It is times like these when Ludwig wonders what really goes on in the Italian's mind. The said person sits before him across the table, chattering away happily while his hands moves swiftly, spoon twirling yet another forkful of pasta, bright smiles and all. He watches mutely, the object of his scrutiny not noticing the silence of his other companion, single handedly allowing the conversation to flow smoothly as it stretches on from the uneventful events of his day to his observations of how Big Brother Lovino has been recently toning down his heated protests of their companionship, of which he concludes that it must be due to the frequent night outs at Spain's house; his food must be really delicious, Feliciano surmises out loud. He pauses, and the fork disappears into his mouth for a moment and lets it fall onto the clean plate with ceremonious tinkle, leaning back into the chair with a 've' of airy contentment.

"How is it?" Ludwig gestures to the plate and allows a small smile to spread across his face. Feliciano leans back harder and thinks, lips forming a pout as he stares at the rotating fan above him.

"I'll give it … Twelve points."

"Out of?"

"That's a secret," He stares back at the German, eyes alit with a twinkle, which elicits a thought from the other man that somehow that expression differs from the easy-going grin he always has. He shakes his head slightly, handling the plates as he approaches the sink, turning the faucet with one hand and a sponge in the other. He waits for the sound of the chair scraping on the floor, with the soft footsteps of his lo-friend as he heads out into the living room, where he would, without a shadow of a doubt, be sleeping on the couch several minutes later.

Feliciano lets out a soft hmm.

Ludwig thinks he should pause from the dishwashing, sensing a strange disconcerting aura in the air, but gives Feliciano the benefit of doubt and instead asks gently, albeit a little sternly, "Is something wrong?"

"I've been wondering …" Feliciano pauses, the soft shuffling of feet against floor. "We never really talked about each other's past before."

Ludwig silently raises an eyebrow at the sudden topic, but lets it slide and decides to ask another day. His hands falls into the safe, easy rhythm of cleaning: soap, scrub, rinse, dry, soap, scrub, rinse, dry –

"Well, to tell you the truth … I don't remember much," He starts. "Everything was a haze until Prussia took me in as his 'awesome' little brother." Feliciano chuckles softly at the comment, muttering almost to himself at how predictable that was. Ludwig isn't so sure whether Feliciano means it to the latter or the former.

The same silence from the dinner stretches on between them, except this time, it wasn't punctuated by the cheerful ramblings of the Italian.

"Ho hum," Feliciano is the first to break it, his voice almost back to normal. "Must be my mistake then."

Ludwig nearly breathes a sigh of relief, hearing the soft scrapes of the chair against the floor, and tucks away the strange incident into his memory, determined to find out what was wrong with the Italian man the next day. He continues to wash the dishes, and feels his breath quicken – stalling to a halt abruptly as the Italian unexpectedly wraps his arms around his waist.

"I remember eating pasta like yours, back when I was living as a maid under Austria's rule," Ludwig barely manages registers Feliciano's words, hoping desperately that his friend – no, ally would not hear his heart racing in his chest, his blood racing to his cheeks as what's left of his head curses vehemently over and over for falling in – "It tasted horrible."

The last few words barely had any effect on him compared to the sudden coldness when Feliciano pulled away from the embrace, akin to a bucket of cold water drenching him from head to toe. Ludwig stares at his soapy hands and wriggles his foamy fingers idly.

"But then again, I am a gourmet, after all." The bubbly tone in his voice nearly stings him, but now he knows better, that there's nothing between them at all.

That night, Ludwig dreams of a lone figure dancing in a meadow of flowers, singing an Italian nursery rhyme from a distance faraway. When he awakes to a handful of Feliciano, arms automatically wrapping around the Italian as he soothes the latter's sobs, the song is still resonating in his ears, foreign and distant.