Chapter One

Ludwig stares in shock at his commanding officer. There is one tiny, nearly nonexistent part of him that is vaguely happy that he and Feliciano had managed to keep the fact that they know- or is it knew, now?-each other a secret-but, that part is infinitesimally small. Most of him is completely and totally occupied with just one thought: Why did he do it? No, that's not right, more of a WHY DID HE DO IT?! He just can't understand. Why had Feliciano-happy, optimistic, and-at the risk of sounding bromantic-almost adorable Feliciano committed suicide?

"Ahem," coughs his commanding officer. "I take it you knew this man?"

Ludwig regains his exterior composure, though his interior is slowly melting. "I had heard of him; this is, after all, a rather small village. I had heard he was rather bright and happy, almost annoyingly so. I can't quite understand what would bring him to do something like this."

His commanding officer nods. "That's exactly what I thought when I heard he'd thrown himself of The Cliff, which is why I have decided to have you investigate the incident. I feel like there must have been other circumstances that we didn't know about-debt collectors or some such thing. Do your best to find out. Dismissed."

Ludwig gets up from his chair, salutes, then leaves the room, in shock. When he ends up on the street outside the police office, he doesn't even remember how he got there. Images of Feliciano-smiling, happy, laughing, painting-flash through his head in fragmented images and he feels his eyes tearing up. Quickly, before anyone can see, he swipes a hand across his eyes, straightens up, clears his throat, and starts walking to Feliciano's house, which is the best place to start looking.

The walk to Feliciano's is one that Ludwig has traveled many times. In fact, if anyone had ever figured out just how many times, they would have thought he was dating the resident. No one had figured it out, though. Taking a different way there nearly every time made sure of that, even if Ludwig did stand out.

Walking past the snow-covered, old-fashioned houses, Ludwig feels a rush of grief fall over him like a tidal wave. How many times had he watched Feliciano paint these houses on a blank white canvas, in spring, summer, fall, winter, and everything in between? Too many to count, not that he had ever bothered counting them. The one thing he didn't try to order was his time spent with Feliciano; he could remember every second of it anyway.

Ludwig shoves his hands in his coat pockets and hunches his shoulders against the cold, sleet flecked wind that has just started blowing. He briefly wonders to himself why he hadn't thought to bring his gloves with him, and then remembers that he doesn't remember even leaving. When he finally reaches Feliciano's house, he stops in front of it, staring hopelessly at it's dark, empty windows. For once, the smell of cooking tomato sauce does not come floating through the windows of the barely-remodeled barn, and no Feliciano comes out to greet him, wooden, sauce-covered spoon in one hand, paint-covered brush in the other.

Ludwig trudges forlornly up the path, kicking slush out of his way. Normally in the winter Ludwig came over and shoveled this path every day, just one of his many excuses to see Feliciano, he can now admit to himself. Feliciano wasn't so used to the snow, and he rarely went outside except to take a picture to paint off of, so Ludwig was the one who took care of things like shoveling the snow off the sidewalk and throwing salt on the ground so that no one would slip.

Reaching the door, Ludwig knocks, purely out of habit. As soon as he does, he finds himself waiting to hear light footsteps racing down the stairs leading to the second story loft. When he doesn't hear them, tears come to his eyes yet again, and once again he wipes them away.

I'm not sure I can do this, he thinks to himself. Taking a deep breath, he grabs the door handle and turns, unconsciously noting how strange it feels to open the door himself. He shakes his head to clear it of those thoughts and steps into the barn. It's as cold inside as it is outside, and smells faintly of tomatoes. He steps just over the threshold and breathes in deeply, searching for the familiar scent of Feliciano. He smells nothing except gray snow and fresh paint.

Paint? Fresh paint? Suddenly Ludwig's shoulders straighten up almost of their own accord. He finds himself stumbling forward frantically, dragging his hand along the wall for a light switch. Finding it, he flicks it on and stumbles up the stairs to the second story loft, Feliciano's makeshift studio. Once up there, he flicks on another light (seeing all the while in his mind's eye how it looks, lights flicking on in a dead man's house) and looks toward where Feliciano usually keeps the paintings he has in progress. Instead of the usual three to five canvases, there is only one, arranged so that the overhead light shines directly on it like a spotlight. Ludwig slowly, apprehensively walks forward, part of him wanting to run toward the painting, part of him wanting to leave the barn, and another part of him wanting to curl up in a corner and cry like a child.

Once in front of the picture, he really does start to cry, if only a little. The scene is a familiar one to him, The Cliff in midsummer, colorful and flooded with sunlit flowers. He and Feliciano had picnicked there many a summer day, bringing sausage sandwiches and laughing. Smiling through his tears at the memories, he looks towards the bottom lefthand corner, where Feliciano usually hides his name in the painting. To his surprise, he doesn't see the familiar signature. He looks closer, wondering at this. Feliciano always signs-signed-his paintings, so why not this one? He stares at that corner for so long the individually drawn blades of grass start to blur out of focus.

Hey, he thinks absently to himself, that sort of looks like an "f"- He jerks upright with shock, suddenly realizing why there's no signature. Feliciano left me a message! Crouching down so that he can see better, he tries to decipher his friend's hidden message for him.

Flowers, is spelled out in Feliciano's neat brushstrokes. Ludwig sits back on his heels, utterly confused. Flowers? What does that mean? He thinks, possibly for a while longer than he needs to (he just can't get images of Feliciano out of his head) until finally he realizes what the message means. Flowers! Of course! The bouquet of wildflowers I gave him on his birthday last fall! Newly energized, Ludwig jumps to his feet and races down the loft stairs, skipping the bottom three or four in his haste. Where would Feliciano keep something like that? he asks himself as he runs. After coming up with a blank, he just goes to his friend's room, thinking he might've kept them there even as they wilted and shed their petals all over his floor.

He stops as soon as he is over the threshold as the fractured, drunken memories flood over him. New Year's Eve had seen him and Feliciano adjourning to this room, to this bed. Drunk, with the lights off, it had seemed so right to lay down in this bed and kiss his friend-no, that night, Feliciano was not a friend; he was a lover. They had kissed, taken their clothes off, gotten themselves stuck in the blankets, and that was as far as Ludwig's drunken memory stretched. When Ludwig had woken up the next morning, before the hangover had set in, he had looked down at Feliciano, who was wrapped in his arms. He had been smiling in his sleep, the sunlight shining through the window making him glow like an angel.

Ludwig shakes his head to clear it, then steps into the room, flicking on the light in here as well. Instantly he sees the flowers, right where he expected them to be: in a clear glass vase, sitting on a bedside table. Feliciano must have dried them to preserve them, because it seems as if they still have all their petals. He slowly walks over and picks up the vase, holding the flowers up to his nose and inhaling their sweet scent. Feliciano, he thinks mournfully, why did you do that? Why would you kill yourself? If you had a problem, you could have told me about it! Hurt flows through his veins instead of blood as he imagines his friend being bullied by someone, or being depressed about something. He can't even imagine what in his life he couldn't overcome with his overwhelming optimism.

Something soft falls across his forearm to the floor, causing him to look down. A flower petal, he thinks to himself. Then: No, not a flower petal, a piece of paper! Another message from Feliciano! Ludwig carefully, carefully sets the vase back down on the table, then hurriedly bends down and picks up the scrap of paper.

Bus stop, speaks Feliciano from the grave. This time, Ludwig immediately knows what he means. The bus stop where I first saw you. Feliciano was not German like Ludwig and everyone else in the German village. No, he had moved here, to this picturesque, out of the way village, from Venice. Why he had moved from The City of Romance to this village, Ludwig never asked. He just knew that he was glad Feliciano had, because otherwise they never would have met.

Okay, Feliciano. I will brave the snow and walk to the bus stop for you. He thinks. What he won't let himself hear, though, is the undercurrent of that thought: I'll go there if you come back.

Well, here's a Ludwig x Feliciano story for you people! I have to admit, GerIta is the only couple I will just sit and watch videos of. I'll read doujinshis of a couple others, but I'll just watch videos of fandrawings of these guys. They're so cute! :D