, wait, wait-! Let me guess!" He leaned back and rubbed his chin for a few seconds before suddenly grinning. "Twenty!"

I rolled my eyes and chuckled. "Close. I'm nineteen, now."

"Well, I'm going to let you be alone for a while, okay..? Ciao, amico." He said, hugging me once more before standing and making his way out of the room.

I wasted no time in getting started on enjoying the Wiengeld. I didn't even remember talking about alcohol that often, maybe enough to mention that beer was my favourite kind of drink, but for Feliciano to grab my favourite brew, favourite color, and favourite brand, as the first one? It was a surprise, albeit a very pleasant one.

I took my time enjoying my first beer since I had left Austria. I made that single bottle last almost two hours, just leaning against the wall, sipping at the dark liquid and enjoying the rich, deep flavours that the hops and malt provided. I had almost finished the bottle when I heard someone clearing their throat from the doorway. That Feliciano had left unlocked. Wonderful.

"Roderich Cohain Amadé Sebastian Edelstein, what are you doing?" A deep, gruff, obviously annoyed voice echoed as the door was pushed shut and heavy footsteps made their way over to my bed.

I lifted my gaze lazily to see a rather annoyed looking Ludwig with his arms crossed and brow furrowed. "Having a drink. Y'want some?" I asked, holding the bottle out to him, offering a warm smile.

"N-Nein!" He stammered, but took the bottle from my hand and placed it on the nearby table. "Roderich, you are underaged! That's illegal!"

"Not back home." I countered, giving a smirk at my seemingly clever retort.

"We aren't in Austria! The legal age here is twenty one! You're only eighteen."

"Nineteen." I corrected.

"You said that you were eighteen a month ago?" He inquired, tilting his head a bit.

"Well, Luddichen."

He blinked at my use of the diminuitive nickname, setting his jaw into a frown.

"That was a month. I turned nineteen… Today."

My companion sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, chewing on the inside of his cheek and staring at me.

"Was ist los? Ludwig, what's wrong?"

He shook his head and placed a hand on my knee. "Nichts. I-I… I need to apologize."

"Apologize? For what?"

"Y-you haven't-? You don't remember?" He blinked repeatedly, and then I noticed that his eyes were focused not on mine, but at the side of my head.

"Remember what?"

"I-I… I hit you." He said in a soft voice, averting his gaze to stare at the wall.

I could only stare at him for quite a few minutes, rather disbelieving. "Y- you… hit me? W- why?" I stammered out eventually, tilting my head and furrowing my brow in a significant display of confusion. "What d- did I do to… deserve…?" I trailed off a bit, almost unsure if I even wanted an answer.

"You tried to…." He trailed off, turning his gaze back to me, eyes wide and pleading, as if he were begging me to connect the dots. "To, ah…"

I had no idea what he was trying to get at, and so simply stared back, shaking my head ever so slightly. "T- to what? Bitte, Ludwig, you need to be clear…. I'm not completely sober right now."

"Ja, I realized that!" He said, rather harshly, to which I shrank down a bit. At the sight of me shying away, even so subtly, his gaze softened. "Roderich… please. Relax. You… Tried to kiss me, a-and I hit you on the head. You scared me."

Yes, I was sure of it. I was drunk. "Nein… Nein. I didn't. It was all a dream, all of it. That can't have been-"

"All of it?"