Disclaimer: I don't own.
A/N: Yeah, I'm back 8D I've been wanting to write this for a while, actually~ Oh, and if you're wondering, I deleted DGeLM because it sucked and every time I look at it I feel like banging my head against a brick wall ^^
Dammit, the only thing I hate more than writing in present tense is writing in first person Dx That's why I always write with a third person point of view, but through the perspective of one specific character, but I felt like trying present tense for whatever reason ._. The entire style I used for this was strange for me to write…
Oh, and if anyone gets the gnocchi references, I love you.
There are few things in this world that Ludwig Beilschmidt doesn't understand. Italian brothers are definitely on that list.
He sits at a table, warm cappuccino in his hands. Lifting the mug up to his nose, he tentatively sniffs it, as though making sure no one had slipped in a poison of any sort (and with a certain aforementioned Italian, it's probably a good idea to be cautious).
The coffee is strong even in smell, and he crinkles his nose slightly. It would be rude to just leave it without even trying any, he reasons with himself, and takes a sip in the same fashion as his previous whiff.
Hm. Not bad, though not exactly what he had expected when Feliciano had told him about the "bestest drink you'll ever have, I promise!"
(He had lectured the younger, more oblivious Italian brother about how 'bestest' is not in fact a word, not in any language, but had the feeling that all he said was just in one ear and out the other.)
Sighing, he puts the mug back down on the counter, keeping his grip on it—the warmth soothing, calm. He gazes around the kitchen that he had been in many times before, all of which while the owner of said room had been making linguini, or fettucini, or any other dish of pasta.
If he has to ingest just one more plate of gnocchi, he'll start planning out the funeral for his taste buds.
His eyes rest on his watch. Fourteen o'clock, it reads, and he's somehow not surprised that Feliciano is late to arrive at his own house. He suspects that the man himself saw it coming, as he had left the mug on the counter along with a note reading something along the lines of "I'll be back by quarter to fourteen, I left you a cappuccino in case you get thirsty! Love, Feli."
There are also some doodles on the page of pasta and angry German men that look suspiciously like himself. He decides to ignore those.
His eyes dart back to the mug in his hands, and another sigh slips through his lips. It's no longer warm, and he lets go of his grip on it. He gives it five more minutes until Feliciano arrives, and tries to relax a bit.
It occurs to him that he shouldn't be surprised when the older, grouchier brother comes downstairs after taking one of his many siestas.
Ludwig braces himself for a verbal lashing. Possibly even a physical one, depending on how well Lovino slept.
Lovino surprises him, though. He doesn't even open his mouth to yell. He slides down in the seat next to him, emitting an aura of I just woke up, don't you dare fuck with me and glaring at Ludwig's still-full mug.
The German sits, confused, staring at him. As soon as he heard the footsteps towards the room he was in, he expected to wake up in Sicily with a broken nose and a mustache drawn on his face with permanent marker.
But Lovino does nothing of the sort, settling instead for scowling at the mug as though it had done something to personally offend him. Finally, he turns his head to the man sitting next to him, and the words that fall out of his mouth are at least somewhat typical of him.
"Are you going to have your fucking cappuccino already, or just let it sit there and tempt me?"
Ludwig blinks and replies that, no, he does not want it and, yes, Lovino can take it if that was what he so wished for.
The older brother wastes no time in snatching the mug and gulping it down, looking as though he regains more of his energy with every gulp he takes.
The door flings open at the same time the mug hits the counter, both courtesy of two very different, very complex brothers.
As he listens to Feliciano's cries of "Oh, I'm so sorry I'm late! I had to buy some more pasta, we only had twenty or so boxes left! Ludwig, how do you feel about gnocchi today?" and watches Lovino snap that he does "not need to eat any fucking more gnocchi in my entire lifetime, thank you very much," Ludwig almost thinks he'll be able to understand them one day.
Almost.
...what is this I don't even—