Ludwig stumbled into his living room and collapsed on the couch. Throughout the entire funeral he had sat, stone-faced, but he couldn't take it anymore. The tears finally pricked at his eyes, before they rolled down his cheeks. He began to heave deep, gulping sobs. His heart was breaking and he couldn't breathe.
This was only the second time Ludwig had ever cried. He had been a silent baby, who fussed when uncomfortable, but never knew tears. He had cried when he stood at his parents' funeral, but he had only been three. He hadn't sobbed; he hadn't felt like he was being torn in two.
But now he did feel like that, at age twenty-nine. He clutched at his chest and prayed that his lungs would still work the next day.
The funeral procession stopped on a hill covered in wildflowers. Ludwig parked his car and stepped out, crushing a lily under his boot. He stood, watching as Francis, Antonio, Roderich, and Elizabeta carried the coffin, a strong one made out of white oak.
The casket slowly descended into the ground as the priest read a psalm from the Bible that Ludwig had picked out.
"The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing.
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
he refreshes my soul.
He guides me along the right paths
for his name's sake.
Even though I walk
through the darkest valley,
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely your goodness and love will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord
forever."
Ludwig knew that it was cliché, and that Gilbert wouldn't have picked it out, but when he was asked, that was the only thing he could think of.
He had been numb ever since he first got the news. The telegram had been plain, black letters stamped into a painfully white background
Ludwig Beilschmidt,
We regret to inform you that your brother, Gilbert Beilschmidt, has been killed in battle. His death occurred April 22, 1940. He will be remembered and honored.
Ludwig crumpled the telegram into a ball and threw it across the room. It landed softly just in front of the fireplace. He turned his back on it and buried his face in a pillow, so the only thing he could here were his own, slightly muffled sobs.
He didn't hear the door click open or the boots being taken off or the soft pad of stocking feet across the floor.
He did hear a soft voice directly behind him. "Ludwig?"
He turned around quickly, almost violently. Feliciano flinched back.
Ludwig tried to say something, but his throat was raw.
Feliciano's eyes were wide; he gently reached out and touched a tear resting on Ludwig's face. He seemed almost surprised by the wetness on the tip of his finger. "Ludwig?" he said again.
Ludwig cleared his throat. "What?"
Feliciano didn't reply, he just brushed away the tears with a gentleness that made Ludwig want to cry again.
"Oh, Ludwig, it's okay," Feliciano murmured.
Ludwig began to sob again; he curled up in on himself. He wasn't accustomed to showing emotion, especially pain. But with Feliciano, he felt that it would be okay.
Physically weak arms wrapped around Ludwig and held him close to a thin chest. Ludwig turned his face and let Feliciano's shirt dry his tears.
They stayed like that until Ludwig was exhausted and Feliciano's mouth was dry from constantly reassuring Ludwig that it would be okay, it would be okay.
Ludwig fell asleep in Feliciano's arms. The thin Italian man lay the burly German out on the lumpy couch, swept the hair away from his face, and took off his tie. He stood up and brushed the dust off of his hands, thinking that it would be a good idea to make Ludwig some pasta before he woke up.
Author's Note- Just a quick little one-shot that I wrote during 7th hour today... Please Review!