The thing is, Ludwig doesn't look like he sounds. The word "Ludwig" isn't long and broad and pale, it's a sort of deep green, medium-sized ovoid shape. It's also never really been a warm word, although Ludwig's voice is a really quite beautiful royal blue with cream edges, ribbony.
And Feliciano'd like Ludwig to look like he sounds, to know how Feliciano thinks he sounds, so he's sat Ludwig down and got out his paints.
First is a big, broad blue stripe right down Ludwig's spine—oh, he'd forgotten it was cold, and Ludwig jumps a little and Feliciano apologizes (sorry is pale blue like ice and pointed)—and then two lines of almost-white on either side.
Right of that, he decides, is going to be all the different ways Ludwig can sound.
He rinses his paintbrush again in the cup and makes the swirly bright purple curlicues of Ludwig singing all along his shoulderblade, and then the sharp brown and black lines of his business voice, and then the faint green tinge his voice lends to Italian when he tries to speak it. Ludwig shifts a little, and Feliciano pats him on the left shoulder, tries to rub a little of the tension there out with his thumb.
Then there's the deep blue almost-black edge that most German sounds take on to Feliciano, which he paints just under the curve of Ludwig's ribs as they meet his spine, and then the soft yellow wave of his laugh.
And on the left side of Ludwig's back is off-white, rounded sweet, and bright red, small, rectangular powerful, and brown-sugar handsome, dusty orange intelligent, and on and on until his back is a patchwork of colors, what he sounds like, because Ludwig is more than deep green oval, Ludwig is the pale purple of tired early-morning voices and the shining silver-gray, grass green of mine, yours.
Feliciano pulls back and laughs a little (bright yellow) at his handiwork, "Your back looks like a Kandinsky!"
Ludwig's ears turn a little red, and Feliciano laughs again and nuzzles the back of his neck, slipping his fingers around to brush over Ludwig's stomach and kissing the side of his neck (also getting a little paint on his front, but never mind). One of Ludwig's hands slips down to hold Feliciano's, and Feliciano brushes his thumb along Ludwig's knuckles, and then—
"Oh! Oh, I should take a picture, so you'll know what it looks like," and Feliciano leans back and pulls out his phone and snaps a few photos before draping his arms around Ludwig's shoulders.
He really is getting paint on his front. Well. That just means he'll have to get out of his clothes, and what a sacrifice that would be.
(All Ludwig says is a deep-blue-and-red wait, what if the sheets get dirty, and Feliciano says we can wash them!, and he falls asleep to the burgundy rumble of the washing machine and the pale pink of Ludwig's breathing, the soft red thump of his heart.)
Kandinsky was an abstract painter.