Last time he checked, Feliciano was pretty sure that rabbits have four legs, not five.
"That's his tail."
Oh.
The Italian gives his friend a cheery, encouraging smile. "Ve, it's cute!" It doesn't matter what the rabbit looks like, really. What really matters is that Ludwig is here with him, in the warm sunshine on the grass, painting side-by-side with him. Every now and then their elbows will touch, and it is a nice feeling, of the comfortable companionship between them that Feliciano never wants to go away.
However, Ludwig frowns, eyebrows drawing together in concern. "It looks bad, doesn't it?"
It is a question slightly tinged with disappointment, and a bit a resignation, a tone that doesn't (shouldn't) belong to him. Feliciano bites his lip and leans over his friend's shoulder, tilting his head and peering at the picture this way and that.
(If he's going to be completely honest, Michelangelo would probably throw himself from the scaffolding of the Sistine Chapel if he saw this picture.)
"It's not that bad! It just needs a little work. Here, let me help you!"
He reaches for Ludwig's hand, grasping the paintbrush with the grip of a soldier, not an artist. His hand is rough and calloused compared to the Italian's own slender and gentle touch, and yet they fit in such a way that almost reminds Feliciano of a long time ago, of another boy with eyes like the Mediterranean that he loves so much, who also could not paint and never got to learn.
"See?"
The tail no longer looks like a leg, and Ludwig's eyes are much lighter and brighter than Heinrich's, and Feliciano swallows and blinks, shaking his head to get rid of such thoughts. His friend studies him quietly, these simple movements, quiet and sad.
"Are you alright, Feliciano?"
"I'm fine!" Just like that, the cheerful, crazy Italian is back, and Feliciano returns back to his own painting, humming as he mixes the colors on his palette. "Say, Ludwig, this is really fun, huh? We should do it more often!"
"Ja, I supposeā¦"
Feliciano beams from behind his easel, and shifts his focus back to his own painting. A face from years ago. He glances back up at Ludwig every so often, almost as if inspiration, almost as if refreshing his memory, but every so often he'll bite his lip and frown.
The eyes. It's the eyes. No matter how often he tries, he'll never quite get them right.
I do not own Hetalia.
Mischief Managed!
