Ludwig entered his house and set his keys on the table in the hall, shifting the grocery bag in his arms to alleviate the chill that was seeping through his shirt. He'd gone out to buy some more wurst after his brother had eaten it all, stopping at a separate store to pick up some gelato for Feliciano.
Ludwig paused in the foyer. The house was quiet... Inhaling deeply, he realized that for once he couldn't smell pasta cooking from the kitchen. Ludwig frowned.
Going to investigate, Ludwig found that the kitchen was clean, the only dishes in the sink being the ones from their breakfast.
...Perhaps he was just taking an exceptionally late siesta? It was 4:30, and he was usually cooking dinner by now. Even so, Ludwig put away his groceries and made his way to the bedroom.
When he got to the door, he hesitated. It was left half-open, and Ludwig suddenly got the feeling that it would be very, very unwise to enter.
Preposterous, he thought, and pushed through.
Feliciano's side of the bed looked neat and utterly un-slept in, as if he hadn't taken siesta there at all. There was a sheet of paper left on his pillow with an Italian flag emblazoned on it - the first time Ludwig had ever seen Feliciano's personal stationary. At the top, there were two short sentences written in a curled script:
I'm sorry.
Please understand.
The rest of the page was blank.
Ludwig dropped the paper on the bed. Across the room, the closet door was slightly ajar. Ludwig was across the room in a second, throwing it open hurriedly.
All of his clothes were there exactly as he had left them, but there were a few hangers missing. The absence of Feliciano's uniform and extra clothes changed the appearance of the closet completely.
Ludwig sat heavily on the bed, then lay slowly back across the mattress. His head landed next to a pillow that still strongly bore Feliciano's scent.
Ludwig would not fall apart. He knew Italy's interests were no longer best preserved on the Axis side. He knew their alliance was merely political. He knew that Feliciano was free to do whatever he wanted. And he knew that there definitely, definitely was nothing more to it than that.
He was just fine without Italy. Better, even. And now that there was no one else to demand his time, Ludwig was free to push through all the work he'd been neglecting lately.
He was fine. He did not hurt.
For the rest of the war Ludwig fought with all his power. Every effort went into maintaining a forward motion. Every night he kept busy as long as he could, staying up late with a book if there was no work and finally making his way to his bedroom to collapse into immediate sleep. He skipped breakfast, ate dinner on the go, and spent as little time socializing as possible. There was no room for thoughts of Feliciano. There was no room for hurt, or any other emotion besides.
He was utterly, utterly blank.
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