Title: Between Books and Bullets, Part 1: Books, Chapter 1
Short Summary: Ludwig Beilschmidt has lived a quiet life, for the most part, working at a library in a bustling city. But then he meets Feliciano Vargas, a man with an optimistic attitude that just might help cure his pessimism. But what with his fast-talking, gun-toting brother and an Austrian that follows him around like a guard dog, is Ludwig biting off more than he can chew?
Author's Note: Hey there! Never really posted online before, but... Well, here I go!
This isn't my first attempt at Hetalia fic, but it is my first with present tense. Hope all goes well! I also haven't had the fortune of getting this beta'd. So excuse any grammatical/spelling mistakes you may see!
As happy as this chapter sounds, I must warn you, it will get pretty angsty later. I'm not usually one for drama, so it won't be TOO bad, but... There's your forewarning!
Warning: Language for this chapter, will get a little more violent later on.
The day they meet is golden, soaked in the rays of the sun. The sand of the beach glows in it and the waves are rolling as though attracted to the light. Groups of people dot the shore and the sea: families and pairs, brothers and sisters. Lovers. It's a beautiful sight.
But this… This is also beautiful.
A meeting of two bodies, one young of mind and action, and one jaded; the one who is aware of the effect of one domino hitting the other in a tumbling succession of events and the one who only knows the feeling of pushing them. From across the towels and coolers, the umbrellas and picnic baskets, their eyes lock for a moment.
It is mere, it is insignificant. But it is the scheme of things that one must look at.
And in this scheme, on this stage with these two as the starring players, they will have both built and destroyed one another. Such is the way of the world.
The one with the experience, his name is Ludwig. He meets the gaze of the other man and he tries to restrain the blush, tries to fight the redness that creeps up his neck. He knows he shouldn't have these feelings, but he can't resist - those eyes were what hooked him, those golden eyes that matched the sun. And that smile-
He can't look for long. With the way Berlitz is tugging on his leash, he knows he needs to watch where he is going.
"Berlitz, krängen! Herkommen!" His harsh tone jars the people around him, but this is normal. His large stature and deep voice give the impression of a war chief, someone out for blood and absolute victory. There is certainly some truth to not judging a book by its cover.
Watching from his beach towel is the second half to this equation, an Italian by the name of Feliciano. He giggles as the man almost trips, marveling at the movement of the muscles of the man's shoulders. He believes he is inaudible as he sighs and props his head up on his hand, his elbow digging into the terrycloth.
His brother puts down his magazine and follows Feliciano's gaze. He sneers.
"Just take a fucking picture, it'll last longer."
Feliciano can feel the colour rise in his cheeks as he slides his sunglasses down his forehead to perch on his nose.
Romano snorts. "Idiota."
Weeks pass by the time Feliciano walks into that bookshop, carrying an umbrella soaked with rain, his cheeks flushed. He pushes his bangs out of his eyes and glances around, a smile playing at his lips. His breathing hitches slightly in his throat and he giggles, wiping the rain off his face. It's obvious he had just had a run through the storm.
Behind him strides an older man not much taller than himself, dressed to the nines in a prim suit and trench coat, his brown hair perfectly styled except for a single curl of hair out of place. He shakes out his own umbrella with an expression of distaste, eyeing Feliciano's wet hair with a short huff. After a quick adjustment of his glasses, he stares down his nose at his ward. "What, exactly, are you looking for?"
The Italian takes a few steps forward, still trying to spot the section he was looking for. "I neeeeed…." The sentence trails off as Feliciano starts into a slow jog, his head flipping back and forth as he examines the shelves. "An art book! One with anatomy and bone structures and stuff. I want to get better at drawing muscles. Manly muscles," He scans the shelf headers, still searching.
The man coughs and grabs Feliciano's arm, not particularly interested in another game of chase. "Yes, well… I suppose while you look, if you'll pardon me for a moment, I would like to get a coffee. Would you like something?"
"No thanks, Roderich."
There is a pause. "… Will you be alright by yourself while I'm gone? I will be nearby, but…" His expression is wary, full of veiled assumptions of the worst possibilities. Feliciano smiles.
"It's just a bookshop. I'll be fine."
With a curt nod, the man is gone.
Now unaccompanied, Feliciano slows to a walk, examining each sign with expressed interest: the histories, the science fictions, the romances. He touches the covers of the 'most popular' novels that are displayed on the ends, picking up a few that appear interesting. Finally he finds the one he's look for, 'art/photography'. Beaming, he turns into the aisle, and as he scans the titles that appear before him, all in alphabetical order, he notices a man standing further down the row. He's reading a book with a name and a beautiful building on the front, all reflective surfaces and precise lines. But that's not what's so interesting.
He looks familiar. That blonde hair… No, it's not the hair so much as that build, those muscles that just stand out beneath all his layers of clothes. Feliciano knows he's seen him before… Where was it? The store? The park?
The beach. It's that man from the beach, the man who was walking his dogs. The man who had inspired him to come here and find a book to help him with drawing bodies just like his. The man who could be called his muse, simply standing before him.
He can't pass this opportunity up.
"Albert Kahn… You like architecture?" Feliciano could swear that he jumps at that, his face reddening in embarrassment. Holding the book in one hand, he moves his small reading glasses back up his nose, leaving them resting high on the bridge.
He clears his throat. "Yes, I do like architecture. But I don't believe that that should be any concern of yours, Mr.…?"
"Feliciano!" He offers ecstatically, holding out a hand. "Feliciano Vargas!"
The man stares at the proffered hand as though unsure what to do next. He looks down at the floor, his eyes narrowed as though contemplating his next action.
After a moment, he extends his own and gives the Italian's a firm shake. "Ludwig Beilschmidt. I suppose it's… nice to make your acquaintance."
Feliciano can hear the accent to his words, as slight as it is. German. He certainly looks it, with his hair and appearance. His clothes are perfect, not a stitch out of place… And his attitude doesn't seem to dispute much, either. He seems a little stuffy. A little bit uptight.
But he is good-looking. Hell, he is extremely good-looking. And his personality, it seems cute, almost. And that, that is enough for Feliciano to try; for him to grab at the straws and hope that he doesn't get the short one.
"Nice to make yours, too!" He turns back to the bookshelves, scanning the titles and pulling out the ones that seem to be what he is looking for. "I'm an artist, myself, but I can appreciate the - oh, this one looks good - the aesthetics of architecture, you know? The precision… It almost seems like that's art, itself." He hefts the books in his hands, running his palm over the spines. His eyes flick upward and meet Ludwig's blue ones, the ones that are watching him quite intently. Feliciano has to keep himself from grinning as he waits for the man to respond.
The German blinks and coughs into the back of his hand, once again adjusting his glasses. "Yes, well… If the precision is art, then I suppose the design must be something beyond that." He places his book back on the shelf. "The true spirit of architecture is in the function and form of the buildings themselves, and not only the technique used to craft them."
He looks at his watch and sighs, turning to the awe-inspired Feliciano. "I could speak further, but such things seem to be more at home in lecture halls," He dips slightly into a bow. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Vargas. Your insight, though I did not hear much of it, was quite beyond that of the usual artist. It was… nice to hear." Stepping past the man, who at this point is feeling quite like a naïve child, he holds his hand up in a half-wave. "I hope you find whatever it is you are looking for."
And there he is, walking away, taking steps away from the aisle, down it, almost turning-
"Ludwig, wait!" He cannot remember the man's last name so he resorts to casualties, hoping that perhaps he will not take much offense. To his relief the man turns around, an eyebrow raised. His cheeks are slightly red. Feliciano prays it's not from anger.
"What is it you need, Mr. Vargas?" Ah, yes, he can hear the edge to the man's tone as he states the name in a formal tone, the end just barely quirking into the form of a question. This is it. His last chance.
Feliciano hefts his books into one hand and holds out a card, his name and number written sloppily on it in a curling scrawl that is almost illegible. He does not care at this point. "Would you care to, ah, hear more of my opinion sometime? Maybe over coffee? Or- Or dinner?"
The card sits, waiting to be taken in or taken back, held in the air between them as though it is the only rope tethering the two of them together. He looks at the man, trying to catch his eye, trying to see SOME signal of what his choice will be before he makes it… But there is no need.
Ludwig takes a deep breath and grabs hold of the card, gingerly taking it from Feliciano's grasp and placing it in his pocket. "Yes, well. Perhaps I will contact you in the future. Just to hear what you have to say. About architecture."
A grin lights the Italian's face as surely as if a fire has been lit in his heart, heating up his entire body in an instant. He nods furiously, "Alright! Of course! I hope to hear from you soon!"
With a nod in return, the man leaves, his coat tails flapping behind him as he exits the shop as quickly as his legs will carry him. Feliciano is still smiling, clutching the books so tightly to his chest that it hurts. He took his number. Ludwig took his number.
He sees Roderich standing across the store, a Starbucks coffee cup in his hand, his eyes following the exiting German with a keen gaze. Feliciano waves to him and they meet halfway, the man instantly grabbing his arm and leading him to the checkout. He appears none too pleased. "Who. Was. That. Feliciano."
"Just a guy who likes the arts like me." He remarks, his eyes following the man as he walks down the street through the rain. "Just a normal guy."
Sometimes he wishes his life could be so simple.