Invisible Randomer, thank you for thanking me, it means a lot. :D
KajiMori, Seiliez Wingalas, woodbyne, Invisible Randomer, Oreocooky, Tokkalover, Seisakusha-sama , run-for-your-life-hikari , Tala, Kisa2012, Skullover, Kitty-chan and Nya-chan, 3, littlewolfwindspeaker your reviews are much appreciated :D
3 (was that meant to be a heart?), just so you know; you review made me shriek so much that my sister yelled at me.
If anyone is interested in a Franada back-story; Je Suis Qui Je Suis (I Am Who I Am) is up ^_^
Spring has sprung, the grass is gris, and yet it is still cold as tits. One has to wonder why that is.
Ok, this needs explaining. If you have not read Broken, give this a once-over, if not, then carry on.
Broken, the summary:Bad men come to Lutz, they want to offer him a job, he says no. They come after him. In a desperate measure to stop them hunting down his family, he kills them (it was better than having them live through what they went through). Erm. RomaneLuka, remember how in your review for chapter 6 you thought Denmark would own a strip joint? Erm . . . I don't know how to tell you this, but he (Mathias) and Netherlands (Cat'sdon'tcry, why are you inside my mind, reading the plot before it comes?)(Lars van Dyk – which is in this instance pronounced 'Dick', rather than the 'Dyke,' which I prefer) kind of. . . Oh, gawd, I don't want to say this. They desecrated the corpses of Ludwig's wife and four-year-old daughter. I'm sorry.
I should NOT have done that time-skip Y_Y
~====o)0(o====~
Und der Haifisch der hat Tränen
Und die laufen vom Gesicht
Doch der Haifisch lebt im Wasser
so die Tränen sieht man nicht
~====o)0(o====~
Few people knew it, and fewer still would have guessed it, but Ludwig loved heavy metal. It was pure chaos distilled under the rigid control of stave and cleft.
And what only three people alive knew, including Ludwig himself, was that he loved motorbikes. They were big, noisy, messy and dangerous, but there was just something about being the one to control the machine that roars along the tar that made him want to ride forever. There was something so thrilling about being the master of the throbbing, snarling beast between his thighs that he couldn't get anywhere else.
Many people, more specifically Gilbert, had hidden a laugh behind a cough and a smirk behind a hand while making snide comments about "overcompensation", and "are you sure you aren't?"
No. He wasn't.
Putting it from his mind, and the pain in his arm and the thought of the dentist's appointment he had just had. Things that he also tried not to focus on were the way his hair kept slipping out of its slicked-back style and the fact that he might as well not have been wearing a shirt at all for all the good this one did.
There was Feliciano Vargas, standing and staring with his mouth so wide open that he resembled a cartoon character. What was he staring at? Ludwig could only hope that it wasn't him that his employer was ogling. Really, if the German had been his father- he stopped that thought before it got any further. That was a thought that made him unreasonably uncomfortable.
"Ludwig?" the stunned looking Italian asked, his voice croaking.
"Ja, Herr Vargas. Is there something that you want?" That stare was beginning to make him feel uneasy. Feli swallowed thickly. Yes, there was something that he wanted.
"Lutz!" Elizaveta tackled the German, though it did nothing to sway his stance.
"Was, Lizavet?" he said, breathing out sharply through his nose. That had jolted his arm badly, and pin lanced through him.
"Ooh! Your arm, I'm sorry. But you aren't wearing your glasses," her expression flickered from maternal to stern and back like static on an old TV.
"It's unnecessary; it's almost dark out, I do not need sunglasses."
"Put them on," she said, pulling a pair of mirrored black wrap-around glasses from her pocket and holding them out expectantly. When had she even gotten them? With a sigh, and feeling no desire to resist the pregnant woman when he had opted not to take a painkiller, he took the eyewear and put it on. He folded his arms across his chest, mindful of the struts of the metal brace, and leant back.
"Am I decent?" he asked sardonically.
"You look like you would suck someone's internal organs out through his urethra," she smiled happily while Feli blanched at the image.
"Forget Beast; du bist ein Haifisch!" Gilbert smirked, punching his brother lightly on the uninjured arm.
"Hi, fish? What the fuck are you talking about?" Lovino asked, having been returned to the crowd, fiancé by his side.
"Haifisch, sir, means shark," the albino explained slowly, as though he was speaking to someone of exceptional stupidity.
"He does look like one, doesn't he, Feliciano?" Antonia said with a grin of utter mischief plucking at the corners of her mouth. Feli nodded dumbly, then swallowed,
"Ve~? Oh, ah, yes. Si," he coughed a few times to cover his pause, and Ludwig arched a singular blonde eyebrow behind his shades, it crossed the Italian's barely functioning mind that he looked like a thrice-as-sexy version of the Terminator.
For want of anything better to do, mostly because his mind was still trying to process that shirt, Feliciano decided to stay and greet guests with Lovi and Antonia. Was that a-? Any blood that wasn't colouring the Italian's cheeks a rather becoming pink headed south. That was a nipple. The German must have felt it (in that it-can't-be-latex shirt, it was kind of hard not to. Tee-hee-hee) and adjusted the arms folded across his chest so that they covered the bottom of his pectorals.
"Chilly, Lutz?" Gilbert laughed. Apparently Feli wasn't the only one noticing certain protrusions, because Antonia and Elizaveta were also a little pink about the cheeks. But it bears reiteration; who wouldn't be?
Ludwig looked away, trying to calm a rising blush without Lamaze breathing.
"It's this verdammt material. It's abrasive," he said curtly.
Elizaveta smiled to herself. This was going perfectly, she thought, glancing at Feliciano's blush, which seemed ready to settle down and start a family on his cheeks.
"If you give me three cows, I can fix it," Feli said suddenly, a strange light in his eyes.
Three cows. What. The. Fuck?
Ludwig's face contorted briefly as he considered how best to answer that proposition. However, before he could say anything, Lovino shot him a sidelong glance,
"Don't take him up on that unless you can actually pay him in cows. It's a mistake I've made before."
Gilbert and Antonia sighed, both of them looking, ahem, sheepish,
"Haven't we all?" Gilbert asked wistfully.
"I still owe him fourteen cows!" Antonia groaned, holding her head.
"With enough cows and twenty minutes, that little fucker can fix anything," Lovino said, "dead useful, but I honestly don't what to know what the fuck he does with them, I mean- shit!" he said, glancing at the veritable queue of people waiting to congratulate he and his bride.
"Mi dispiace," he said, turning on the charm, "grazie!" he said as the 'congratulazioni!' began to pour in, Antonia stood, holding his arm while he tried to pry her loose as subtly as possible.
"Get off my arm, you clingy bitch," he hissed, his smile slipping slightly.
"I'll spank you for that later, darling," she smiled, pulling Matthew and Francis into a double hug.
"How are my favourite worker bees?" she asked while Lovino shook their hands.
"Busy, busy, busy," Francis smiled. There was something about the way the Frenchman smiled that always made it seem like he was telling a dirty joke and that made the Italian very uncomfortable. Ignoring the fiery glare from his best friend/employer's fiancé, Francis dropped his hand so that it was kneading Matthew's behind, "and we'd be busier still if you weren't having a party, cher."He winked, and the young man next to him went bright red and poked his lover in the arm,
"Not now, Francis," the Canadian hissed.
Bickering softly, or rather Matthew was objecting and Francis was providing elicit and tempting reasons to either skive out early or find a quiet corner, the two walked away.
The next guest stepped forward to be greeted. Antonia stepped forwards and kissed him on both cheeks. His spiky hair was the same as it had been, and the slight coldness lingered in his eyes.
"Gefeliciteerd, Toni!" he smiled at her, "It's been too long!" he returned the kisses to her cheeks, slightly closer to her mouth than was necessary. Congratulations.
"Ah, same old van Dyk," she joked, punching him quite hard in the shoulder, her smile dangerously pleasant.
"Hallo, Lars," Ludwig spoke softly, startling the rest of the party.
"Oh, hallo, Luddy!" the Dutchman's grin was vicious, "how's the wife?"
~====o)0(o====~
This was it. This was the moment, the reason for its invention. It was for the accurate description of this car ride that the phrase 'awkward silence' had been coined.
Truth be told, Arthur had never felt more guilty about yelling at someone in his life, sure he had felt a little guilty after yelling at his nephew, Peter, but the lad was used to his brash old uncle Arthur; his mother, Victoria, was much the same. Not that he boy hadn't deserved a good talking-to at the time.
He opened his mouth to say something, anything to break this reverberating silence, but Alfred beat him to it.
"Usually on casual day, people wear a funky tie, or a Hawaiian shirt or somethin'. But the three years that I've been with the FBI, every year I wear neon pink hot shorts, a crop top and my Stetson. Most folks think it's just because I like the attention, and some say it's me showing gay pride. But honestly, I just love those shorts. They make me feel like I've got J-Lo's ass."
Arthur couldn't resist a shaky laugh, which dropped kamikaze into the tension. A faint smile quirked at the corners of the American's mouth, but he said nothing further. Letting out a huff of air, the Englishman spoke;
"Well lad, congratulations, I'm going to eat humble pie. I," another sigh, "shouldn't have yelled. Anger management has never been one of my strong points, and well, you touched a nerve."
"So did you," Alfred said, still sounding perfectly reasonable, "my country is my family. Please don't insult it ever again."
"As long as you never mention my culinary skills ever again."
"Fair enough. That said though, I rather like cooking. Would you mind if I did? I was almost a chef!" he grinned broadly, good humour returned as if three days of acting like they had made eye-contact during a devil's three-way had never happened.
"Very well, lad, if it makes you happy," the Englishman smiled.
"Thanks, pops."
Arthur blinked a dew times. Pops. Pops? He could actually feel his blood pressure rising at an alarming rate.
"Exactly, Alfred, exactly," curse his habit of shouting when he was upset, "how old do you think I am?" The American was obviously had no kind of emotional gauge whatsoever and therefore frowned unconcernedly,
"Eh, I dun know," he pressed a thumb to his lower lip, pulling it down slightly, "thirty?"
It was only pure shock that kept Arthur from exploding like a faulty nuclear reactor. Alfred though he was thirty? Thirty?
He had just turned forty-three.
"And Alfred, would you mind telling me how old you are?" Please let this not be nearly as bad as he thought it was going to be.
"Twenty-four," the American chirped.
It was worse.
The car pulled up outside a fairy-light bedecked pavilion, and Alfred 'ooh-ed' softly, light dancing off his spectacles. He turned to grin at Arthur, who was suddenly feeling every bit as old as he was.
"Come on, cowboy," the significantly elder of the two sighed, drawing in on himself in order to be as brainless as he could possibly manage, "let's party."
~====o)0(o====~
Matthew could see them coming, Alfred and the Brit whose real name he hadn't yet managed to discover; like fuck he was actually called James Kirk.
The Canadian threaded his fingers through Francis's and pulled closer to the other man,
"Amoureux," he said quietly, "I'm scared."
"I, too, am afraid," the Frenchman smiled fondly up at Matthieu.
"We'll be scared together then."
"Yes," he pressed kissed to the other's pale, shaking knuckles, squeezing cold fingers tightly in his warm ones, "together."
~====o)0(o====~
Into the silence, in some parts awkward and embarrassed and in others downright furious, Lars repeated his question.
"How is your wife doing, Luddy? Monique, isn't it? And don't you have a kid? How are they?"
"You know perfectly well how they are."
"Ri~ight. Last year, wasn't it? August sometime?"
"May."
"Really? I thought it was shorter than that. How time flies."
"It does. How is Mathias?" Ludwig kept himself from retching at the name; though his stomach did its level best to evict his lunch.
"He took a bullet that would have killed a lesser man," the Dutchman laughed merrily while the rest of the introductory party looked on in surprise.
"And?"
Lars smiled wickedly, a diamond stud showing in his left canine,
"He was a lesser man."
"I can't say I'm not glad for it," Ludwig said, his voice steady, "though I wish I could have pulled the trigger myself."
"Okay," Elizaveta interrupted, waving her hands to attract their attention, "at this point in the conversation I'm going to assume you two know each other. Who, what, when, where and why?"
"Oh, we're old friends, aren't we, Luddy?" Lars threw an arm about the German's shoulders, grinning when it didn't go all the way around. Leaning up he whispered slickly in Ludwig's ear,
"I can't believe how easily you went down. I guess all this is just for show, hey?" he flicked a muscled arm. The bodyguard stood tall, rigid and unusually pale. When he exhaled, the breath shook, and he shrugged the arm off,
"Don't touch me."
"Right, Beast, Feli, go get some punch," Antonia ordered, "put something in it while you're there, ok?"
"Si, Antonia!" the Italian happily scuttled off to find some booze, Ludwig following after him on an invisible leash. The Spanish woman turned to her guest, her face as warm and friendly as a mellow summer's day.
"Leave him be, van Dyk," she said, the tinkle of ice-crystals frosting her voice.
"Whatever you say, Toni," Lars's smile was razor sharp, and he sauntered off to find the punchbowl.
The next two guest were people the Spanish woman didn't know personally, though she knew the taller from surveillance photographs,
"Evening, miss, you must be Antonia," he said, graciously kissing her hand, "congratulations on your engagement. I'm Alfred F Jones," he motioned to Arthur, "and this is my boyfriend, James Kirk."
"Please, call me Jamie," Arthur giggled, blushing a little, "I'm so happy for you two. We simply must talk flowers later!"
"Of course," she laughed, and shaking both their hands, sent them on their way. A muffled snort issued from besides her and she looked to Lovino, who was quite obviously sulking; his arms were folded and his shoulders were hunched, a childish pout wetting his lips.
"Oh, Lovi! What's wrong, mi tomatito?" she cooed, wrapping her arms around his waist while he tried to evade her.
"I don't like the way everyone keeps kissing you," he muttered darkly, "you're my fiancé, not theirs."
"Oh, querido," she laughed, "I know for a fact that agent Jones is as bent as a three-Euro coin!"
"And the other guy? What about him, is he gay too? Because you seem to know an awful lot of gay people."
"Lars? He's married with kids now. Two little girls."
~====o)0(o====~
Feliciano really shouldn't have had any of the punch, especially after he spiked it with a bottle of limoncello. Especially, especially after Francis had already added the best part of a bottle of gin and Nono Roma had, prior to that, slipped in a hip-flask of vodka, and Gilbert had sneaked in what he would call a 'generous tot' (see: hallucinogenic quantity) of Absinthe that he had brought in bologna and had been saving for a special occasion.
Ludwig, who had noted the toxic fumes of alcohol sizzling from the huge glass bowl – really, what had Antonia expected to happen? – chose not to partake of the poisonous looking liquid.
The Italian, on the other hand, who had a much higher tolerance for alcohol that most people suspected, poured himself a glass and drank about half of it before realising that something was amiss.
"Ve~ that's a bit strong!" he said as the buzz began simmering in his brain like a swarm of bees, lifting him from the floor, he left the cup unfinished next to the bowl and walked over to a chair against the wall and sat down. He looked up at Ludwig, who was standing beside him, and motioned at the seat to his left,
"Sittown, Beats," he giggled. Once the German complied, he leant against the bodyguards upper arm, some, tracing the brace on his forearm.
"You're drunk Herr Vargas."
"Idunwanna hearny more bout hair Vargas, Beats, Ahwanchoo tcallme Fellatio."
"Alright, Feliciano."
"Grazienyour very pretty. Ahopeyouno't," he continued. Ludwig looked at his employer dubiously, a little – strike that, a lot – surprised. Had Feliciano Vargas just called him pretty? The man really must be drunk. What was in that drink?
"It occurs to me, Feliciano, that you have the same sexual preference as my brother."
"Anasat?"
"Drainpipes," Ludwig said matter-of-factly, and Gilbert, who had been waltzing past with Elizaveta paused to snap indignantly at his little brother,
"Oh, come on, Lutz! That was one time, I was-n't entirely sober a~nd – Ach! You're never going to let me live that down. Not awesome!" he dragged his girlfriend back into the dancing masses.
"No, I'm not," Ludwig smiled quietly to himself, and the little Italian on his shoulder smiled blearily.
"Youvame~een sinsvhumer," he giggled tipsily.
"Ja, I do."
"Wernot frens're we?" he asked.
"No, we aren't."
"Kweebe frens?" Ludwig considered this slurred question carefully, and although it went against everything that he was sure a working relationship ought to be, looking down at the hopeful, drink-flushed face he nodded slowly.
"Ja. We can be friends, I guess."
"Bene-bene. Ineeta thrupnow," Feli said, leaning forwards and prompting his new friend to escort him to the men's restroom.
~====o)0(o====~
Arthur didn't know exactly what was in that punchbowl, but he knew that there was a lot of it, and it would likely give him either alcohol poisoning or a motherfucker of a hang-over. Gleefully, because right now all he really needed was a drink of the same rigidity as an I-beam and something soft to pass out on. Preferably the soft skin of a certain American youth, sprawled naked and panting beneath him.
Fuck it, he wasn't near drunk enough for this, he thought, scooping a third glass and slugging it back with much aplomb. The room was starting to swim now, and he was beginning to feel a little light headed. He glanced balefully to where his partner in law was chatting idly with someone, no doubt gathering valuable information. Smarmy little fuck.
Sexy little fuck, too.
With slightly shuffling footsteps, Arthur fumbled his way across the room before stumbling into Alfred, arms creeping about his waist like ivy,
"Alfie~!" shit, he had underestimated that punch, "I'm drunk, Alfie. Take me home?" the last three words were not only very badly slurred, but there was a heavy-lidded purr along with it.
Alfred looked concernedly at his fellow-spy. He truly did look drunk enough to make a pass at a statue, and yet those glazed eyes were focused on him with such smouldering determination that it was starting to make him blush.
"Excuse me, I should take him home now, he's obviously had too much punch," he apologised to his conversation partner, and went to find Antonia and apologise. It was a pity because they hadn't really gotten much work done.
"Is he alright?" the woman asked concernedly, shooting the Englishman a worried look; worried for her own health and safety, because he looked like he might pose a threat to it.
"Oh, he's always like this when he's drunk," the American smiled, hoping that his companion wasn't going to yell at him for that later.
"You dun know me!" Arthur muttered violently, "'M frum the United bloody Kindom an I kin hild my locker better'n anyvyou!"
Giving the woman an apologetic grimace he towed the plastered Brit to their hostess while he called out desperately;
"Duzanyun know? Am I cathlick'r Prote'sant? Gah, Ahneven know!"
"I'm sorry to leave your party early, Antonia," Alfred put on his most winning smile, "I hope you and Lovino are very happy together, but Jamie and I need to leave, I'm afraid someone's spiked your punch and I should get him home."
"That's alright, Alfred, I'm sure we'll see each other again soon," she smiled, turning back to Lovino.
~====o)0(o====~
Ludwig hated it when people where sick. He had always endeavoured not to get sick, or to let others get sick. It was for that reason that he was gently chastising his newfound friend, holding his hair back from his face as the rainbow, unhappy with being tasted, fought its way back up his trachea.
"Ve~ that tastes like shit," Feli muttered, wiping his mouth on the toilet paper that his bodyguard-cum-friend held out to him.
Slowly, and a lot more sober than he had been a while ago, he stood up and went to rinse out his mouth until it tasted of nothing but mouth.
"You should have known better than to drink that punch," Ludwig said calmly, handing Feli a mint.
"Hey, you didn't call me Herr Vargas that time!" the little Italian was unreasonably happy about that, but he was still a little drunk.
"We are . . . Friends, now, Feliciano."
"Ve~! Really? That's wonderful!"
"Well, isn't that just adorable. Are you two going to wear matching panties now?" Lars leered from where he was leaning nonchalantly against the door of the restroom.
"Lars, get out."
The Dutchman clucked his tongue reproachfully, "Luddy, is that any way to talk to an old friend?"
"We aren't friends."
"After all I've done for you? Even taking that lifeless bitch off your hands?" Ludwig paled visibly, and his hands were shaking.
"Don't talk about her like that."
"Aw, did you like Monique? Did you love her?"
"Monika."
"Ve~! Beast, did he steal your wife?" Feli asked nervously, tugging at Ludwig's arm. He would have tugged at his sleeve, but he still wasn't sure if Beast was just painted black or not.
"Desecrated," he coughed out, "and made me watch."
"Mi Dio!" Feli gasped, slapping his hand over his mouth. He turned to the smirking blonde at the door,
"Amico, I would be much obliged if you would leave this party."
"Are you going to make me?" Lars asked teasingly.
"Nein, but I will. I've been waiting for an excuse," Ludwig stepped forwards, left hand resting on the gun that Antonia had permitted him to carry openly at his hip. The Dutchman curled his lip in derision.
"You wouldn't."
Ludwig drew the gun and cocked it, his finger resting steadily on the trigger, "Yes, I would."
"Tcha," Lars snorted and turned to leave, "Alright, I'm going to leave. I wouldn't want to give you the satisfaction of revenge. Besides, who would look after my little girls when I'm gone? Their mom can't do it all by herself." He didn't need to look back to know his words had crippled the other blond, he could hear the sound; part wounded animal, part winded man. He could hear the clatter of the gun falling to the floor. Those sounds were satisfaction.
"Ve~ Ludwig, let's go to the church," Feli said quietly, his hand resting on the bodyguard's shoulder, "I need to pray. We both do."
Despite his utter disbelief in any religious system, the German nodded dumbly.
~====o)0(o====~
"You bloody wanker!" Arthur raved as Alfred attempted to wrestle some water down his throat. He couldn't imagine what had been in that punch, but it couldn't have been anything less than sixty percent proof.
"You and you're damn American ways, you fucking Yank! You're turning my investigation to shit!"
"I still fail to see how I could possibly be doing that when you are the one who called us away from an investigation because you're so blind fucking drunk that you started hitting on me," somehow the American still sounded like he was making mild an chit-chat with a PTA mom.
"I'm not thirty, Alfred," Arthur slurred, suddenly losing all his fire, "'M not thirty. I'm forty –three. I'm old~er than you by almost twenty years!"
"I hardly see what your problem is, man. So you're a little old for a field agent," he shrugged, that age gap didn't bother him in the slightest.
"I was a field agent! I was a brilliant field agent. They said I was the James Bond of the MI6! But now I'm all washed up and you and your American ways are storming in here, making me out to be some kind of paedophile with your youth, and your gorgeous arse – I saw you walking around in your towel after the shower, all naked and wet - and your lush body and that fucking texy Sexas accent of yours! You're driving me crazy!"
"Uh, thanks, I think," Alfred said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"I wasn't complimenting you, you bastard; you're ruining my life!"
"Is it too much for an old man to ask you to take advantage of him while he's inebri- inedebri- inedib- plastered?"
"Goodnight, Arthur," Alfred said, "drink you water."
"Bollocks," the Brit muttered drowsily, slipping into the sandman's realms, "worth a shot, spose."
~====o)0(o====~
Feliciano sat bent over his clasped hands in the front pew of the church, mumbling in Italian and Latin for redemption and salvation, and several desperate apologies for his drunken state.
Ludwig sat hunched too, even though he didn't much care for it, it seemed appropriate. However, instead of watching the floor like his employer, he stared at the giant depiction of Christ on the cross before him. Would Christ hear his prayer? He doubted it.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flickering movement, and tensed. Who or what was moving about the ceiling corners of a church in the dead of night. Not good.
"He- Feliciano," he muttered quietly.
"Ve~ Why must you always interrupt my communications with the Lord?" the Italian asked crossly, looking up with genuine anger in his eyes.
"There's someone here," Ludwig began to explain, but the second that those words left his lips, then Feli stood up, spreading his arms, he turned in the direction that the bodyguard had indicated with his head,
"Ve~ Welcome friend!" the faint zipping flutter of a blade being thrown stained the air. Feli looked surprisedly up at the ornately moulded ceiling, the breath knocked out of him, Ludwig on top of him from where he had knocked his employer to the ground.
Ludwig drew his gun, his eyes roving ceaselessly for the would be assassin, there, he glimpsed a flicker of movement in the shadows, and in the same instant as another bullet let fly, the German fired his gun.
It wasn't until the echoes of gunfire had faded and the dead man's blood was pooling darkly in the soft golden light of the alter candles that Ludwig realised that Feliciano was crying quietly, repeating the same words over and over again,
"No, this is a house of God, please stop." Hushing him, the German picked up the little Italian and carried him out and to the motorbike, on which they had been riding double, not knowing that his employer was now stone-cold sober.
~====o)0(o====~
It was very late now, Ludwig didn't even want to think about the time, he didn't want to think, but he just couldn't stop. Thoughts swirled in his head, pressing down on his chest, holding in his breath. Lars had been right there. Right there. He could have; one twitch of the finger and the man would have been dead. But he didn't. He had saved his bullet for an unnamed, inoffensive man in a church.
But he had done his job. That was what was important. He had done his job and he shouldn't be as hung up about it as he was. But he was. And Lars was married? With two daughters. Two pretty little daughters. Ludwig clenched his fists together until his could see his own knuckles glowing white in the gloom.
There was a creek, and he froze. Soft footsteps padded towards his bed and the bed frame protested as someone light sat down on the edge of the mattress and stole under the covers, lying very still just besides him.
"Herr- Feliciano?" he asked, voice hoarse in the darkness.
"Si. Mi dispiace. I couldn't sleep." A pause, "Could I stay here?"
Another pause.
"Ja."
Together they lay there, breathing in sequence and not touching, simply glad of a human being willing to share their company. Ludwig was lost in his thoughts of if and regrets and missed memories that Lars would get to have that he wouldn't.
Feliciano lay with tears flowing soundlessly down his cheeks, thinking bitterly that this was not quite what he meant when he said that he wanted to share this man's bed.
~====o)0(o====~
In der Tiefe ist es einsam
Und so manche Zähre fließt
Und so kommt es dass das Wasser
in den Meeren salzig ist
~====o)0(o====~
"Nooo~, you can't do that! Even if you give them a happily ever after they're going to have flashbacks and PTSD for the rest of their lives!" – woodbyne
Fuck authors notes, I have a headache. This is twice as long as the last chapter, enjoy. 4667 words. Je Suis Qui Je Suis chapter 2 will be up as soon as humanly possible, but it is my dad's birthday on Monday, so I don't think I can write with a clean conscience.
Reviews make me SO effing happy that I scream, and then my sister yells at me for screaming.
In order to further irritate the eleven year old who keeps kicking me off the computer, send me reviews. 100th person gets a one-shot of their choice, IF you signed in.
Advance thankies~!
~RutheLa