A/N: This is my first story on here, so I hope you enjoy it. I own nothing.
It hurt, thought he could not feel it. Oh, it hurt. Every joint, every muscle, every cell in his body ached, he knew it. It had too. The German sky was a soupy red and from it flew flakes of black snow. The ground below him shook and buildings around him tumbled. There were screams, but he could not tell whether they were far or near. Truthfully, he could barely tell anything. Was he even alive?
"Feliciano!" The voice seemed so far away. Was he calling him? Or was there another Feliciano hidden among the rubble? Feliciano tried to move, but something kept his right leg pinned down. He looked to find the brick wall lying on his leg. How did he not notice the building crumble before? He tried moving again, but this time it was the pain that kept him. He began to scream uncontrollably. His body burned and felt as if parts were ripped from him. Because of his sever screaming, he didn't notice when a man leaned down beside him and gently took him in his arms.
"Feliciano!" He yelled, hoping for the Italian to notice he was here. He was just arriving when the bombs began to fall. Still at a safe distance, he watched as they ripped havoc on the city. Before the planes had left, he had already begun his sprint to find his friend. And now that friend lay limply in his arms. He was dead, yet alive enough to scream. Tears spilled over from the German's eyes. He was not normally one to cry, but at the scene before him, he couldn't help it.
Feliciano continues to scream, though his throat was beyond dry. Why was he screaming? What good would it do? His nearly blinded eyes caught sight of the blond before him. Was it really him? Had Ludwig finally come to save him? His screaming only calmed when he finally comprehended his name being called. Ludwig… He was crying now. Why? Nothing made sense anymore. What had happened?
"Feliciano, I'm sorry." Ludwig said, shaking with his sobs. "If I had only been here earlier…" What? What could he have done? If anything, he would be in the same situation as Feliciano; broken, dying. Had he been there before the bombing he wouldn't have been able to comfort the poor man. He might already have been dead. Realizing this, the German only cried harder.
"Ludwig…" Feliciano's voice was hoarse. It held none of the happiness that it always had. In the sad times, in the hard times, in the joyful times, Feliciano had always been happy. This just wasn't the case now. He found himself repeating his name once more. "Ludwig."
"Feliciano," Ludwig took a shaky breath. "Please, stay with me. You'll live. I know you will. And then we'll fight back against the Allies. I swear we'll win!" What the German did not realize was that Feliciano was lucky to have lived this long. It would take a miracle to save him life any longer.
"Ludwig." His mind seemed to find no other words. Just the name of his best friend. Had he been thinking more clearly, maybe he would have confessed his love for him. And just maybe Ludwig would have the courage to give him a long kiss before he died. But that was not the case. Instead, the Italian took his last breathe and smiled lightly. His brown eyes showed no sign of joy. Then he let his breath go. One last exhale in this world. Ludwig was sobbing now.
"Feliciano! Wake up now!" His grip on the dead Italian tightened. "Remember all the training we went through? Are you saying it was all for nothing?" No Ludwig. A dead man cannot say anything. But despite his flawed logic he continued. "You still have to learn how to throw a grenade properly! You still have to learn how to not run away!"
You still have to be there for me. You still have to give me courage. You still have to love me. Though these did not come from his mouth, they did come from his eyes. Had anyone cared for the sad sight, they could have told how much the stubborn, ruthless German loved the happy, carefree Italian.
He stayed and cried from what seemed like hours. It might have been. Other soldiers who passed watched him questionable, but none moved him. He was a man who had fallen in love with a brunet, browned eyes man. He was far from Aryan and far from German. And yet Ludwig had loved him. During his life, Feliciano had returned that love. But this was something that would never be shared. For not only can words not come from a dead man, but they cannot come from a man who had a broken heart.
On the streets of a German city, an Italian soldier took his last breath. Though he had yet to take one life, he was murdered as punishment for hundreds. Just another story of love. Just another story of war. Just another tragedy of life.