It was an average day in Hetaville.

It appeared that a sudden midsummer blizzard would not strike the town, like Carlos the Weatherman had predicted in last night's forecast for the past three years, for the sun was shining brightly over the city.

Maybe the underground mafia was holding the muzzle of a gun against it, keeping it warm 'on this, the day of my daughter's wedding'; except Lovino Vargas was lacking in daughters. However, the savvy heart and head of the not-so-underground mafia knew how to pull the right strings. Yes, threatening arson against the mayor's favorite McDonald's sure could accomplish a lot of things, because Lovino Vargas might be lacking in daughters but he himself could easily marry Antonio Fernández-Carriedo — or as some (read: one very annoying German friend) called him, An-Tango, due to his occupation as a freeform dancing instructor, chiseled hunk of Spanish handsomeness and proud owner of many ruffled, chest-baring shirts — any day of the week.

Any day of the week being today, of course, as rumors were passed from friend to friend to friend's brother to friend, but Chief Oxensteirna, whose stare was intimidating alone to strongarm Vargas into behaving (for the most part), turned the other cheek against the many offenses the Italian's little ringling crowd had provoked.

'It's a special day after all,' he'd said in that mumbly voice of his, eyes darting to the left where a picture of the stocky blond and beaming little boy he called his 'wife' and son. 'Weddings don't happen every day. He'll be too busy to cause trouble anyway.'

Per usual, Chief Oxensteirna was correct, because there wasn't a trace of trouble from Ontario Square to Beijing Plaza.

And as much as Ludwig loved when people obeyed the law, sitting in a cramped vehicle with no air conditioning and your brother who sat too close, wearing a stiff black uniform in sweltering July weather, was exactly the opposite way he'd wanted to spend his Saturday. The ideal Saturday was a jog, a few episodes of a tv show then an entire day devoted to his dogs; he wished he at least had some paperwork to fill out, to occupy his time; alas, Gilbert had dragged him out of the office in too much of a hurry to grab his briefcase or any case files.

It was an average day in Hetaville, after all. (But, little did Ludwig know, the average day wouldn't be so average by the time he was stripping for a shower later that evening and giving a small index card a curious stare and the faintest of smiles as he removed it from his pocket.)

Disgusted, Ludwig brushed another spray of crumbs off of his pants leg. He'd just ironed this uniform that morning, and there was already a pink stain on the thigh from where the one donut he'd let himself have — mm, strawberry frosted — had been cruelly knocked out of his hand by his companion. "Brother," he said through gritted teeth, giving the other a disdainful look. "Could you please not speak with your mouth full? It's rude, and not to mention you're getting crumbs everywhere. I'm going to have ants crawling everywhere."

Gilbert rolled his eyes and snorted, gulping hard as he swallowed the mouthful of chocolate-glazed donut he'd been talking through. "Jeez West," he scoffed, pausing to take another huge bite of the donut. "Be careful, you're starting to sound like the little master with all that nagging. Next thing you'll know, you'll be away performing every weekend and spending hours styling your hair!"

"I prefer the cello. And someone has to keep you in line when Roderich isn't here," Ludwig muttered, "or else you will just do whatever you please, and we all know that nothing good happens when you're not being watched like a child. How has he put up with you for so long? I'm about ready to throw that box of donuts out of here and throttle you if you don't stop talking with your mouth full, and I've only been with you for two hours."

"What can I say? He likes the five meters," came the immature, asinine, muffled-by-donut answer. "Plus he's too cheap for real servants so he's nice to me on occasion so I don't pack my bags and leave. Hmph, he treats me like I'm a damn servant, ordering me to do the dishes, wash the laundry, sweep the floors, sort the mail.. I mean, I'm not the bastard's wife! If anything, he's mine, considering how fragile and delicate he is!

"And hey!" he added with a whine, closing the box in his lap and turning away slightly from Ludwig, shielding the box of donuts from harm. "Francis doesn't givee freebies often, you know, you can't throw these out! Get your own! He only let me have these for free because you were there!"

"Then stop talking with your mouth full!" Ludwig rolled his eyes, brushing more crumbs off of him. "And not all wives are 'fragile and delicate', Gilbert," he reminded the other. "I can recall that one time when they were still married, Ms. Héderváry proved you wrong by—"

"What have I said about discussing that!" Gilbert snapped, reaching over and slapping Ludwig on the shoulder, who brushed the hand away like it was a pest. "She didn't kick my ass! I let her win!"

"Of course you did, brother," Ludwig sighed, shaking his head and redirecting his gaze back to the road in front of them. They were parked in the alleyway on Bern Boulevard, between the laundromat and the veterinarian office; a man dressed in dark white robes and a keffiyeh was strolling past, a dark gray canine trotting slightly in front of him, a bright yellow leash bobbing between them. "Of course you let an expert kickboxer knock you unconscious in front of an entire restaurant."

"Hey, don't mock me, brat! I know where Opa keeps your baby pictures! Don't think I won't staple your little mug on every bulletin board in town!"

"That's it, give me that box, your donut privileges have now been revoked."

"Oh, I bet the force'll get a kick out of that one where you have cake smeared all over your grinning little face. My baby brother used to be so sweet and cute! Heh.. I wonder what happened? O-oi, don't touch my donuts or I'll bite your grubby little fingers off!"

"Give me the box, Gilbert!"

"Make me!"

Suddenly, their small scrap halted; their heads simultaneously jerked to the speedometer, propped up on the dashboard, as it let out a shrill chirp. Ludwig withdrew from trying to yank the box from Gilbert's hands — he subtly snuck his hand up to his lips and licked a small bit of frosting off the back of his palm. Man, Francis knew how to bake.. — and sat straight in his seat. Both police officers jolted as the speedometer chirped again. In a flash of red and silver, a car raced by their place in the alleyway.

"Yeah, finally!" Gilbert cheered, half-turning to pull on his seatbelt as Ludwig turned the key in the ignition. The older of the two reached down and flipped on the lights, imitating the sirens as Ludwig pulled out of the alleyway with a glance in both directions and a small bump. "Woo! We got one, at fucking last!"

"Brother, don't swear," Ludwig said absentmindedly, his focus narrowing onto the road. He wouldn't admit it, but his pulse was racing a little; he was excited like a little child for this.
The speed limit down this road was 55, but the speedometer reported their culprit going an astonishing 95. Ludwig narrowed his eyes as his attentive gaze followed the polished (noticeably dented) bumper of the cherry red Ferrari as it swerved.

"Yo," he heard Gilbert murmur; he sounded like he was also focusing on catching the culprit. Ludwig didn't see it too often — unfortunately — but once Gilbert was determined to do something, he did it, and he did it with much strategic planning and an almost uncharacteristic seriousness about him. It reminded him of himself, and also how similar they could be despite all their differences. "What the hell is this guy doing? He's all over the road!"

"Haven't the slightest," Ludwig replied. He jerked his head to the intercom. "Give him a warning, he isn't stopping."

As Gilbert removed the radio from the dashboard and spoke the practiced warning into the intercom, Ludwig pressed the car into a higher speed. They surged forward, tailing the guy a few meters behind at 80 kilometers per hour. Suddenly, Ludwig had to bite his tongue on a swear as the Ferrari swerved hard to the left, tires squealing as the car swung wide and cut off an oncoming Audi with a loud, blaring honk. Ludwig ground his teeth together and leaned forward apprehensively - jesus, who on earth let this guy have a license?! - and braked hard, cutting hard to the left and mentally sending the Audi driver a formal apology.

Speed Demon just kept swerving. Ludwig growled to himself, leaning against the steering wheel he was gripping. His knuckles were white; his first high-speed chase, this was so exciting. He pressed the vehicle into another five kilometers, tailing the mad driver at 90. Gilbert issued another warning via intercom, and even reached down to give the lights a flick. Nothing fazed the Ferrari driver. In a heated moment, Ludwig snarled a 'dammit!' and leaned back in his seat, pressing the heel of his palm down hard on the center of his steering wheel, and kept it there.

The blaring horn might have made their ears ring, but it made the Ferrari they were tailing jerk to the left. Gilbert gave a whoop as the speedometer reading quickly dropped from a demonic 95 (well, demonic for a smaller street whose speed limit was 40 compared to the larger, busier roads) to a stop on the curb. Ludwig scoffed, watching the Ferrari clamor over the edge of the sidewalk, and smoothly pulled beside it. "Stay here," he ordered Gilbert, unclicking his seatbelt and ignoring the whine of 'whaaat?' his order received. "I'm going to give this idiot a piece of my mind!"

Slamming the door, Ludwig stalked toward the car, approaching it warily. Was the driver intoxicated? Were they perhaps crazy? Or was there an emergency? Perhaps a wife was in labor in the backseat, or a child was bleeding heavily.. Clearing his throat, Ludwig rapped his knuckles on the window and gestured to roll it down. He raised an eyebrow as the thumping sound of what sounded like heavy bass suddenly cut off, like a radio dial had been turned all the way down.

With a mechanical whir, the tinted window smoothly rolled down. A young man, maybe in his early twenties, dressed in formalwear looked up at him, amber eyes widened imploringly. "Si?"

Ludwig suddenly found his mind wiped blank, like the charming accent had made him forget what he was even pulling this guy over for. He straightened from his half-crouch beside the low-riding car, reaching up to nervously adjust the bill of his hat. "A-ah," he stuttered — stuttered! God, how unprofessional! — "Good afternoon. D-do you know why—"

"Mi scusi, Signore," the man interrupted. Was that Italian? He took one hand off of the steering wheel and waved it as he chattered. "Mi scusi, but I am in a big hurry! I am on my way to a wedding, because I accidentally fell asleep after I finished working today. I was supposed to be there at four and it is already four thirty! Mio Dio, Lovi is going to be so angry with me!"

"B-but do you know why I have pulled you over, sir?" Ludwig leaned down again, giving a nearby speed limit sign a glance.

"Oh, si, I do believe so!" the man replied, nodding amicably. He didn't pause to allow Ludwig to continue. "Mi dispiace tanto — I am very sorry — but I have grown up around loud, joyful music my entire life! I did not mean to play it so loudly! It is just the regular volume I listen to music! See, la mia famiglia — my family — is Italiano, Italian, from Rome, and we are very loud sometimes. But it is only because we are so happy! We do not mean to get so carried away! I am very sorry! Please believe me!"

"What..?" Ludwig gaped. Was this guy serious..? Blinking, he shook his head and moved a hand to his belt. "No, you—"

"Ahh, please do not pull out your gun! I skipped wearing my bulletproof vest again today! It's just so itchy, and Lovi tightens it too hard, so sometimes I don't tell him I'm not wearing it! I'll die if you shoot me! Please don't! Mi fratello will find out and he will take a hit out on you! I know he will! Lovi loves me, even if he calls me 'stupid' all the time! I wouldn't want such a handsome man to be a target of the mafia!"

Ludwig was gawking. "Sir," he started, raising his hands and holding them away from his belt. He didn't know what this guy was talking about but he was obviously unsettled by the gun on his hip, because he was crying some nonsense about being shot and.. his handsomeness? Flushing lightly, Ludwig attempted to regain control of the situation. "S-sir, please stop crying," he ordered, trying to sound calm instead of pleading. He hated it when people cried; he wasn't good with comfort. "I'm not going to pull a weapon on you, I was just reaching for my ticket book!"

"Why?"

"Because you were— wh-what are you doing?" Ludwig sputtered, the blush crawling up the back of his neck and warming his ears. The young man had grabbed his slightly outstretched hand and was examining it; he noticed the curious stains of what seemed to be purple, blue, green and orange paint on the man's nimble fingers.

"Oh, I am sorry. I was just looking at your hand. It's rather big, I think only my grandfather has bigger palms than you!" The young man grinned up at him, tracing a fingertip along one of the lines of his palm.

"Sir, I-I—"

"You're stammering so much! Are you nervous, Signore Poliziotto?" The grin faded on the young man's boyishly handsome face. Ludwig studied the other's features for a moment. Small wrinkles gathered at the corners of his half-closed amber eyes, the warm smile making his face feel hotter than it already was; a straight button nose, russet brown hair framing a pale tan, heart-shaped face. There was a stray strand of hair sticking out from the rest, curling at the end; it reminded him of the cowlick in Roderich's dark brown hair that he whined no amount of spray or gel could tame.

Ludwig blinked back to reality. "A-ah," he said, turning his head and coughing into his free hand. His words were caught in his throat for some reason. "No. No, I'm not—"

"I think you are, Signore!" The young man laughed — oh god, he laughed; it was music to his ears, Ludwig mused in startled bewilderment — and took one of his hands away from holding Ludwig's. "It is perfectly fine to be nervous! I get nervous all the time! When I'm talking to mio fratello, mio nonno, practically everybody! But strangely enough, I am not as nervous talking to you! How nice is that? I guess my heart has decided that you would be a great friend! Th-that has only happened once before, haha!"

The young man half-turned away; he appeared to be digging for something in his pocket. "Mi chiamo Feliciano," he said, pausing to give a half frown. "Ah, mi scusi, Signore, do you have a paper and pen I could borrow?"

"Ah, yes.." Ludwig pulled his notepad out of his pocket, handing it to the young man, Feliciano. He felt oddly disappointed as the other released his hand to flip through the book, bear down on the steering wheel and write something; his palm was still tingling, and not in a bad way. "What are you writing..?"

"I am giving you some advice, Signore!" Feliciano tore the paper out of the notepad and handed it to Ludwig, flipping it closed and giving the pen a click. "Call that number sometime between.. between, ah, what was it.. between ten and eleven, three and five or seven and midnight!"

"Wha.. who's—"

"Mine, of course!" Feliciano chirped, returning his hands to the steering wheel and beaming up at Ludwig, whose blush had returned with a vengeance. "You are so nervous and uptight! Maybe I can help! If you ever want to talk, I am available during those times! I mean, do not misunderstand me, I am an artist, not one of those scary psychology men with the beard amd cigars, but I gove better advice than mio fratello, at least!"

"A-a-ah…?"

"Tell me, Signore — oh, I just now noticed that your nametag says 'Ludwig'! That's German, right? That's a very nice name! I apologize, I did not see it sooner! Tell me, Ludwig, how do you like your coffee?"

gaped, eyes round and face prickling with surprise and a trite of embarrassment. "Black," he answered plainly.

Feliciano pulled a face. "Yuck! You should come over sometime then! I will show you how real coffee is, not that gross, bitter black stuff!" He pulled at the tie he was wearing, seemingly of absent mind, and his smile suddenly faded.

"Oh no, mio Dio, I got sidetracked again! Now I am even later than before! Gah, I am going to die today! I hope I'll get to have coffee with you before Lovino arranges my funeral, Ludwig!" Feliciano reached and started the Ferrari back up, turning and giving Ludwig one last beaming smile, one more warm amber eyes. "Arrivederci! Have a very nice day!"

Ludwig blinked once again, his hand tightening around the paper as the Ferrari pulled off the curb with a purr of the engine, and the grating sound of metal scraping metal as, surely, the fender of the pretty Italian car caught the bender of the parked car Feliciano had pulled over behind. With one more blink, Ludwig realized several things at once:

Gilbert was shouting at him from inside the car, Feliciano had stolen hid pen and ticketbook, he'd just been given a phone number (on a speeding ticket form, of course), and he'd been straight up charmed out of writing a speeding ticket by an Italian who had very pretty eyes.

It was an not-so-average day in Hetaville.

notes: This was copy&pasted straight from my tumblr, plus it was very late when I wrote this, so my notes are in lowercase. Also, please forgive any errors in the story itself :T

- carlos the weatherman: aph cuba, who is probably not a good weatherman

- lovino vargas: aph romano is head of the mafia, ofc

- 'on this, the day of my daughter's wedding': the sopranos reference; it's used typically in american media to stereotype italian mobsters

- mayor jones: aph america is the mayor

- an-tango: aph spain is a dancing instructor hehe

- chief oxensteirna: aph sweden is the chief of police

- '..'wife' and son..': aph finland and aph sealand; implied sufin/hanatamago family bc i'm shameless

- '..devoted to his dogs..': aph germany has three dogs in canon (berlitz, blackie and aster) and he loves pets dearly

- '..five meters..': i'm sorry

- 'ms. héderváry….expert kickboxer..': aph hungary is a kickboxer

- francis and the free donuts: aph france LIKES policemen ;)

- the character in robes and a keffiyeh: aph egypt

- opa (means grandfather in german)

- germania - francis' job?: patisserie owner/baker

- ITALY CANNOT DRIVE

- i have no idea how speed heists or police vehicles work lmao

- something about paint stains on fingers: aph italy is an artist

- nervousness: aph italy has canon signs of social anxiety