"They will burn, baby. It is not your judgment. You cannot do upon them what He can. They will burn."

They will burn.


A golden eruption dizzied itself, dancing to an orchestral arrangement of tension and arrogance, welcoming, deterring Feliciano as he stepped through the double doors of Chica Con Suerte. Men sat around tables as they did every day, heads and beaded eyes small beneath grandiose light fixtures, staring at each other with venom and bite, shuffling their cards and toying with their dice or hats or toothpicks or expressions. Everything here was a competition. Bright games chimed through the halls.

Francis Bonnefoy was the one running up the stakes today. Feliciano watched him, cautious of how his stare pierced; cautious of how his hands moved so methodically it was obvious how he made accomplices in the Italian mafia. He cheated. Everyone knew it, but none dare to speak up against his poisonous smiles and cackling eyes. Those that did met a barrel.

Feliciano knew they did because since he had started 'working' at Carriedo's casino he had seen it happen twice. One was an oleaginous man who spent equal amounts of time fingering chips as he did eating them. Feliciano remembered him best. His face had wrinkled and curled into itself, a towel kneading away sweat constantly between the furls of his forehead, cheeks, and neck. He didn't speak, but blubber and his hair were greasy and black atop his head. Feliciano traded out snacks and refreshments, and never was Feliciano more than an elbow's length away from him.

He had smelt of cheese and alcohol. Feliciano has thought it funny, deciding he smelt more French than the blond across the table. Said blond only intensified the smell through-out their game.

"You're cheating!" The fatty man had cried, slamming clammy fists into the table. The world shook.

"Non, non, Je ne sais pas.'' Bonnefoy cooed, passing a chip from finger to finger. The smirk, sent with a sly glance, was dark. "I am no cheater. You are simply no good."

He had lunged, sausage fingers twitching for a throat. Within seconds a third fighter joined the group, pressing the barrel of his gun into one of the rolls.

The fat man threw his hands up, swallowing, crying that the vermin was cheating, slowly sitting down. Feliciano clutched his bottle of wine, it sloshed with his trembling hands. Just when he thought that the gun was being taken away, a shot.

The body had been hidden in plain sight. Why put in the effort when people dropped like flies in Naples? Strewn across the pavement, while a portion of the French man's winnings passed obese hands. Poisoned by abundance.

Today Feliciano passed with a low head. "Wine?" he would ask. "Anything to eat?" Anything to keep you here? Gambling yourself into debt until a decision of life or death is on the line? Shall we get our gun, or would you like to use your own? The price of using your own is your family—though of course, you're here again today, aren't you? What do they really matter?

Feliciano bit his lip. It throbbed, sharp, raw and swollen just where his tooth hit.

"Feliciano," a woman lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. She wore a simple floral dress, though the v was cut just far enough that men could guess why she circled the casino. "Boss wants you."

"I just started," Feliciano argued. Pleaded. "I'm not supposed to leave until Ludwig comes to get me."

She shrugged, delicate curls falling over pudgy shoulders. "Don't know what to tell you, doll. He's in his office."

Slow steps, an extra minute to put down his bottle—replacing it exactly where he got it, even though another bottle had taken its place, forcing him to rearrange a whole counter of vodkas and wines and liquors and—and it didn't take nearly as long as he had hoped.

"Si? Andria said that you wanted to see me."

His office was as grand as his casino floors. A great desk faced the door, Italian oak waxed and carved to perfection. Though a window stood behind the desk, magnificent, covered by a fluttering curtain that winked out to the city, Feliciano still felt a looming impression of oppression tighten around his body, squeezing him into submission as if he were stuck in a crate.

"Ah, yes," Carriedo looked up from an excessive deal of paperwork. Setting down his pen he motioned for Feliciano to sit down.

Feliciano followed orders.

"Do you feel ready to stop working here?" He asked, furrowing his brows with confusion. "It's been two weeks already. I was sure that you would have grown bored."

Feliciano shook his head. "I ran a shop in Sicily. I'm used to customer service."

He took a moment, a pause, before sighing. "Then we will have to find another angle."

Fizzing and tingling all at once, Feliciano's heart dove to his feet. "Please don't!" He begged. "You said that you needed my help and so I offered my services here! I—I work well with people. I don't mind if it's boring or if the people are rude creeps. I can do it; I can."

"I'm not doubting whether or not you can do it, Feli." Carriedo laughed. "I know that you can."

"Then let me keep doing it. Until Lovino heals and then we can be out of your hair."

Another sigh, long fingers kneading temples. "Lovino being hurt has nothing to do with it."

Tears. "Please, just tell Nonno that you succeeded and let us go."

"You act as if I hold you prisoner!" Carriedo erupted, hot fury bursting from his words. "I am only helping you!"

Feliciano flinched away.

Carriedo growled, tapping his fingers against the stacks of paper. Nervous tick. Why did Feliciano always notice those? Tick, tick; tap, tap.

"Why can't you just be fun?" Carriedo growled to himself. "I swear, I'll have to kill your brother to get anywhere."

Feliciano bit down so hard his lip split. Again.

"Go on. There's something I want you to do tomorrow, but today go wait." Carriedo dismissed him with an irritated wave of his hand.

He scuttled away.

When Ludwig came to get him, jaw set, hand always hovering his weapon, Feliciano practically threw himself at the German. "He—He says that there's some new angle and—and I don't—what he wants." Feliciano forced out. His hands quickly pulled away from the overcoat he wore, leaving the Italian in a white dress shirt that still felt too confining. "Not prisoners—what does he mean—I don't—we need to leave, Ludwig."

"Signore," Ludwig finally responded. Strong hands stopped the trembling fingers. "Stop stripping. You are in public."

Feliciano didn't care. He would peel his skin if he could. "Ludwig, he—he went missing and all he did was make him mad. What if—I can't do what he wants?"

Arthur had been reported missing five days ago. Feliciano asked Alfred about it, but all that had attained was evasive eyes and dangerous tones.

"He threatened to kill Lovino. Please—Please we have to, have to go."

"We can't, Signore. Even mentioning it puts us in danger." Ludwig hissed. "Now put on your clothes and come with me."

"Where—"

"Don't. Just come."

Feliciano nodded. Ludwig looked around before they left. His uncertainty clutched Feliciano's thoughts, making part of him felt like he was being walked to his execution. There was no car waiting just outside the casino. No Alfred, no noose of cigar smoke, no humming engine promising a return to his brother as the sun blinked itself to darkness. Just walking.

Feliciano hung his coat in the nook of his elbow despite the chill in the air. Grey shadows at their feet grew smaller and lighter the further away from the grand lights of Chica Con Suerte they got. Soon they were gone. People hustled around them, scooters trolling the streets as masked drivers watched the pair with anonymous stares.

The pair turned away from the main road. They were alone. Ludwig was turned away from him, stone. "Ludwig," Feliciano stuttered out. Confused, afraid, worried, he stepped forward and outstretched his hand. "Ludwig I—"

The German turned. It was Feliciano's turn to meet the barrel of a gun.

Tick, tick; tap, tap; another dart in the wood.

"Lud-Ludwig! What are you doing?" Feliciano cried. He tried to move but was frozen.

Ludwig's hair was silver under the night sky, his eyes steel. Stone, always stone, stoic, a hero in some story spun by an American.

Feliciano's voice caught. Should he throw up his hands? Surrender? Somewhere he forgot to look for personalization, to plead, and he just stared down the barrel.

If this was the end, he would take it. He would always take it. A slap. Nothing but an ear. Silence and loneliness that sang in a cacophony of tears.

Because the accordion would always play for him. Swooning steps. Falling steps. Laughter and promises and falling and catching and twirling and blue.

Blue.

He would take it. If only for a moment before his hero pulled the plug.

Taking a small breath, Feliciano closed his eyes, dropped his outstretched hand.

He didn't flinch when he was hit. Except, he was sure he hadn't been shot. Bullets don't envelope, don't warm, don't…cry.

"Why don't you save yourself, verdammt?"

It was Ludwig. The clang Feliciano so intently listened for had been the dropping of the pistol, the feeling was the German's body encasing his own. The boy allowed his overcoat to drop to the ground but couldn't move past that.

"What are your motives?" Trembling. Crying. Silver hair shivering on December's tongue, dancing against the nape of a professionally trimmed collar. Ludwig was losing his tan.

There was a great conflict presenting itself in the German's words. Falling from his lips and dropping to the Italian's head, begging to be set straight. But like everything else in his life, Feliciano was forced to just go along with it. He didn't know what to think, what to say.

All he knew was that for once he wasn't crying. All he knew was that disappointment was the worst kind of sentence.

The German's hand held the back of Feliciano's head, holding the boy's gaze straight into his chest, his neck, as he talked—he had been talking. Right, Feliciano was distracted. More questions. More…questions. Why couldn't he focus? Was the German not speaking Italian? He blinked. Again. Amber eyes attempted to focus on anything but the lock of hair that kept swinging into his peripheral vision. He felt heavy. Weighed down though every time his knees attempted to give Ludwig would hold him closer. Up. Grounded. From.

Feliciano spoke. He couldn't remember deciding to speak through fluttering lashes, but nonetheless: "I'm sorry."

There was a great tension. Had he answered one of Ludwig's questions? What had been said? Closing his eyes and resting his forehead on the German's chest he mouthed something else. What? A moment, maybe ten, however long it was that he went without breathing before stars appeared and his head went dizzy and his body forced him to take another breath, passed before he said it allowed.

"But who cares?"

His words were so mean. They should have slashed his gut, infected him with a great guilt as mean words always did; but, he was numb. Ludwig's arms tightened. Had he not heard him? Why was he still so close?

"I do," Ludwig said. Feliciano had caught that. Or maybe he imagined it?

Or maybe it was actually said because for some reason Feliciano scoffed at him and shook his head and he remembered every single thing that he did but what was he feeling because he felt nothing; perhaps a bullet had made contact, taken out him, but when he finally moved his arm to his head he found no wound.

"And Lovino," Ludwig had continued softly.

"Why?"

A pause. "I don't know."

What doesn't he know? The illusive hair still toyed with his focus, only weren't his eyes closed?

He stood there for what felt like forever. He was stuck in his head, but it felt as if his thoughts never got anywhere. Ludwig was warm. He was safe. Feliciano focused on this, finally allowing himself to return the desperate hug that Ludwig had offered. It felt…wonderful. Something inside him fluttered, breaking some pipe or knob because his lips began to tremble, sore against Ludwig's clothing. "Neither do I." He cried. Tears.

Never had he been so relieved to cry.

Their circling rendezvous ended with Feliciano falling to the floor in a mess of emotions. He pawed at his eyes and ruined his shirt with snot. Ludwig fell with him, staring, understanding, blue.


Feliciano dreamed of that barrel. Only there, unharnessed and beckoning, it blinked.

He woke up next to Lovino. His brother was getting better. The wound still required caution, but the muscles were tending to themselves well; and, though he still broke out into fevers, to which was to be expected, he was more himself. Now he snores, a hand draped over his face and drool staining the side of his mouth. Feliciano smiled.

As he sat, careful not to disturb sleeping beauty, Feliciano caught the signs of movement at the door. Ludwig had taken up a bedroom upstairs, so there was a possibility that it could be him, though Feliciano had a sinking feeling it wasn't. Slowly he drew his weapon from its place under the mattress.

"I swear, I'll have to kill your brother to get anywhere."

He made sure the safety was on, was pointed towards the floor, and that his finger was nowhere near the trigger as he walked forward. Speaking just outside were familiar voices. Carriedo and Bonnefoy.

"Please don't wake up Lovino," Feliciano coyly announced.

The two men stopped conversing. "Feliciano?" Bonnefoy. His stupid accent wrecked the teen's name. The pair came into the room.

"Oh, thank goodness you're here, Feli," Carriedo sighed, coming forward for a hug, despite the Italian's lowered gun. Feliciano stepped back.

"What do you mean?"

"Have—Have you seen Ludwig? He never came home last night."

Home. The word was bile on the tongue.

"Yes, he did. We came back to the house together last night," Feliciano insisted. "Roy saw us. Go talk to him."

The two shared a look. Something was happening. Feliciano was getting sick of not knowing. "Roy's not around either."

"Well, maybe they went out for a stroll." Feliciano bit back. "You're not tricking me into anything, Boss." The title was fire in his mouth. This man wasn't his boss. He wasn't even sure if this man was Italian.

"What?" Carriedo asked.

"A new angle?" Feliciano rolled his eyes, the gun trembling in his hand. "Don't think that I forgot about that. Now, leave. Lovino needs his rest and—"

"Feliciano, this is serious." Carriedo cut in. His tone was sterner now. "Now, your naivety may be clouding your ability to think, but this isn't Calabria. We're surrounded by enemies here. Ludwig has been associated with the Carriedo name by being your bodyguard."

Feliciano frowned. No, he wasn't going to believe this. "I—I'm not a fool!" He defended. "You're just trying to trick me!"

"When was the last time you saw him?" Bonnefoy asked. "Last night, what time?"

"I—I don't know. Around ten, maybe. He wanted some alone time to read. So—So I came to check on Lovino and went to bed."

"Is there anywhere that he could have gone?" Carriedo asked. "Anywhere that you know he likes to go? Anywhere you two discussed going?"

"No! As far as I know, you keep him under just as strict a lock-and-key as me and Lovino!"

"Okay, thank you." They turned to leave.

"Wait! Where—Where are you guys going?"

No no no no no—he was falling into their trap.

"To try and find him," Carriedo said over his shoulder.

They disappeared. Feliciano bounced on his toes, swinging his gun from the foot of Lovino's bed to the door. "Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck." He cursed, feeling his breaths start to quicken.

In, out. Remember that much.

He made his decision rashly. Putting down his gun he threw on a pair of pants and a wrinkled shirt from the floor. Harshly he shook Lovino awake.

Lovino bleared through sleep-filled eyes at him. "The fuck do you want?" He growled.

"I—I think that Ludwig is in trouble," he said, hurriedly. "But it might be a trap. Just…Just know that if I don't come back—"

Lovino was at full attention. "What the fuck are you going on about, Fratello? I swear—"

"Lovino!" Feliciano snapped. "I don't—I don't have time. Just be careful. I don't think that we can trust Carriedo."

Something of a deep frown creased on Lovino's features. A twinge of suspicion sat at the bottom of Feliciano's gut, but he moved it aside. "Ti amo, Fratello. Be careful."

"Me be careful?" Lovino screamed after him as he bounded from the room. "Feliciano, you fucking bastardo-!"

He caught up just as the car was beginning to peel from the drive. Stuffing his gun in his pants, he waved his arms about like a lunatic. The car stopped. Bonnefoy opened the door.

"Bonjour, mon amie." He greeted.

"I—I want—to help find him." Feliciano panted.

No one questioned his decision. Alfred was driving.


Feliciano knew he was making a mistake.

Tick, tick; tap, tap; another dart in the wood.

His point was further concluded when the car rolled into a parking lot. Cars flew past, the building having long since been destroyed, leaving an empty lot of rubbish and despair.

He clasped his hands into fists. Still, he found a way to keep his voice steady. "What are we doing in the middle of nowhere?"

"Finding Ludwig." Not an ounce of hesitation. Feliciano fingered the place where his gun dug into his hip. "I wouldn't be pulling that out just yet," Bonnefoy flirted.

"What do you mean?" Feliciano snapped. "We're just here to find someone, aren't we? Unless you already fucking know where he is, of course." Anger. Fizzing, bubbling, inching to grab his gun.

No. No, he can't. In, out. Stay focused on the mission—find Ludwig. Bonnefoy and Carriedo, they could mean well. Feliciano was making a judgment that wasn't his to make. He chewed on his lip. Raw, painful, he chewed. Not his place, he bit harder, not his place.

The car stopped just as Feliciano closed his eyes and whispered: "Give me the strength to defeat my hardships. Allow me to only work as an extension of You and Your grace."

Carriedo grinned at him. "Nice thought," he decided, pressing something into the Italian's palm. "Let's see how it pans out."

Feliciano looked down. A lighter. His breath hitched and raised. In, out. An itching feeling, familiar and dull. Throbbing, burning. In, out. In out. Inout.

"Feliciano," someone snapped. Feliciano blinked. Something was hot. His whole body rolled in sweat. The air was smoky. The whole world, ablaze. "In. Out. Just focus on that." Ludwig!

Feliciano noticed the weight dragging him down. He was climbing what seemed to be a set of stairs, narrow, dragging Ludwig along. Looking over he could see the apparent bruises on the German's face through the fog. He grunted with every step, a hand over his mouth to keep out the smoke.

"Lud—Ludwig?" Feliciano gasped; immediately regretting that decision when he started coughing.

"Felic—Signore," Ludwig seemed relieved. "Keep going."

Feliciano nodded, attempting to sniff away his tears but the smoke stung and hurt. Feliciano could see the opening of the rubbish. The sky was clear, the sun blinking their direction. He swooped to the side, head dizzy and light and filled with smoke. Ludwig muttered something, but he didn't catch it. He just climbed; wobbly, but he kept going.

Finally, they made it to the ground floor. Feliciano crawled away from the flames before collapsing. Ludwig fell hard beside him.

"Good!" Chirped a voice. Feliciano attempted to look up, but the world was blurry.

Someone else clapped. "You weren't joking. Fun indeed!"

Ludwig coughed. Feliciano wanted to see if he was alright, but he was sore. He couldn't think straight. Couldn't imagine what happened, why, or care. He hurt. His lungs continued to collapse on themselves, and Ludwig suffered no more than half an arm's length away—yet he could do nothing about any of that. All he could do was cry into a pile of broken glass.

He briefly remembered being dragged to his feet. Falling. Turning over and closing his eyes, wanting nothing to do with his situation. He half-way remembered being thrown in the car, his head heavy and falling against the door. Somewhere he heard someone talking

"Hope he's not dead."

"Better take him to the bunker to be safe."

The last thing he could remember was someone digging at his skin with tweezers. "Stop moving. It'll only hurt a little bit." He hadn't been wrong. Feliciano hardly felt a thing.

Until he woke up. The aches and pains and minor burns all roared to life across his body. He didn't want to raise his head, but the throbbing had turned into something more over the course of the last few hours, giving him only intervals of sleep in between discomfort and pain.

He was dehydrated. His head pounded against itself, swelling to the size of his skull before oozing away. He couldn't think.

Sitting up—despite his body telling him quite directly not to—the teen took in his surroundings. Dark, familiar. He was back here. Only this time his wrists weren't tied and he was totally alone. No Alfred, no Arthur, not even a Ludwig or a Lovino to ease his despair. Just him.

Putting a hand to his head he attempted to stand on shaky legs. It took a few tries, but finally, using the all to balance, the teen was able to slide his way to the only door in the room. He found it unlocked.

"Twice now," Carriedo. "I don't think I can give him another dose, though. He's already slipping back into some of his habits."

"You're the one who had to go this far." Bonnefoy.

"Well, I didn't see any other option. I really didn't think he'd do that much damage."

"Six men, mon amie."

"Seven if you count—"

"Where is he?" Feliciano demanded. He didn't care to listen to their conversation. They knew he was up. They knew he was listening. He wouldn't fall for another trick. "Where is Ludwig?"

"Ah—Ah! Feli," Carriedo quickly rose to his feet. "Are you alright. Let me look."

"I asked to see Ludwig. And then I want to see Lovino. And then I want to leave."

"Leave?"

"Naples. I'm contacting my grandfather the second I get out of here. If—If you don't let us leave then I will have to use force." Even he knew it was an empty threat.

Carriedo laughed softly. "Feli, calm down. Ludwig is alright—you saved him."

"Yeah!" Tears sprung to the Italian's eyes. "From you."

Carriedo frowned. "How much do you remember."

"Stop asking me that fucking question! You are sick, Carriedo, you are—you are fucking sick." Feliciano balled his fist and lurched forward, making weak contact with the man's jaw. "You're a monster, you're a child, you're a fool," he sobbed, hitting the older man as much as he could between blocks and counter jabs. "I'm leaving and I'm taking Lovino and Ludwig and—and—you can't stop us because you're a coward that makes everyone do your dirty work for you."

It wasn't true. Feliciano knew it wasn't. Carriedo was a cold-blooded killer.

"And," Feliciano added for good measure, "you're going to burn in hell for what you've done."

"Feliciano," Carriedo attempted to cajole between punches, "Feliciano, listen to me." The tanned man put up his hands, a wash-ended surrender. "You've got it all wrong. We didn't set anything up. Sure, we may have taken advantage of our opportunity, but—"

"They're telling the truth." Ludwig appeared from a back door. His face was bandaged, but he was walking, and his voice only cracked slightly. In his arms, he held canned goods. "I was jumped—not by their men, either."

Feliciano found himself swiping at his eyes, only to wince away when he opened a cut. "Ludwig you're—"

"Ja."

"But—But who attacked you then. And how did you guys know where to find him so quickly?" Feliciano jabbed an accusing finger between the two of them.

Bonnefoy smirked. "Thankfully for you two Ludwig's got a protective older brother."


AUTHOR'S NOTE

Didn't think that we would be done with Gilbert, did you?

Sorry it has taken so long to include the main romance sub-plot into the story. Sometimes I forget that I'm supposed to have a romance and just skip past it when I think everything out. I just am not that great at writing romance-even this can be considered excessive friendship in a hard-ass time (which, like, it totally is~)

HISTORICAL NOTE

N/A