"—spitting fucking image!"

"Calm down. Love has nothing to do with looks."

"Don't you fucking dare lie to me and tell me that you fucking believe that."


"He's a fucking mess!" Ludwig defended. Gilbert rolled his eyes, shoving his hands into his back pockets.

"Yeah, that's what's happening here." The albino smirked. "I'll leave you alone."

Ludwig had been the one to help Feliciano. He instructed him how to breathe, murmured something or another about holding on, scooped the Italian off the floor—gracelessly putting him on his feet. Feliciano had stared and cried, asking "What am I, Ludwig? Please, there's something that you guys aren't—there's something that I don't know. Please, Ludwig."

Unfortunately, Ludwig never answered him. He just looked at the floor, reminding him how to breathe. Feliciano broke down again, sobbing into the German and demanding answers. He had grown up in the mafia. He knew the trigger words, what to threaten, but of course, threats fall flat when one is acting like a child and pounding their fists against their assailant's chest half-heartedly.

He must have started having a panic attack. He remembers feeling dizzy, black splotches clouding his vision, and the German's hands being the only thing to keep him from hitting the floor once more. "Fuck!" He remembered Ludwig growling. "Stay up—come on, Feliciano, stay with me. In and out, in and out."

Feliciano then recalled being dragged down something dark, being picked up—weightless with a great pain in his stomach as if someone was balancing him on their shoulder, and the opening of a door. There was the running of water as he was placed against something ceramic and cool. "In, out. Keep it slow. Feliciano," Ludwig would stop, cup his face, instruct, and then go back to what he was doing.

Finally, Ludwig had picked him up—just to set him down again. The world froze. His muscles contracted, his shoulders stopped trembling, and his chest pressed down violently as his whole body tensed. He gasped.

Ludwig gently guided Feliciano's head with his hand, easing the Italian deeper into the freezing water. Feliciano allowed him to. Soon water lapped his forehead and the world sounded like a murmur of itself. Feliciano closed his eyes; he focused on his breathing and on Ludwig's warm fingers as they combed his hair.

Gilbert had come in about then, just as Feliciano was relaxing. He was gone as soon as he had appeared, though. Feliciano was almost thankful for that. Ludwig and the cold and in and out and how his clothes ballooned around his aching limbs and how the fire of his burns subsided-if only for a moment-was all he needed.

Ludwig helped him sit up a little later. He looked tired, the deep bags under his eyes creasing with a slight smile. "Feel better?"

Feliciano nodded. He still had tens of millions of questions. Yet, in that moment his head was silent. The toxins had subsided. He offered the German a smile of his own. "Thank you, Ludwig." He cried, though no tears ran. Ludwig grunted when the Italian reached out, soaking, and wrapped him into a hug. "Thank you," he repeated, quieter.

Ludwig just hugged him back.

The moist heat that escaped when Feliciano pulled away was almost enough to convince him to start another long embrace; his arms, though they still ache, were stretched and comfortable at the biceps. He was sure Ludwig had had enough of his pathetic squeezing. The German stood, helping Feliciano out of the tub.

"I really hope none of Carriedo's men are here," Feliciano giggled. He was tired, almost ready to collapse against the strong body that still held his shoulders. He rested his forehead on the other's chest. Slowly, his red arms had started regaining color as his own body temperature fought off the cloud of ice caused by the bath.

Ludwig hummed, furrowing a brow.

Feliciano, by way of demonstration, referred to himself with a wide motion. "I look like I just came in from the rain. At least I don't have to worry about dry cleaning these…"

Ludwig shook his head, a small smile on his lips. "Let's get you some clothes," he sighed.

"Did they ever give you your suitcase back? I never got mine," Feliciano whined as they walked. He sent a longing glance at Lovino's closed door as they came to the stairs. Something within him decided against it. Lovino was probably still calming down. Once Lovino was able to be up and around, Feliciano thought, he would be less frustrated. The soaking Italian was positive that inactivity was his brother's dilemma.

"No, I never got mine back. I'm not even sure that they kept them."

So Feliciano was dressed in some of Gilbert's clothes. The albino was taller than him, but not by much. Feliciano tucked the white shirt into loose-fitting pants before securing everything with a black, simple belt. It felt good to be in clean clothes (that didn't smell like smoke), he decided.

Gilbert grinned at him. "What'd I tell ya? Perfect fit. You really shouldn't doubt my judgement, Lud."

Ludwig rolled his eyes. "Talk to Antonio about getting our stuff back. I'm tired of living out of suits he provides."

"Oh, Toni is just trying to be nice. Think about how much those things cost!"

"They're uncomfortable."

"Beauty is pain, little brother." Feliciano laughed. Gilbert sent him a wink—to which Ludwig frowned at him for. "Feli knows what's up."

"Take some advice from Beils—erm, Gilbert," Feliciano said, shrugging his shoulders. "I like the suits!"

"You're Italian—not to mention that you probably grew up in them."

Feliciano bit the inside of his cheek. "The—The better part of my teenage years, yeah. I guess you're right. Is there anything to eat?" Feliciano sent the blond a wide smile. "Can you cook me something?"

"I—I don't think—nothing in the kitchen," Ludwig staggered, clearing his throat with a huff. "I'm not sure the kitchen has anything you want to eat. Nothing to cook. Bruder, get on that too, ja?"

Gilbert waved him off. "Just have Rizzuto get you something."

He referred to a man that was currently doing a list of paperwork in the kitchen. The man's head was balding, but he still held the utmost air of respect. Feliciano had never talked to him; he only admired parts of him from afar. Mostly his math skills when the man would get up and Feliciano would glance at what he was doing. It was almost as if he were writing in a totally different language, coming up with sums and divisions Feliciano had to shake off. Those at the Casino were lucky that Rizzuto didn't play.

"I—I'm not sure that's such a good idea," Feliciano said, his internal intimidation coming out as a rushed giggle.

Gilbert shrugged. "Then wait an hour until we leave."

"Leave?"

Ludwig retracted a bit, putting his weight on the foot furthest from Feliciano. It wasn't big. Probably didn't even mean anything. Still, Feliciano watched.

"Ja," Gilbert said. "We're going after Biondelli."


Feliciano grabbed at Ludwig's hand, gently tugging him backward. The car was waiting. "I really don't want to go," Feliciano whispered.

"I know, Signore," Ludwig sighed. "But…it's not our decision."

"Tell Nonno to fuck off!" Feliciano demanded. "Give me a phone and I'll do it! But I—can't, Ludwig. Please, just stay."

"I'm not staying if you're going."

"Well, I'm not going!" He decided. "Ludwig, please!"

"If it were up to me you wouldn't! But it's not."

"But—But, Ludwig!" He wailed.

Ludwig wrapped him into a hug. His breath was hot on the Italian's ear. Feliciano could practically hear the "In, out," that had become accustomed to these embraces. "Just stick with me, okay? Remember to listen to me, and nothing bad will happen." A small squeeze. Feliciano shook his head. "You have to be a soldier. Pretend this is the military. You can't say no to orders there."

"He's feared here, he's feared all over Europe, America. What makes them think that they can take him out?" Feliciano cried, crossing his arms over his chest in an X, pressing himself against the German. Ludwig didn't answer, just tightened his embrace for a final time before pulling away.

"Just stick with me. I'm your guard, Signore; my life belongs to you."

The thought of Ludwig dying—for him—wrapped a hot iron around Feliciano's gut. He did what the German said, silently decreeing (by way of action) then and there that he would 'soldier' through it. He would protect Ludwig. Because he was positive that, whether he wiggled himself out of it or not, Ludwig would go if he were ordered.

Feliciano knew that his decision was rash. There was no way he could protect Ludwig without going against his morals. He would screw up—hesitate and get them both killed. He could feel the creeping fire of wrongness filling his chest. Something that started as an invisible thought, started as nothing but a shiver or an underlying question, but would soon sear and make him want to physically stop and shake his head and disappear.

Still, as they walked out of the house, as they piled into the car, Feliciano balled his fists, ready to overcome the feat. He was no hero. But for Ludwig? For his only friend? He couldn't let him get hurt. In, out. Alfred was driving, his knuckles pallid against the wheel. Gilbert was in shotgun, directing him broadly. Carriedo sat beside Feliciano, encouraging him with a smile as he pressed a gun into the boy's hand.

"You might need this."

Feliciano nodded, making sure the safety was on and securing it in the waist of his pants. He might. He prayed that he wouldn't.

Letting his chin drop to his chest, he mouthed a long prayer, keeping it between him and the Lord. For a moment he even caught himself speaking to his mother but quickly reverted his attention back. His mother would be watching, he knew that. She promised that she would always watch. He trusted her guidance. His mission now was to persuade the Lord to give him guidance, as well. Maybe even a little bit of luck.

Biondelli wasn't a force to be reckoned with. The only one at ease was Gilbert—and Feliciano knew that even he worried, despite his calm demeanor. Biondelli was an Italian who killed to kill. He didn't care about bystanders. Or boundaries. Or even the consequences of his actions when it came to the safety of his own men. He only wanted one thing: power.

He was a dictator who didn't deal with the niceties of politics.

The boy's eyebrows twisted; his lips attempted to tremble. Tender flesh met dentine.

He hadn't realized he had done it until it was over. Well, until it was still happening, but too late to stop. His balled fist, as he concentrated on a strong face, reached out to Ludwig's. He had scooped it up, wrapping the German's hand tightly in his own, pressing down into the skin just enough to make an indent. The German's thumb rubbed gentle circles into his skin. Reassuring.

No, he would not let Ludwig get hurt.

There was a warmth within him that erupted. It was similar to how he felt when Lovino said something nice to him. Like he could conquer the world. Like he could walk a street or a beach and not have to consciously map out where his pistol lie. Like the could close his eyes and not have to worry about waking up alone.

It almost scared him, the way that this German made him feel. Because though he could pinpoint how brotherly and friendly it was, there was something else. Something that electrified the veins Ludwig caressed. It sent black tar into his body, his muscles, his heart. It solidified his belly and caused his prayer to stutter. Feliciano bit down harder on his lip. He needed to focus.

How was one supposed to focus when a fire continuously beaconed for their attention? Small circles. A swipe. Following the length of the Italian's thumb. He couldn't breathe. His heart stammered, his body threatened to shiver. Should he pull his hand away? Yes; then why were his finger's tightening? The bows of his nails nipping at the blond's skin. Feliciano opened his eyes, casting a glance at his friend.

Ludwig stare outside the window. A reenactment of the train so long ago. Except there was something different. His chin was balanced on his palm, his elbow against the door's frame, and it looked like he was staring at the road. His eyes moved back and forth, indicating that he stare outwards; didn't focus on the reflection of the glass or the window seal. He was alert. Poised for action. Yet, Feliciano sensed there was something more. Something that he couldn't pin about the German.

Confliction.

Feliciano wondered if the German would answer him if he spoke. Asked a question he had no right to ask. Would Feliciano sing to him again if he didn't? Would he be shaken awake by a drowning Lovino? Or would it be Ludwig's eyes that stirred him to sanity? He contemplated whether or not he should try. If only to see.

Ludwig sent him a glance at that moment. Innovation broke into the situation. The train didn't rumble, Feliciano didn't count the seconds, and his head couldn't fathom anything but the German and his touch. His touch, not his past. Not the military, not escaping. Ludwig held his stare, his movements on the boy's hand ceasing with a gentle "In, out," forming on his lips.

Feliciano had been breathing fine up until he was forced into eye contact. He really had. Now the subtle movement of lips didn't help his situation.

Ludwig tightened his grip, attempting to break him out of his trance. But he wasn't in a trance! He was just staring. Blue eyes, soft lips, the dancing of a single silver strand in the moonlight. Laced fingers, fire. Fire. Fire.

Finally, he looked away. His stomach knotted and twisted. A sadistic quenching of his body that caused him to shiver as he stared into his lap.

"Get ready," Gilbert muttered, sitting up straight and playing with the console. He pulled out a 9mm, shoving it into his boot, before pulling out a set of keys and shoving those in his pocket. The trunk then. People moving around caused Ludwig to drop Feliciano's hand.

"How far are we walking?" Ludwig inquired, checking over his gun to make sure there was around in the chamber.

"About six blocks," Gilbert said.

"That close? It's only just getting dark. Maybe we should shoot for a little longer."

Gilbert shook his head. "No. I'm sure they know that we're coming, Lud. I wouldn't be surprised if they set Francis up with the information."

"So he might not even be here?"

The albino shrugged his shoulders, half-heartedly. "Could be a trap," he confirmed. "But Francis could be right."

"So," Ludwig continued, his eyebrow twitching just barely, "we're putting our lives on the line on the off chance that a French gambler wasn't lying?"

"Whether he's right or wrong he's not lying." Gilbert snapped. "Just keep your eyes out and you won't have to worry about anything."

"No," Ludwig's tone was becoming hostile. "There is a lot to worry about. Snipers, for one. Do you not remember being one yourself?"

"Luddy," a warning. "Just follow orders. We're not walking into this blind."

"It sounds like you are!"

"Stop. Bickering." Alfred growled. Feliciano contrasted this man mentally to the one he had met in a stupid Hawaiian shirt and khakis. The bright smile, bubbled laugh. He was hardly recognizable. His shoulders hunched over the wheel, shaking in the slightest—out of anger, or out of fear, was impossible to tell—and his movements were jerky; he kept his vision forward, and though Feliciano could only see the back of his head he could imagine a deep scowl on his features. Much like the one he had attacked Lovino with.

He found himself wondering whether or not he had attained any bruises or cuts from being punched; only, he couldn't recall Lovino punching him.

Who had?

Feliciano drowned out Gilbert snapping at the American, drowned out Carriedo cooing something to the Germans, and just sunk into his head. Someone had punched Alfred. But who, and why? He closed his eyes and tried to picture it. Tried to picture their laughing charades. That was easy. His heart lifted, and though he wanted to smile his eyebrows furrowed and he suddenly wanted to cry. He liked the American. He liked him a lot. His smile, the knocking on air, the silliness. Even if he had turned out to be a part of the mafia. Even if it was him that had initially kidnapped Feliciano. He had been kind to him. Talked to him in the bunker. Offered him small smiles and told Arthur to shut up when the British guy was calling him names.

"Feliciano?" Carriedo asked.

Ludwig put a hand on his shoulder.

Feliciano shook his head, desperate. Alfred was kind. His smiles and his actions when he wasn't angry or stressed were friendly, his boisterous attitude in the bunker and the way he sighed when he was bored and—and he had been assaulted by someone, but Feliciano couldn't remember how or why. Nevertheless, something tore his floating heart out of the air and left it to sink and die because he felt that somehow it was his fault. Had he punched the American? Why couldn't he remember?

"In and out."

Feliciano shook off the German's hand. "Stop!" He screamed. He didn't need to breathe. "Just—stop! Why the fuck can't I remember?" he demanded.

The movements of his company stopped. Only the soft trotting of the wheels and Alfred's shoulders continued to tremble.

"I—I," Feliciano stammered, opening his eyes wide to stare at the German. "I can't remember." His voice had dropped to a whisper. "But I know that something happened. I know because I can feel that it did."

"That what did?" Ludwig asked carefully.

"I—" he shot a look at the American. Leaning closer to the German he hissed: "he got hurt. Punched, I think. But—But I don't—"

Ludwig seemed relieved. About what? He nodded and sighed. "He did."

"By who?"

"How much do you remember?"

"Don't," Feliciano hissed, "ask me that. Just tell me by who."

Ludwig took a long second to respond, mulling over the answer in his head. "Me." He finally decided.

"Why?"

"What do you want me to tell you?"

"The truth!" Feliciano shrieked. "Why did you fucking attack him?"

"Feli," Carriedo said quietly, attempting to calm the Italian down. He had placed a hushed hand on the boy's elbow. Feliciano had moved to punch Ludwig? Calming, Feliciano gave Carriedo a small nod, a thanks. Turning back to Ludwig he repeated his request.

"Because he attacked you," Ludwig was out of sorts. The confliction from earlier followed the Italian's lowering fist. It traced his features with stone as if etching this version into Ludwig's memory.

"What? No he didn't!"

"How much of this afternoon do you remember?"

"What?" Feliciano demanded.

"How much do you remember."

"I-!" Feliciano slammed his fists into his thighs, biting his lip. Copper. "I don't fucking know! I remember you, and Gilbert, but I didn't fucking see Alfred today!" He cried. "I—I remember—I remember you, Ludwig, but not Alfred. I don't remember Al," he swallowed.

"Breathe. In, out."

Feliciano shook his head. "I don't want to. I don't. I just want to remember."

"Then lower your stress. Breathe properly," Ludwig ordered. "If you want to remember then you have to calm down."

"That makes no sense! I've been calm, and yet I still can't—"

"Listen!" Ludwig grabbed his chin, making him look at him. "I don't know if you'll ever regain your memories," was he talking about being attacked by Alfred? "but if you want to retain your memories of this conversation, then calm down."

Feliciano blinked, tears streaking down his chin. "What do you mean?" he whispered.

Ludwig sighed, cast his gaze down, shook his head. "I mean that you need to breathe." He finally responded. "Just stay calm. Okay?"

"Hate to break you two up," Gilbert interrupted, "but get ready. Park right here, Al."

Gilbert dragged Ludwig to the side when they got out. He hissed something quietly, his red stare glaring into the German's features. Alfred sent Feliciano a glance—which Feliciano assumed wasn't supposed to be caught, because when they met eyes the American looked away, shoving his hands into his pocket and turning his back to him.

"Feli," Carriedo said from behind him. Feliciano offered him a small smile.

"Si?" He muttered.

"Just—" the Italian Boss took a moment, putting together what he wanted to say. "Listen, I promised your brother I would protect you in this, and I want you to disregard what Ludwig is saying." There was something written across his features. It was almost as if he hated himself for saying anything.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he scratched the back of his head. "I mean that I didn't want you to come. Your grandfather was insistent, though. I tried to tell him that you haven't made any progress and send you back—"

"What?" Feliciano asked, bewildered. "Lovino and I can leave?"

"I—I don't have a say in it, Feli." He sighed. "Roma…he's got his motives for wanting you here. And so do I. But I promised Lovi—" why did he keep mentioning his brother? "—that I would do what I could to keep you…safe. So, don't put too much on what Ludwig said." He smiled. "Just do it like you always have. Then neither of us will get in trouble."

Feliciano just stared. Carriedo wasn't to be trusted. The feeling in his gut reinforced this thought. The smile on his face was almost dark, the gleam in his eyes playful. As if he were planning something. As if he didn't want Feliciano to remember what was going to happen.

Feliciano nodded, chirping a quaint, "okay! Glad Lovino's talking to someone!" Before turning just as Gilbert started towards the trunk. Feliciano walked over to Ludwig, grabbing his fist to keep his arms from trembling.

"What's wrong?" Ludwig asked.

Feliciano sent him a huge smile—the one he still had on from his conversation with Carriedo. It twitched, flashing teeth that gnarled. "Ludwig, I'll do whatever you say."

The German looked concerned. He seemed like he was about to ask but ultimately decided against it with a curt nod. "Good."

"Come on, you guys." Gilbert barked. "Hurry up; we don't have all day!" He emphasized his point by slamming the trunk. He balanced artillery on his hip, Carriedo took a rifle and Alfred, following suit, took a gun of his own. Ludwig took an Ak-67 from him. Gilbert outstretched one to Feliciano.

"No thank you," Feliciano muttered quickly. "I—I have a pistol."

Gilbert frowned. "Yeah, we all do. Only one? Just take the gun, Feli."

"I—I—"

"Don't make him," Carriedo said, taking the outstretched weapon and slinging it onto his back. "If he needs it I'll give it to him. Here, Feli, take these." He handed the Italian a sack. Feliciano didn't need to open it to know what its contents were.

"Grenades? Do we really need these?"

"Let's get going." Something had ticked Gilbert off. He was no longer pretending to be uninterested. Looking both ways, he scurried across the road, his knees bent slightly. Alfred was the first to follow. Soon it was the American leading them.

Ludwig watched the houses they passed. He looked to be peering into windows. Feliciano stuck close to him as they ran. Anytime a flash of movement caught his eyes he would have to force himself just to stay calm. It didn't help that the running caused his heart rate to rise so drastically, and breathing correctly wasn't really an option. He wanted to think about what Ludwig had meant but couldn't risk it. If his brain was working, his steps were slowing down. He wanted to stop. Not because the run was partially draining, though it did cause his hurt legs to quiver, it was just that his body demanded that he stop.

He listened to Ludwig, though, when he was told to hurry up. Cautious with the bag strapped to his belt, Feliciano attempted to watch his steps as he sped up. His boots felt heavy, still scorched, as they padded across the seat. A motorbike passed, Gilbert hissed for the group to stop in an ally.

"What is it?" Feliciano panted.

"There are guys up there," Gilbert said, distracted by his gun. "They're watching."

"So you think he's here?" Carriedo asked.

"No doubt about it." Alfred smiled. "Costello's here."

Feliciano peered over to where Alfred was pointing. Five men stood in front of an entrance. Feliciano caught the white-haired mobster immediately. He knew him, his grandfather had gone up in arms against one of the underboss's crews a few years back. He had gained weight since then.

Feliciano found himself chewing on his thumb nail with thought. "Maybe he's a distraction?" Feliciano muttered.

"Don't think so," Alfred said. "Get your bombs ready."

Feliciano nodded, grabbing for the bag and pulling out one of the explosives. It was familiar in his hand, a comfortable weight.

"Maybe," Ludwig put a hand on Feliciano's wrist, wordlessly telling him to put it back, "we skip the bombs."

Feliciano furrowed his brows. "Why? It would be easier, Lud."

Ludwig's grip tightened. Feliciano hissed in pain, shooting a glance at the hand, opening his mouth to reprimand his guard, before he looked up and caught Ludwig's glare. In the darkness, his eyes were indigo, dangerous. Something shot through Feliciano, scarring him.

Why was the weight of the bomb so familiar? He'd never held one before. Well, except when Roma had been teaching him about them, but that had to have been five years ago. Maybe more?

"I—I—" Feliciano stuttered.

"The bomb isn't for Biondelli, just for his men outside," Alfred said. "Biondelli is mine."

"But the second he hears a blast he's going to run," Ludwig tried to rationalize. "We can't risk that. Not to mention the fact that you can't control these things like gunfire. No use getting bystanders in the way"

"Ludwig is right," Carriedo said. "The blast could end up accidentally killing Biondelli, anyway."

Alfred grumbled something back, taking a pistol from his jacket, checking to make sure it was ready, before putting it away and hoisting his rifle into position. "Fine," he finally gave. "Let's move."


AUTHOR'S NOTES

Okay, so it was either I offer you guys a long chapter or I cut it in two. Seeing as this chapter is already a couple hundred over the usual length, I decided to cut it. The next chapter is all action, don't worry ? ALSO: Ivan and Kiku should be being introduced soon (Ivan sooner than later), so be looking forward to that. We had to get all the niceties out of the way.

HISTORICAL NOTES

But doesn't this chapter make the mafia sound too much like some professional military or something? No one uses grenades or has snipers. That's just fiction!

My friend, I love you, but you're wrong.

A man from an American crime family (*insert name when I find it again*) told his story about setting up a hand grenade in an enemy's car and rigging it to explode the moment the driver's door was opened. He shared the little fact that the car had been parked close to an elementary school, even, saying that he waited up listening for the explosive because if it didn't go off he was going to go and unarm it before kids started by the area for school in the morning. Spoiler alert, he didn't have to unarm it.

Also, si, mon ami, there're snipers in the mafia. Media doesn't call it 'war' when they're fighting for nothing.

Until we meet again

B'AH (Obnoxious American)