Feliciano was practically sobbing through his prayers.

"Our Father, which art in heaven," he uttered under his breath, his eyes closed as shut as he could get them. "Santificato il tuo nome; venga il tuo regno; fatta la tua volontà, in terra come in cielo." He was lapsing in and out of Italian. He didn't particuarly care. "Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. E non ci indurre in tentazione, ma liberaci dal male. Perché tuo è il regno, il potere e la gloria, nei secoli dei secoli. Amen." Feliciano was raised Catholic. When he didn't know what to do, he prayed.

He didn't know if Kiku was lying, though he suspected that he was not. There had been a fight, that much was certain from how he had looked, but was it true? Was Antonio really dead? No. It couldn't be.

But didn't it have to be? Worst of all, hadn't Ludwig killed him?

No, that thought was the worst one of all. He whispered the Lord's prayer again, this time completely in Italian. He continued to do so over and over again, fumbling for a rosary inside of his suit's pocket. When he found one, he felt inexplicable relief, though not nearly enough. He had just been about to start about ten or so 'Hail Mary's," when he had this feeling. He slowly turned his head towards the fire escape. And there he was.

His hair was a mess (which was peculiar because every single other time he had seen him, it had been damn near perfect), his shirt was nearly ripped in two, his face was covered in blood.

"Killer," whispered Feliciano. He held his face into his hands. "Killer, killer, killer!" he sobbed.

"I tried to stop them, I did. I didn't mean to hurt Antonio. I may not have shown it, but Gilbert meant so much to me. He really did. When Antonio stabbed him-" Feliciano looked up at Ludwig. He wiped his eyes, but said nothing. "Antonio didn't mean it, either. I know that." He sighed. "I didn't just come for your forgiveness, or to escape the police-"

"No," whispered Feliciano. He felt like he couldn't speak any louder. He stared at the floor. Oh, someone had spilled red nail polish. He looked away; it looked like blood.

"It's easy now-" he began, but Feliciano shushed him.

"No," he said again, louder but in a softer tone.

"Whatever you want, I'll do," he said. Feliciano looked up at him. He gave him a small little smile.

"Stay with me," he said, taking his hand in his own. Ludwig smiled back at him, but then looked at the floor.

"I," he began, but was silent for a while. He cleared his throat. He spoke in a low, quiet voice, the words coming out quickly and under his breath. "I-love-you-very-much," he said. Feliciano smiled at him broadly.

"Mi ami?" he asked, gripping his hands tightly. Then he remembered he wasn't speaking English. Okay, he should have known that, but during times of high emotion he tended to switch in and out of the two languages freely. "You love me?" he asked again.

"Yes," he said. It was so funny how embarrassed he had been to say it; Feliciano had said it the first night he had met him.

"Ti amo! Ti amo!" he exclaimed, wrapping his arms around his neck. He kissed his face several times; on the cheek, on the ear, on the chin. He felt Ludwig's hands on his back.

"Is that Italian?" he asked.

"Yep," said Feliciano. "I guess I could have just said 'I love you', but I don't know. When I say it in Italian, it feels like I mean it more. I don't know why."

"I could have said it in German," said Ludwig. "I'm fluent in it, though I don't speak the language much around here. Anyway, I wanted you to know what I was saying." He laughed softly. "Am I right in assuming you wouldn't have known what I meant?"

Feliciano giggled slightly. "Yeah, pretty much."

After a pause, Ludwig spoke again. "Ti amo," he said. Feliciano hugged him tighter.

"We'll be alright," he said. "I know it. We're really together now."

"But it's not us," said Feliciano. "It's everything around us." And it was. That was how it felt.

"Then we'll find some place where nothing can get to us," Ludwig said. "Not one of them, not anything." And Feliciano believed him, with all of his heart. He felt dizzy; his heart pounded in his ears and he tried desperately to remember the words for 'baciami' in English.

"Could you..?" he began. The word was at the tip of his tongue. He hated when this happened; he considered himself fluent in English but when he got too emotional there would always be that one word that would escape him. "Please, could you..?" It made him tense, not knowing. "Bacio, bacio," he whispered. "What is it in English?" he asked. It wasn't like he would know, of course, since he wasn't fluent in Italian.

Ludwig's face went slightly red. "I don't know," he admitted. There was a minute or so of silence that Feliciano found to be awkward.

But when Ludwig's lips met his own (and the word came to him, but he didn't particuarly need the word 'kiss' anymore so it was okay) Feliciano really did feel like he was in a place where nothing could get to him. Something or other led him to sit on his beautiful, fluffy bed-and even though he was a good Catholic, and he wasn't 'that kind of boy', he pulled Ludwig down with him.

Briefly, he broke the kiss. "Hold my hand," he mumbled. He felt Ludwig grab his hand. "And we're halfway there," he said, smiling.

Ludwig appeared to think about this for a second. "Hold my hand I'll take you there," he said. Feliciano couldn't stop smiling, until Ludwig kissed him again and swallowed his laugh.

Don't stop. Don't ever stop.