AN: Ludwig's POV, this time! Because I promised that I would :3 So sorry it took so long! You do not even KNOW how challenging Ludwig's POV was for me... This is literally my THIRD rewrite of this prompt, and I don't DO rewrites. Except where Ludwig is concerned, apparently x.x
The first version I wrote I deleted after 2,000 words because it was so terrible. The second version I wrote got over 8,000 words long, and I finished it, but it still felt slightly off, so then I tried again, and this chapter is the result. But I still really like the second rewrite, so I'm actually posting BOTH versions.
So there are two different stories for this prompt: this chapter and the next. From a writer's standpoint, I think the stylistic and characterization differences between the two are rather fascinating. And my sister, who betas this story for me, actually really liked both versions, which I was pleasantly surprised to hear. Maybe you'll also like both, or maybe you'll have one that you like better than the other.
(Also, during the summer I apparently lost my ability to write short pieces, so both chapters are rather long...)
NOTE: Dialogue that is italic and in German quotation marks, „Like this," means it's an English translation of what they're saying in German. If one of the words is nonitalic, that means the word was said in English (basically only the word 'awesome' for Gilbert, lol). I only included a little bit of actual German that I figured everyone would know or be able to figure out (and that I was sure I couldn't get wrong, lol).
Pairing: Germany/Prussia
Side pairings: Spain/South Italy; France/England
Prompt: Person A has just moved to a new house and Person B is the asshole who keeps mowing their lawn at 8 in the morning.
Version: Pedantic!Ludwig and Mercurial!Gilbert
Puddles of Lamplight
Ludwig had just moved to his new house—that he was renting, because he was only twenty-five and wasn't sure he was ready to commit to buying a house (and he'd just recently bought a new motorcycle)—and had gotten everything settled and ordered exactly how he wanted it, so he'd been feeling pretty accomplished.
But the first morning after waking up in his new house, his morning routine was interrupted by a the loud, rumbling roar of a lawnmower.
Ludwig frowned at his reflection, finishing combing back his hair and securing it with gel, before glancing at his watch.
It was eight in the morning, and it was a Saturday.
Ludwig had made sure to look at all the rules for the residenialt area, and he knew that, on weekends, loud noises were not allowed before nine o'clock in the morning.
The lawnmower kept roaring loudly outside. It was probably interrupting the sleep of citizens who had been looking forward to sleeping in on the weekends after a long week of working.
So Ludwig slipped on his black leather jacket over his white t-shirt and laced up his black combat boots, pulling the legs of his jeans down over the ankles (he was planning on taking his new BMW S1000RR for a spin after setting this person straight), and walked outside, letting his feet stomp slightly as he walked over to his neighbor's house.
Not that the man pushing the lawnmower could hear his stomping over the roaring of the machine.
"HEY," Ludwig yelled at him. "WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"
The man looked over at him in surprised, eyes wide (the irises of his eyes were red, and for a moment Ludwig was surprised), and turned off his lawnmower, looking at him curiously as Ludwig stomped over.
"I'm mowing the lawn," the man said, eying him. "What does it look like I'm doing?" He raised a white eyebrow (he looked maybe twenty-something, but his hair was white). "And also, you do realize that the greaser look went out in the 50's, right? That look is so not awesome on you."
Ludwig glanced at his watch, before looking back up, glaring at the man who still had a hand resting on the offensive lawnmower.
"It's 8:27 on a Saturday morning," Ludwig ground out.
The man's white eyebrow raised higher, and he cocked a hip as he leaned into the lawnmower, looking Ludwig over, before meeting his eyes again. "You don't look like I just woke you up. You look like you've been up for a few hours." Those red eyes widened in recognition. "Oy, aren't you the one I saw going for a run at like six this morning?"
Ludwig's expression must have confirmed it, because the man laughed. "It was you! You look totally different with your hair greased back like that!"
"I used hairgel, not grease," Ludwig felt the need to point out, glaring. "And that's not the point—the point is that it's Saturday which is a weekend, and on the weekend, it is illegal to use loud machinery before nine o'clock."
To punctuate this point, Ludwig showed the man his watch, which read clearly that it was 8:29.
The man laughed again, and Ludwig clenched his jaw in annoyance.
"So you came out here just to tell me that I need to wait thirty-one minutes before mowing my lawn, so no one will call the cops on me?" the man asked, smirking at him, red eyes glittering.
"Yes," Ludwig growled, and the man burst out laughing again, harsh kesese's that were quickly grating on Ludwig's nerves.
"Please wait thirty more minutes before turning on your lawnmower again," Ludwig ground out, not a request, and turned and stormed off, the man's laughter rending the air behind him.
He really needed that motorcycle ride.
The next day at 7:02 in the evening (barely still light out) found Ludwig answering his door to find his red-eyed neighbor standing there with a smirk on his face and a sixpack of German beer dangling from the fingers of his left hand.
"My moving-in, welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift," the man said, lifting up the bottles with a grin. "My only condition is that I get to share them with you."
Ludwig stared at him. "I was reading," he said flatly, thinking of his book closed without a bookmark on the chair, the page number he'd left off on hovering precariously in his short-term memory.
"And now you're going to drink beer with me!" the man grinned, extending his right hand. "I'm Gilbert Beilschmidt, by the way."
Ludwig clenched his jaw in annoyance, but shook the offered hand nonetheless. "Ludwig Schulz."
"Ha!" Gilbert declared, grinning. His grip was firm, and when they let go, he punched Ludwig lightly in the shoulder. "I was right! You are German!"
"What gave it away," Ludwig said dryly, but stepped aside to let the other man in, seeing no other option. "Leave your shoes at the door," he instructed, and led the way inside to his living room, only half-listening to Gilbert's comments on his living space.
"You call this a home?" Gilbert demanded, shaking his head, white bangs falling into his face. "For shame! I don't see a single piece of evidence that you actually live here!"
"I only moved in two days ago," Ludwig reminded him stiffly, sitting down on the black leather couch, surreptitiously glancing around the room. White walls, a few framed landscape photographs, large windows that let in plenty of light, white carpet, black couch, black-legged glass coffee table, flatscreen TV between black cabinets that held alphabetized DVDs, a black bookcase on the other wall with books—everything from engineering to fantasy, categorized by subject first and then by author.
Ludwig didn't see anything wrong with any of it, except maybe the view outside. The house had been given new landscaping by the owner, but Ludwig dreaded having to tend to it. He didn't particularly like lawnmowers or hedgeclippers.
"When I finally decide to buy a house, I'm going to have a Japanese rock garden," Ludwig muttered under his breath, not realizing he'd actually said it aloud until Gilbert laughed.
"You really hate lawnmowers or something?" Gilbert said, smirking as he opened one of the beers with a bottle opener on his keychain, handing the open bottle to Ludwig, who took a sip.
Well, at least Gilbert had good taste in beer, Ludwig thought, taking another sip.
Gilbert smirked at him, and already his red eyes weren't so perturbing.
"I thought you'd like it," Gilbert smirked, leaning back into the couch and crossing one leg over the other knee, and Ludwig found himself staring at the man's socks.
His visitor was wearing a dark red jacket, gray shirt, and dark skinny jeans, but his socks were bright blue with yellow chicks.
Gilbert seemed oblivious to his confused stare, though, taking a drink from his beer and then lowering his hand, moving the bottle in circles, the beer inside swishing with the movement. For a while they drank in silence.
The alcohol had just reached enough effect to get Ludwig to relax slightly when Gilbert started quizzing him on his life.
"So, Ludwig. What brings you to the suburbs?"
"I recently got a job in the city. It's a bit of a commute, but the houses here are still better deals than the city apartments."
"Kesese! I know, right? I'm the same! Where do you work?"
"I'm an engineer for the government."
"Hm, sounds like a lot of paperwork. I'm a bartender."
"A bartender."
"For like a year. It's better than being a waiter or a barista, I can tell you that much. Don't ever major in history, Lutz—just don't do it. You can't do anything with it."
"My name isn't Lutz."
"Of course it isn't. How old are you, Lutz?"
"Twenty-five."
"Awesome! I'm twenty-seven, so that makes me your senior, kesese! If you ever have any questions about life, you can just ask me!"
"Alright, then. How do you afford to rent your house if you're just a bartender?"
"I share it with roommates, duh! Antonio and Francis—I'll introduce you guys sometime!"
"Mm."
"Sooo, Ludwig. Are you gay?"
Ludwig started, looking at him with a frown. "I don't think that's the kind of question you just ask someone out of the blue," he muttered, looking down at his nearly-empty beer.
"I'm gay and I don't mind the question, but maybe that's just me," Gilbert shrugged, swishing the dregs of his beer in a few more circles before swigging it down, lowering his arm and letting the bottle dangle in his grip. "I was just wondering because you're hot, and I was wondering if I could flirt with you or not."
Ludwig could feel his face burning up, quickly drinking the last of his beer (as if that would hide anything). He could practically feel Gilbert smirking at him.
"I don't think that's the kind of thing you tell someone you've barely met," he muttered, keeping his gaze on the floor.
It was a very, very bad idea to have a white rug. All the dirt showed. He'd have to vacuum it every other day, at the very least.
"You are gay, aren't you?" Gilbert said, leaning closer, his voice smug, and Ludwig's cheeks burned even hotter.
He stayed silent, tongue caught in his mouth, and glared at the empty beer bottle in his hand.
"Kesese!" Gilbert laughed, shifting away to lean back into the couch cushions. "So I can flirt! Oh, this is going to be so much fun! You blush so easily!"
Ludwig set his empty beer bottle down, suddenly angry, and stood up, glaring down at the other man.
"I am not here for your entertainment," he bit out, meeting the surprised red gaze unflinchingly, his fists clenched. "If all you want is to mess with the new guy on the block, then you can kindly remove yourself form my house."
Gilbert's gaze softened. "Sorry, sorry," he said, raising his hands placatingly, his expression so mild that Ludwig found his anger replaced by surprised. "I just like pushing for reactions from people. According to Francis it's one of my least attractive traits."
He smiled, gesturing at the four other beer bottles on the table. "Shall we have another? I won't flirt with you, I promise."
Ludwig sat back down on the couch, watching him uncertainly.
Gilbert's smile turned wry, and he plucked at the fabric of his sock. "Actually, I really came over because Francis is out with his girlfriend and Antonio is out with his boyfriend, and I just felt like hanging out with somebody." He shrugged, looking away, still plucking at the sock. "It kinda sucks to always be the third wheel, you know?"
Ludwig sighed, his anger completely dissipated. "You could have just said that at the beginning," he muttered, and Gilbert looked at him sheepishly.
There was a trace of insecurity there, and Ludwig felt a twinge of understanding. He was always the odd one out when hanging out with anyone. Though he never found himself feeling quite as lonely as this man looked.
And he didn't exactly have anything else to do that day.
"I'm not the best conversationalist," Ludwig said, looking away. He gestured to the cabinets next to the TV. "Maybe you'd be interested in watching a movie? I don't have Netflix set up yet, but I might have a DVD you'd be interested in."
When he glanced at the man to gage his reaction, he was surprised at the wattage of Gilbert's grin: the entire room lit up with it.
"You, Ludwig, are awesome!" Gilbert declared, bounding to his feet and around the coffee table to the cabinets, opening the first one and crouching down as he browsed Ludwig's DVD collection.
Ludwig could only watch him, mystified, and a minute later Gilbert gave a cry of triumph and pulled out Lola rennt with a delighted, "I love this movie! Just for owning it you get like twenty awesomeness points!"
Gilbert put in the movie and opened two more beers, handing one to Ludwig and then settling back into the couch with his own, leaning into the corner with his legs pulled up on the couch cushion next to him, keeping his beer in hand and sipping as he watched.
Ludwig, for his part, found himself watching Gilbert almost as much as the movie. He'd seen the movie so many times he practically had it memorized, but the other man's facial expressions were new—the way he laughed, and talked at the screen in German.
His voice was made for German, Ludwig thought. English was too smooth, too soft for that voice, too irregular, lisps and slurs and drawled-out consonants; that voice was made for German's harsh, guttural sounds, the drumbeat rhythm.
Gilbert caught his eye once, during one of the running scenes ("I wish I was a forest, of trees that do not hide; I wish I was a clearing, no secrets left inside"), giving him an unadulterated grin, and Ludwig blinked and looked away, keeping his attention on the screen from that point on, though his ears were still attuned to Gilbert's hissing laughter and droll commentary.
Apparently, though, at some point his attention had been diverted to the film enough that he hadn't noticed when Gilbert had stretched out on the couch and his feet had ended up in Ludwig's lap.
The end credits were rolling when he finally noticed, and he found himself absentmindedly tracing the outlines of the yellow chicks on the blue background, Gilbert humming and wiggling his toes, snuggling further into the couch, his eyes closed as he listened to the end-credits music, a small, content smile on his face.
Ludwig watched him, tracing the designs and wondering how Gilbert could be so comfortable on a stranger's couch, his feet in a stranger's lap.
When the credits came to an end, Ludwig prodded Gilbert's feet to get him to move them so he could get up and turn the TV off.
When Gilbert didn't move, Ludwig realized that the man had fall asleep sometime during the credits.
Ludwig sighed, picking up Gilbert's legs and moving them from his lap.
After the both the television and DVD player were turned off and the disc had been returned to its case, the case shelved alphabetically, Ludwig walked over to the couch and looked down at the sleeping man, frowning.
The windows showed that it was dark outside. He glanced at his watch: 9:34 at night. Not late enough that he'd feel bad for waking the man up.
„Gilbert," Ludwig said, crouching next to the couch and shaking the man's shoulder. „Wake up,"
„Hm?" Gilbert hummed, bleary red eyes opening slowly to blink at him.
„You fell asleep," Ludwig said in German. „I don't think you want to spend the night on my couch."
Gilbert's lips curled, and he closed his eyes again, snuggling down. «I don't know,» he murmured, pressing his face against the black leather (his hair stood out starkly). „It's a nice couch."
Ludwig sighed, brushing a hand over his slicked-back hair, noticing that the gel was starting to come undone, strands falling loose. „You can't possibly be that eager to sleep on a stranger's couch. You don't even know me—I could actually be a serial killer and planning to murder you in your sleep."
„My cute little Lutz, murder me?" Gilbert murmured, cracking an eye open (a startling red sliver of crescent moon) to look at him, giving a small grin. „What slander."
Ludwig just stared at him, before he sighed again, standing, picking up the last two unopened beer bottles to put in his fridge. „Stay if you want. I'm going to get ready for bed—I always wake up at 5:00 AM no matter what time I fall asleep, and I like to try to get at least seven hours"
Gilbert muttered an indistinct answer and curled further into the black leather cushions, and Ludwig gave a sigh of resignation and left the room.
Ludwig wasn't surprised when he woke up the next morning and wandered into his living room to find Gilbert still there, asleep on the couch.
Ludwig watched him for a few moments, before leaving the room and finding a pad of post-it notes. He printed down a message and then left the post-it stuck to the glass coffee table in front of where Gilbert was lying, before leaving to hit the gym.
He returned at 6:30, clothes drenched with sweat and muscles trembling from exhertion, and Gilbert was still asleep on the couch.
Ludwig watched him for a few more moments, brow furrowed, before he took the note and crumpled it in a fist, tossing it in the recycling on his way to the shower.
When he came back out at 7:04, hair wet and slicked-back, clothes clean and dry, Gilbert was still asleep on the couch.
Ludwig frowned at him for a few moments, before heading to the kitchen to make breakfast.
When he finished cooking (sausage, hasbrowns, apricot fruit muesli) at 7:31, Gilbert was still asleep on the couch.
Ludwig scrutinized his sleeping form for a few moments, before returning to the kitchen, eating his own breakfast and packing the rest in two glass containers with sealed lids.
„Gilbert, wake up," he ordered, and when the man made no signs of waking, Ludwig tipped the couch so that he fell off, before setting the couch back.
Gilbert groaned, rolling over on the floor to blink up at him. «What the hell was that for, Lutz?»
„I'm leaving for work," Ludwig said. (He thought about protesting the nickname, but decided it wasn't worth it.) „You need to go home."
Gilbert groaned and rose to his feet, stumbling, not quite awake as Ludwig escorted him to the door (he was already running late).
„Here," Ludwig said, handing Gilbert his shoes and the containers of breakfast, nudging him outside. „Eat it before it the sausage and hashbrowns get cold and the museli gets soggy. Remember to return the containers."
And then he closed the door in the confused and half-asleep Gilbert's face and headed to his garage to get ready to motorcycle to the city. He didn't own a car because he only had the money for one vehicle, and a motorcycle was more efficient (and Ludwig would drink blood if it were a more efficient way to get energy) since motorcycles got better mileage and could park in the city for free. Though admittedly the BMW S1000RR was a sportsbike, so it wasn't very comfortable to use in congested areas (but the thrill of the bike on the backroads more than made up for a little discomfort on his morning and evening commutes).
He put on his leathers, opened the garage door, rolled his bike out, closed the garage door, mounted the bike, started it up, and powered out of his driveway, all the while trying not to feel guilty for how he'd kicked Gilbert out of the house.
6:43 that evening saw Ludwig answering the door to find Gilbert standing there with a grin on his face and the empty glass containers under an arm.
„I took the liberty of cleaning them," Gilbert said, handing the containers to him, grin twisting into more of a smirk.
Ludwig took a moment to examine the containers (they were cleaned well), before nodding at Gilbert. „Danke."
„No problem," Gilbert shrugged, hands in his jacket pockets.
He'd changed clothes and was wearing a black jacket, white shirt, and maroon jeans—Ludwig was noticing a color scheme. (He wondered what color Gilbert's socks were).
„It was the least I could do to thank you for breakfast and letting me spend the night on your couch," the man said.
„It was no problem," Ludwig said as he looked away, slightly uncomfortable (he'd enjoyed Gilbert's company more than he'd admit).
Switching to English, Gilbert said, "Francis insists I repay you by inviting you over for dinner sometime."
Ludwig looked at him, surprised, and Gilbert gave a sharp grin (but there was something uncertain in his eyes). "Francis would be cooking of course," he said, laughing lightly. "He's currently a waiter, but he wants to become a chef so he's constantly practicing. Won't hardly let me and Antonio near the kitchen." Red eyes glittered with mirth. "We aren't complaining. His food is, as Antonio says, muy bueno."
Ludwig was surprised at the practiced ease with which the Spanish fell from Gilbert's tongue, though he realized a moment later that he probably shouldn't have been. (He himself knew some Japanese and was fairly fluent in Italian, after all.)
Gilbert seemed to have noticed his moment of surprise, though, because he smirked. "Antonio is from Spain, and Francis is from France," he explained, rolling his eyes as he added, under his breath, "He likes to rub that in everyone's face." Meeting Ludwig's eyes again, he said, "We've known each other for years now, and have pretty good grasps of each other's languages." He snorted. "Francis says my French accent sucks, but I don't know what he's talking about." Under his breath: "His German accent is worse."
Gilbert was almost pouting, at that point (but his eyes were smirking), and Ludwig couldn't help the low chuckle that vibrated his chest.
"I've already eaten dinner today, but I could come over tomorrow," Ludwig found himself offering, and Gilbert's grin evaporated any doubts he could have had.
"Awesome!" Gilbert declared, and then stepped into Ludwig's house and toed off his shoes (his socks were bold orange and purple stripes that clashed terribly with his maroon jeans), taking the glass containers from Ludwig's startled hands and walking down the hallway, calling, "I'll put these in the kitchen!"
Ludwig stared after him for a few moments, frozen, and then he shut the door (a bit harder than he needed to) and strode after him, yelling, „GILBERT. I thought we agreed that I'd be coming over for dinner at your house tomorrow, not that you were staying over at my house tonight!"
Gilbert placed the clean containers on the counter and then turned to give him a confident grin (uncertain red eyes). „I thought we could hang out tonight, too! What else is there for you to do?"
Ludwig closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. „I was reading."
The pause before Gilbert answered was just slightly too long to have been anything but a hesitation. „Kesese! A book couldn't possibly compare to the company of the awesome me!"
Ludwig looked at him. Gilbert was fiddling with one of the pull-strings of his jacket hood (long, worrying pale fingers).
„It's not that I mind the company," Ludwig said carefully, struggling for the right words to express himself as he watched the hestitant man in front of him (that smirk was so confident). „It's just that I don't understand why you're seeking out my company. I've only been here for three days, and you're already acting more comfortable around me than most people I've know for years. So you'll have to excuse me if I'm wary."
Gilbert relaxed slightly at those words, smirk looking more amused as he eyed Ludwig's form, raising an eyebrow as he met his gaze. „Really? You look like you were a jock in high school."
„Not all jocks are popular, you know," Ludwig said, his back stiff. „I was the straight-A jock that made everybody nervous." (Well, everybody except for Feliciano, who had the kind of simple common sense that told him it would be a fantastic idea to be friends with the guy that even the bullies were scared of.)
Gilbert laughed. „And then in college you were the guy that everyone went to for questions about the homework, and that everybody invited to their parties but were never surprised or too disappointed when you didn't show up," he guessed.
„Pretty much," Ludwig agreed, putting the glass containers in their proper cabinet (he noticed Gilbert watching, and had no doubt that Gilbert had memorized the location so he could put them away properly next time).
„Shall we go to the living room?" Ludwig offered, and Gilbert nodded, letting Ludwig lead the way.
„So," Gilbert said, that smirk still in place (but eyes soft, curious) as they sat down on the black leather couch. „Have you ever had a boyfriend, then?"
„It's not completely obvious that I haven't?" Ludwig answered, and Gilbert laughed. „But I hardly think it's fair that I'm answering all your questions when you haven't answered mine."
Gilbert looked at him curiously, and Ludwig returned the look flatly. „You never told me why you're seeking out my company. Your housemates can't possibly be absent all the time." He frowned. „Are you fighting with them?"
Red eyes blinked at him, and then Gilbert laughed again, shaking his head (white hair brushing over his face, bangs too long). „No, we're not fighting. You just get kind of annoyed with people when you live with them, you know?"
„No, not really," Ludwig said (the only person he'd lived with in the past several years was Kiku, his college roommate, and Ludwig had never met anyone who was such comfortable company). „I can understand that you might want a change of scenery, though." (There had been more than one reason that Ludwig had taken the new job and moved to a new living space.) „But that still doesn't explain why you're here, when you could be anywhere."
„Why not?" Gilbert was looking away, wrapping the dark pull-string of his jacket around his pale fingers, and Ludwig realized he was avoiding.
Ludwig sighed, before getting up and leaving the room (red eyes burning holes in his back), returning with the two leftover beers from the day before, handing one of the open bottles to Gilbert and sitting on the floor with his back against the couch. He didn't drink the beer, just held the cold bottle in his hand, condensation dripping down and collecting at the top edge of his thumb and forefinger.
It was quiet, but it wasn't terribly uncomfortable (it was slightly awkward, but when it came to ignoring something, Ludwig could outlast most everyone else), and he watched Gilbert's reflection in the flat-black surface of the flatscreen TV.
Gilbert was watching the side of his face, head tilted slightly, taking a sip of his beer every minute or so. Evening light filtered through the windows, gently bathing Gilbert's white hair in the same bluing shade, the dimmness softening the harsh lines of his face.
„You're not afraid of me," Gilbert said, and Ludwig blinked in surprise, turning to meet red eyes.
„Why would I be afraid of you?" he asked, honestly confused.
Gilbert shrugged, gesturing to his eyes, his hair. „I tend to make people uncomfortable."
Ludwig chuckled, then (ignoring the weight that hunched Gilbert's shoulders), and took a drink of his beer. „I think I need a membership pin to that club," he said, and watched Gilbert's tense face relax in out of the corner of his eyes, shoulders relaxing back, the grin returning to thin lips.
„Well, if you didn't slick your hair back and glare at everybody, then maybe you wouldn't need one," Gilbert teased.
Ludwig sent him a glare. „I'll have you know that this is my face's default expression, thank you very much," he said, and Gilbert laughed.
Ludwig hid the twitch of his lips by taking another sip of beer, savoring the bitter, robust taste.
He gestured to the TV cabinet. „Did you want to watch another movie?" When Gilbert's eyes lit up and he leapt from the couch, Ludwig teased, „Are you sure the real reason you're here isn't to watch one of my movies on my TV since one of your housemates is hogging the one at your place and watching some crappy romantic comedy?"
„You figured me out," Gilbert deadpanned, crouching in front of the cabinet, scanning the DVDs. „What's this?" he asked, pulling one out and showing him the title written in Japanese, raising a white eybrow.
„A Japanese horror film," Ludwig answered. „A present from my college roommate. It's not for the fainthearted."
Gilbert grinned (eyes smirking) and put the DVD in.
„Don't think I'll let you into my bed just because you wake up trembling in fear after a nightmare," Ludwig said, and Gilbert gave a distracted, „Who, me? I'm too awesome for nightmares!" and kept his focus on the screen (his lips were twitching).
It didn't take long for Ludwig to start figuring that Gilbert had put in a horror film so he could use terror as an excuse to cling to him and press closer with each subsequently frightening development, muscles tense and twitching, German expletives slipping from his tongue.
Ludwigh sighed, but resignedly wrapped an arm around the other man's shoulders and let him cling as much as he wished (it wasn't like he wasn't used to that kind of thing; after all, he had a clingy Feliciano for a best friend).
After the film was over, Gilbert looked at him with wide eyes (entreating).
„Nein," Ludwig told him, and forcefully disengaged himself from the clinging arms (Gilbert was surprisingly strong, and Ludwig guessed that he hit the gym pretty regularly), standing up. „You can stay on my couch, or I can walk you to your house and you can see if you can get one of your housemates to take pity on you."
Gilbert debated this for a few moments, huddled on the couch with his legs hugged to his chest, biting his lip (looking through too-long white bangs to scan Ludwig's face), red eyes conflicted (calculating).
It was already 9:17, and Ludwig just looked at him, unimpressed (and tired from a long day at work).
Gilbert finally sighed, relaxing and unfurling his limbs, standing up and running a hand through his hair, brushing his bangs out of his face (eyes completely self-possessed, just like Ludwig had suspected they'd be). „I'll walk myself home. You obviously weren't falling for it, anyway."
At the front door he paused, flashing Ludwig a grin (and it wasn't even a smirk). „Thank you for the wonderful evening."
„The pleasure was mine," Ludwig said (and it wasn't even a lie).
(The image of Gilbert walking relaxed and night-drenched down the sidewalk (skirting puddles of lamplight like a ghost) lingered behind in Ludwig's mind even after he'd shut the door.)
It was 6:00:00 exactly the next evening when Ludwig knocked on his neighbors' door.
It was 6:00:03 when Gilbert opened the door with a grin, like he'd been waiting (there was relief in his eyes).
"Well well," he said, lips twisting in a smirk, in complete denial of any nervousness he might have been feeling, suggesting that it was Ludwig who was the desperate one here, as if he wasn't the one who was wearing a white button-up shirt that was wrinkled and not buttoned up all the way. "Look who's perfectly punctual."
"Says the person who opened the door three seconds after I knocked," Ludwig thought but didn't say. What he did say was: "I prefer to be at least fifteen minutes early to such events, but I've before been informed that it's better to be fashionably late. I compromise by arriving on time."
"Well come on in, Mr. My Idea Of Being Fashionably Late Is Being On Time," Gilbert said with a roll of his eyes and a quirk of his lips. "Half the party is already here."
When Ludwig stepped inside and followed Gilbert down the hall into the living room, he was struck by the difference between the house and his own.
German furniture around the room, Spanish carpets on the floor, French paintings hanging on the walls, guitar and flute cases propped up in the corner, cook books left out on the colorful mosaic coffee table, potted plants sitting by the windows and hanging from the ceiling, cha cha music playing in the background and the sound of raised voices in the kitchen.
Ludwig suddenly realized why Gilbert was complaining about his house being lifeless, and was again struck by confusion about why Gilbert kept visiting his house when it had to be more pleasant here.
"Ludwig's here!" Gilbert called, strolling into the kitchen, Ludwig following hesitantly behind.
Two men who'd just been yelling at each other, one's hands clenched in the other's shirt collar, turned to look at them in surprise.
"Oh, bother," sighed the shorter man, removing the hands from his collar and taking a step back, straightening his white button-up shirt and green vest, brushing a hand through short, slightly messy blond hair. There was flour dusting one of his thick eyebrows and he eyed Ludwig with condescending green eyes. "Who's this jock? He looks like a real wanker."
"Arthur, mon ami, you are tactless and lack taste!" the other man cried, turning to Ludwig with delighted blue eyes, sashaying over and sweeping his chef's hat from his head and dipping into an extravagant bow in one fluid motion, wavy, shoulder-length blond hair falling into his face. "I am Francis Bonnefoy." He straightened with just as extravagantly and looked up at Ludwig, his smile dazzling, unnervingly flirtatious. "I have heard so much about you, Ludwig, mon cher. It is an absolute delight to finally make your fine acquaintance!"
"I can't say the same," Ludwig said stiffly, and those blue eyes sparkled.
"Oh Gilbert, he is très beau!" Francis cried, delighted, chef's hat held forgotten in his hand as he gestured grandly. "You really must bring him over more often!" he said, before looking at Gilbert and adding something in French with a wink.
Gilbert, looking annoyed, practically sprang at him and pulled him into a headlock, hissing at him in French and kicking the white chef's hat across the floor while the blond man whined and said something else that Ludwig couldn't understand but which seemed to make Gilbert more irritated.
"Serves the cheese-eating surrender monkey right," Arthur sniffed disdainfully, turning and heading towards the stove. "I'm going to make some tea."
Gilbert and Francis cried „NEIN!" and « NON ! » at the same time and, disengaging from each other, leapt at Arthur and pulled him back, yelling at them in their own languages (Ludwig didn't know what Francis was saying, but Gilbert was saying something along the lines about Arthur not being allowed in the kitchen ever again) and pushing him from the kitchen as Arthur said, "I can't understand a single thing that you're saying, you nutters! Let go of me!"
"Out of my kitchen!" Francis cried, pushing him out of the room. "Out! And Gilbert, keep him out there!"
Ludwig just stood there watching as Gilbert pulled Arthur into a headlock and dragged him into the living room and threw him onto the couch, Arthur complaining the entire way, half the words unfamiliar to Ludwig, sounding even more foreign in the man's British accent.
Next to him, Francis heaved a sigh, brushing wavy blond locks from his face. "Mon Dieu, that man is a walking catastrophe." The French accent lay thick on every syllable.
"Something's burning," Ludwig said, nodding to the stove, and Francis turned in alarm and rushed over, cursing in French.
Ludwig walked back into the living room, where Arthur had sat up on the couch and was arguing with Gilbert, who was standing over him with his arms crossed, about whether or not his scones were edible. The argument didn't appear to be getting anywhere.
"Are you trying to kill us?!" Gilbert was demanding.
"Of course not!" Arthur said primly, brushing invisible dust from his black trousers and looking up at the other man from beneath thick eyebrows, glaring. "If anybody is plotting to kill us, it's you, you demonic red-eyed wanker."
Gilbert's shoulders stiffened, a sharp grin spreading across his features even as his eyes hardened, but just at that moment there was a rhythmic knocking at the door.
Gilbert paused. "Looks like Antonio forgot his keys again," he remarked (lightly but with an edge), and stalked out of the room, but not before point at Arthur and barking, "Ludwig! You watch him and make sure he doesn't go anywhere! If he does, you have everybody's full permission to punch him!"
Arthur crossed his arms and sank back into the couch, muttering what sounded like more insults under his breath.
Then he plucked at a button on the cuff of his sleeve that was just shy of falling off, sighed and wished he had his sewing kit with him.
Ludwig stood there stiffly and stubbornly ignored the feelings of awkwardness and being overwhelmed.
"I suppose you're just another wazzock, then," Arthur said, not looking at him.
Ludwig didn't know what that meant, but it sounded like an insult that meant something along the lines of 'idiot' or 'brute.'
"I'm an engineer working for the government," he said. "I just moved into the house next door a few days ago."
Arthur sent him a sideways look. "You shouldn't involve yourselves with these people," he said disdainfully.
"And yet you're still here, even after knowing us for six years," Gilbert pointed out, smile back in place as he entered the room again, two other men behind him conversing in Italian, one man apologizing profusely while the other grumbled something incoherent, heads of brown and auburn hair leaning close together.
"Accidenti!" the second man suddenly exclaimed loudly, making Ludwig glance at him (he'd been watching Gilbert for any lingering traces of hurt from Arthur's comments, only to see Gilbert sit down on the couch next to Arthur and the two of them seemed perfectly comfortable with the proximity, nothing hostile in their body language), only to find himself staring in surprise into the wide hazel eyes of Lovino Vargas.
"Potato bastard!" Lovino yelled at him, striding over and punching him repeatedly in the abs (too light to hurt; he wasn't trying), tears welling at the corner of his eyes. "What the hell are you doing here you big idiota?!"
Everyone was watching the two of them in shock.
"Feliciano called me the other day crying because he missed you you jerk!" Lovino yelled, still punching him.
"Really?" Ludwig said calmly, catching the smaller man's hands and holding them there, just tightly enough to stop the light barrage of fists. "Because I recall Feliciano calling me the other day crying because he missed you."
"Let go of me, bastard!" Lovino cried, trying to yank his hands away, but Ludwig held them there, knowing that if he let go the Italian would just start hitting him again. "You are your stupid potatoes that you eat can go to hell!"
„Ja, ja," Ludwig said patiently, finally letting go when Lovino stopped trying to fight him, instead leaning forward and burying his face in Ludwig's shirt, sobbing. His fists clenched in the cotton fabric.
"Idiota," he was muttering between sobs (that odd hair curl shaking with his shoulders). "Idiota idiota idiota."
Ludwig rubbed the man's back. "It's good to see you again, Lovino."
The man who'd come in with Lovino, assumedly Gilbert's housemate Antonio, hovered a few feet away with a hand occasionally reaching towards the Italian, looking lost. Arthur was watching the scene with curiosity, while Gilbert looked on the verge of shock and laughter.
"So you two know each other?" Gilbert managed (corner of his lip twitching, barely restrained).
"He's my idiot brother's best friend," Lovino muttered into Ludwig's now tear-soaked shirt. At least he'd chosen a black shirt, so the water stain wouldn't show too much (he wasn't sure he'd recovered from that instance with the silk tie—the Vargas brothers were why he couldn't have nice things).
"We went to the same high school," Ludwig explained, still rubbing Lovino's back, feeling comfortable in the familiar territory of comforting one of the Vargas brothers (some things never changed). "His younger brother Feliciano and I were in the same grade."
"Stupid potato bastard," Lovino grumbled, pulling away and wiping at his eyes with a hickory-brown sleeve.
"Dinner's ready!" Francis declared, sweeping into the room with a flourish, white apron still tied around his waist over his violet shirt and red jeans (purposefully ostentatious?), only to stop and stare at them in surprise. He tilted his head (blond waves against stubbled cheek, stubbled chin). "Did I miss something?"
"Mind your own business, you stupid pervert!" Lovino snapped, and Francis smiled beauteously.
"Ah, Lovino, mon cher! As charming as ever, I see!"
"Fuck you!" Lovino snapped, and stalked over to Antonio, tugging on the Spaniard's scarlet shirt. "Let's leave, Antonio. This place is full of Dummkopfs."
„Dummköpfe," Ludwig corrected, and Gilbert burst out laughing while Lovino turned to glare at him, snapping, "Like I care, moron!"
"Now now, Lovino," Antonio said, voice practically sing-song (comforting as a lullaby but not as sad), a hand placed gently on the Italian's shoulder. "Let's at least stay for dinner, no? Francis is a great cook!"
"He probably drugged the food," Lovino muttered.
"Lovino~," Antonio said (chiding, nearly whining). "Francis wouldn't do that!"
"We'd kill him if he did," Gilbert snorted, perched on the arm of the couch, legs stretched out in front of him (blood-red socks that stood out starkly next to his his gray jeans, white shirt—like his eyes) and leaning back slightly.
Lovino shot Ludwig a glance (from behind long auburn bangs he kept in his face so he could hide, so unlike his younger brother who kept them brushed to the side so he could see and be seen). "I suppose if the perverted turophile tried anything, the potato bastard would smite him..."
"'Smite!'" Gilbert repeated, and laughed, falling backwards across the couch (movements exaggerated, needlessly dramatic).
Lovino shot him a caustic glare. "You should've seen what the bastard did to people back in high school…!"
"Oh, I wish I had," Gilbert said, sitting up, grin wide (something wicked in his eyes).
Ludwig raised an eyebrow at him. „Schadenfreude?" he inquired lightly, and Gilbert fell back laughing again (cackling kesese's, and Ludwig was still intrigued by the sound).
"Nobody will need to be smitten, Lovino," Antonio assured, and Gilbert's laughter doubled in intensity.
"Too late…!" he gasped out weakly, making a weak shaky in the Spaniard's direction. "You're already…!" He clutched his stomach again as he doubled over, tears of mirth trickling from the corners of his eyes.
"Stop laughing, potato asshole!" Lovino snapped at him, and Gilbert laughed so hard he fell off the couch, landing on the floor with a thump (a graceless sprawl of limbs, white and gray on the rich colors of the Spanish carpet).
"You're all bonkers," Arthur said, and facepalmed (with the insufferable, superior grace of a duke, and Ludwig didn't blame Lovino for the scathing glare he shot the Brit's way, or the muttered Italian insult).
"You are all so mean!" Francis whined, fingers clenched in his apron now, shaking his head back and forth. "My délicieux food will become cold and be completely wasted! You should know that in the Western world, France is virtually synonymous with gastronomy!"
"Gas astronomy?" Arthur inquired, raising a thick eyebrow, and Francis virtually pounced at him, hitting him repeatedly with his chef's hat, crying, "Gastronomy! The art of choosing, cooking, and eating good food! I here I thought you were cultured!"
"Stop hitting me, you nutter!" Arthur said, lifting an arm in front of his face to fend off the soft fabric hat that was whipping his blond hair into even more cowlicks (the man's hair didn't seem stay down, no matter how many times he'd rubbed his hand back over it).
Francis had grabbed Arthur by the collar and was shaking him again, yelling at him in distressed French while the Brit just fixed him with an airy glare, much like the scene Gilbert and Ludwig had walked in on in the kitchen earlier, and Gilbert was still laughing on the floor, while Lovino tried to leave and Antonio tried to keep him there, speaking in beseeching Italian (likely Lovino had refused to learn Spanish, aside from some insults and curses, much like he'd done with German).
Ludwig thought about taking a tip from Lovino's book and just turning around and leaving, but food sounded amazing, right then (delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen, his mouth watering), and he was loath to back out of a commitment (he'd said he'd stay for dinner, so stay for dinner he would, even if he was the one who'd have to ensure that they actually ate).
Everyone was raising their voices in anger, raising their voices higher to be heard over the raised voices, but Ludwig was the loudest when he yelled, „SHUT UP!" in German (he'd found that yelling tended to be more effective in German, whether people understood what he was saying or not, but the sudden quiet and the eyes all fixed on him told him that everyone in the room had understood what he'd said).
"We came here to eat dinner," he ground out, in English, glaring at each of them (Lovino, Antonio, and Francis looked relieved, Arthur apathetic, Gilbert oddly gleeful). "So by all means, let us eat."
« Merci, » Francis said, smiling and looking nearly on the verge of tears as he ran to the kitchen to get the dishes, leaving Arthur to irritably straighten out his collar and smooth the fabric of his vest.
Ludwig glared at the rest of the people in the room until they moved.
Lovino marched over to the dining table (rectangular, sturdy red oak wood, white table cloth, a blue bowl of fruit set in the center) and sat down with a huff (on one of the four chairs that actually matched the table, the other three mismatched, different woods and different styles), grabbing a tomato from the fruit bowl and biting into it, glaring down at the table surface. Antonio sat down next to him, relaxing in his chair and smiling like all was suddenly right in the world.
Arthur sighed and sat down at the table (taking the seat set awkwardly on a corner) as if he were very put-upon to do so, sending Ludwig a brief glare before turning his attention to the place settings scrutinizingly (simple white plates, paper-lace placemats, a knife, a spoon and two forks at each place setting, blue napkins). "Two forks is blatant overkill," he muttered, sniffing, turning his nose up in the air as he looked away. "Who the hell does he think he's trying to impress?"
"Oh, I dunno," Gilbert drawled, rolling his eyes as he picked himself up off the floor and strolled over, taking the chair at the foot of the table (tilting it back so the front legs were off the floor, precarious). He raised his white eyebrows at the Brit, smug lips curling. "Maybe he's just trying to rub his awesome cooking skills in the face of a certain someone who's in denial of the fact that he can't cook at all."
"I surely do not know what you're talking about," Arthur said, insouciant and dismissive. "There is nothing wrong with my cooking."
Gilbert cackled, and Antonio gave an embarrassed chuckle, hand nervously at the back of his neck. "Ah,mi amigo..." he said, trailing off (his smile was rueful, but so large it scrunched his eyes).
„Denial!" Gilbert crowed in German, triumphant.
(If this was what it was always like at Gilbert's place, Ludwig thought he understood why Gilbert kept coming over to much calmer, much quieter house.)
Ludwig was rubbing the bridge of his nose as he took the open seat next to Gilbert (across from Antonio, who was on Gilbert's left), a sigh heavy in his chest, but then Gilbert punched him lightly in the arm and the breath was let out instead in a grunt of surprise, and he turned his head to see Gilbert smiling at him.
„Thanks for coming, Ludwig," he said, and any complaint Ludwig might have had died a swift and preemptive death.
And then Francis brought the food out, and Ludwig was gladdened further that he hadn't left, because whatever could be said about Francis's personality, he was a good cook.
Appetizers of vegetable soup and salade Lyonniase, a pièce de résistance of cassoulet au canard, a side of bistro pommes frites, and Ludwig was content to eat in silence while the others talked, telling himself the food was the only thing keeping him there (that it had nothing to do with the man next to him smiling, red eyes bright, leaning into his personal space in a way that was oddly gratifying).
"You've truly outdone yourself, Francis!" Antonio declared, all enthusiasm. "How are you not a professional chef yet?"
"Ah, you flatter me, mon ami!" Francis said, pleased (preening like peacock). "As for why I'm not yet a chef, I can only assume that my elegant charm and beautiful face make me sotalented as a waiter that they are loath to hide me away in the kitchens."
Arthur snorted derisively. "Anyone's who's charmed by youis clearly daft as a bush."
"Ah, mon cher,don't insult yourself like that!" Francis cried, making Arthur sputter indignantly while Gilbert and Antonio burst into laughter.
"I thought you said Francis has a girlfriend," Ludwig mumbled, leaning slightly closer to Gilbert so only he would hear.
"Oh, he does," Gilbert murmured back, grin wide. "But this Arthur—the two of them have been dancing around each other for yearsnow, much to the amusement of the rest of us. It's awesome entertainment."
Collecting himself, Arthur sniffed, nose in the air as he said, "You're a real git, if you think that I'm the least bit charmed by you."
"There is no shame in admitting it!" Francis declared, fingertips on his chest (fingers splayed, wrist bent dramatically, tossing blond waves of hair). "I am irrésistible, non?" he shot this question at Lovino, sending him a wink.
Lovino's face flushed with anger, and Ludwig felt his stomach sink, his muscles tense.
And then Lovino was on his feet, yelling insults in Italian that had Antonio blanching, and there was a tomato in his hand, and his arm was reeling back, the tomato sailingtowards the Frenchman—
And then the tomato was in Ludwig's hand, plucked from the air, and he was standing and they were all staring at him with wide eyes.
"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING," Ludwig yelled at Lovino, who cowered, shrinking closer to Antonio. Ludwig's hand came down flat against the table (cotton cloth beneath his fingers), making the dishes rattle and everyone jump. "This is a WHITE tablecloth! Do you even KNOW how hard tomato stains are to get out of white fabric?!"
Lovino relaxed, recognizing this side of him. "Pedantic bastard," he muttered under his breath, and Antonio looked surprised while Gilbert was laughing, doubled over and barely staying in his chair.
Francis leered at him and said something in French that sounded lewd. And then he let out a cry of pain and clutched his shoulder, the orange that Ludwig had grabbed from the fruit basket and socked him with rolling across the floor.
"If you feel the need to throw something, choose an object that won't stain," Ludwig grunted to Lovino, and then took his seat just as Gilbert fell out of his, rolling on the floor in hysterics (he was going to get bruised if he kept falling off furniture like that, Ludwig thought exasperatedly).
Francis was still whining and rubbing his shoulder. "Aïe,did you have to hit me with so much force, homme?"
"If you didn't make lewd comments and purposefully agitate my friends then I wouldn't have to," Ludwig stated stiffly, and Francis blinked (a subdued and almost contrite expression taking over his features).
"Serves you right, you fucking pervert," Lovino muttered, sadistically gleeful (and his gaze, when he glanced at Ludwig through dark auburn bangs, were filled with respect, but also with smugness—Lovino always had been good at getting Ludwig to fight his battles for him).
Francis seemed to crumple slightly. « Ah, je suis désolé, » he said, ducking his head (blond hair in his face, downcast eyes, shoulders slightly hunched).
Arthur, Antonio, and Gilbert (now sitting up on the floor) were staring at Francis, mouths open.
"Well, blimey," Arthur said, impressed. "He actually got the frog to apologize." A glance at Ludwig, a nod, a smug smile. "I like this bloke," he said, and settled back in his chair.
"Ja, that was pretty awesome," Gilbert acknowledged (and when he looked at Ludwig the expression was almost proud).
Antonio just smiled again, eyes scrunching again, hand scratching the back of his neck again. "It's about time someone told you off, mi amigo," he said to Francis (but his smile never stopped brightening the room, and Ludwig caught Lovino watching the Spaniard with something uncharacteristically soft in his hazel eyes).
Francis heaved a sigh, looked up through his hair with a smile (it was shaky). "Oui, I suppose I did let myself get a bit carried away, did I not?"
"Damn straight," Arthur said immediately, and Francis's shoulders slumped further.
Antonio, apparently oblivious to the awkwardly somber mood that had fallen over them (a gray, foggy veil, but it was so much better than Lovino's hurt or anger), scrutinized the tablecloth and asked, "Say, isn't this the tablecloth Gilbert cut eye holes in to turn into a ghost costume for Halloween three years ago?"
Gilbert's eyes widened, and he leapt to his feet, saying, "Don't!" but Antonio had already lifted up the fruit bowl from the center of the table, revealing two eye-shaped holes in the fabric, the woodgrain of the table showing through (knots in the woodgrain like irises, pupils).
"Sí, it is!" Antonio said, and laughed (Ludwig felt something tightening in his chest). "I was wondering where we'd gotten a white tablecloth from!"
Gilbert looked decidedly guilty.
"Is nothing sacred here?" Ludwig said, and groaned, hand over his face (holes in a tablecloth shouldn't leave him feeling so despondent).
"You're sacred," Gilbert blurted, apparently without meaning to, heat rising to his cheeks when Ludwig glanced at him in surprise (red blush bringing out red eyes).
Everyone else was watching, too, stunned silent, and Ludwig felt heat rising to his own cheeks, where he knew it would clash terribly with his hair.
„Es tut mir leid," Gilbert said, head ducked (hair in his face, white against flushed cheeks), long, pale fingers plucking at the hem of his shirt.
What are you apologizing for? Ludwig wondered, but the words never left his mouth (throat constricted shut, heart trying to beat its way out of its somatic confines).
„Forget I said that," Gilbert muttered, and looked up, smiles twisted and eyes fragmented, and Ludwig felt the shards impale his chest.
„What if I'd prefer not to forget?" Ludwig murmured, and he was almost disconnected from his body, watching himself stand, take two steps to cross the distance between them, place a hand on Gilbert's warm cheek.
Wide red eyes met his gaze, jarring him back into his body, and when he pressed his lips to Gilbert's (swift, soft, chaste, a butterfly-touch, brush of iridescent wings), he felt every nerve alight, collectively sending tingles down his spine.
He pulled away to see Gilbert's softly stunned face, lips slightly parted, tongue darting out to run over them (trying to figure out if the kiss had been real), and Ludwig felt like maybe something had possessed him as he said, "It's getting late, and I have work tomorrow morning. I expect, however, that I'll see you when I get back? Maybe for a real date this time?"
Gilbert stared at him, blinking (white eyelashes, like they were frosted with snow), lips still parted. „Did you just ask me to be your boyfriend?" he managed, when his vocal chords started working again, and the way German sounded in Gilbert's voice ran chilly fingertips down Ludwig's spine.
„It's not completely obvious that I did?" Ludwig asked, and then Gilbert was laughing (delighted), and Ludwig felt the tension rush from his shoulders like a wave receding back into the ocean.
"It's a date, then," Gilbert grinned (Francis was sighing happily, Antonio beaming, Arthur sniffing in disdain, Lovino pretending to vomit—the four of them went ignored).
Ludwig nodded, turned to leave. "I'll contact you so we can set up a time and location. And remember—on-time is fashionably late."
He walked back to his house in the dark (avoiding the light pooled beneath the streetlamps, lest the puddles turned out deeper than they seemed), feeling like maybe he was insane.
(The rapturous kesese's of Gilbert's laughter echoed in Ludwig's mind long after he'd closed the door, chasing smiles like butterflies to his lips.)
(A year later)
Ludwig's watch read 7:02 when there was a knock on his door, and he opened to reveal Gilbert standing there with a grin on his face and a six-pack of beer dangling from his fingertips.
„You're late," Ludwig intoned.
„Am not!" Gilbert countered. „This is exactly the time that I knocked on your door that first time, remember?"
Ludwig smiled slightly, looked away, cheeks warm.
„You DO remember, then," Gilbert smirked, and stepped inside, toeing off his shoes (his socks were white with rainbow chicks, an odd contrast to his maroon jeans, black shirt, red jacket) and handing the six-pack to Ludwig. „Happy first-year anniversary of living in this house! I was going to bring a present, but, well," a shrug, smile sharpened and red eyes softened, „figured I'd just save it for our anniversary as boyfriends in a few days."
Ludwig hummed and leaned in to kiss him briefly, and Gilbert grinned as he sauntered deeper into Ludwig's house (into his heart, into his life).
Swells of sunlight trapped inside his ribcage, Ludwig followed, closing the door behind him.
It shut with a soft click that was drowned out by the sound of Gilbert's laughter.
(Only when Gilbert was there did Ludwig's house truly feel like home.)
END.
AN: Is it just me, or did my writing style change over the summer? Because I feel like writing Technicolor Achromatic (Denial) permanently changed my writing style, lol. And after that I might have also read a story that made extensive use of parenthesis which might have affected my writing, too...
Anyways! Next chapter is a different take on this prompt. You'll probably be able to spot some aspects from the next chapter that I composted into this one, but they're entirely different stories.