DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW


ACT V

SCENE I

PADUA

at Roma's villa.

Enter GILBERT.

Gilbert Beilschmidt was upset. No—upset was too mild a word. He was angry; livid; enraged; infuriated. He felt his already high blood-pressure boil beneath the surface of his skin, flushing his spectral pallor like strawberry syrup on cream. Late last night, he had received an invitation to a wedding celebrating the union of his younger brother and the Italian boy, whom he, himself, had been pursuing for over a month. At first, Gilbert had thought that it was a misprint. Then his memory began a reel of the past few weeks and he cursed himself for being tricked. In his defense, he never would have thought Ludwig capable of double-crossing him, but that appears to be what happened.

"Ludwig, you dirty, lying cheat!" he growled, crunching the flowery invitation in his fist. In a bout of rage, he cast it into the blazing hearth. He had never felt so betrayed in his life. Ludwig—his brother!—had stolen the object of Gilbert's, uh... desire; the boy whom he, uh... felt moderately attracted to; he boy he... Well, the boy was very rich and beautiful, of course, but upon reflection Gilbert could admit that he didn't actually know Feliciano that well... or, at all really. He had thought the boy so sweet and innocent before, but now...

If he's been sneaking around with Ludwig this whole time, then maybe he's not as innocent as I thought. If he's chosen to wed Ludwig, then maybe I never stood a chance in the first place. Maybe I've done nothing but make a fool of myself and my house. And those flighty Italians let me! I bet they laughed at me! Curse them!

Gilbert sighed deeply. He was standing at the Vargas' front door, his fist raised to knock, but he froze. He had stormed over to demand an explanation of Roma, feeling slighted by the Italian patriarch, but suddenly he felt foolish. His heart felt heavy, an uncomfortable—unfamiliar—feeling.

Did he really want to marry a boy who obviously didn't want him?

In all of his twenty-five years, Gilbert had honestly never considered the concept of love as being important. Love for one's family and country, yes; but love for one's spouse? It hardly mattered. As long as his spouse was proper and obedient and produced lots of healthy heirs, love was unnecessary. A mutual-affection was more than enough to live with. Plenty of rich, powerful couples simply despised each other and they were still successful. And that's what mattered, wasn't it? The prosperity and future security of the Beilschmidt family was Gilbert's priority, not the happiness of one sixteen-year-old boy. And yet...

If that's true, then why do I feel like I just got sucker-punched?

By the time he knocked on the door Gilbert's temper had cooled. If Feliciano had chosen to wed Ludwig, then it was done and complaining to Roma like a spoiled child would do nothing but hurt Gilbert's pride. Simply put, he had lost. All there was left to do was to accept it gracefully and congratulate Feliciano... and then have a nice little brotherly chat with Ludwig about backstabbing bastards.

"I'm here to request an audience with Signore Vargas," he told the footman. He might as well grit his teeth and get the flattery over with now that he was here.

The footman bowed him inside and promptly escorted him to the rose garden—

Enter ROMA, IVAN (as Herr Beilschmidt), and LARS (as Ludwig).

—where Roma was entertaining Lars as well as a rather large, pale-haired gentleman with an unnerving grin. Or rather, they seemed to be trying to entertain him; or perhaps consoling him was a better description of Lars' feeble efforts. Roma looked positively forlorn.

Gilbert blinked.

"Ah, there is the other Herr Beilschmidt junior!" called Roma, spotting Gilbert. He waved a hand flippantly. (He was deep in his cups by then.) "Heard the news, have you? Come to pay your condolences, my boy?"

"I—Huh?" As he neared the party, Gilbert noticed Lars' expression change. His sage-green eyes widened and he gave a discrete shake of his head, warning Gilbert not to dispute the Italian's mistake, but the elder ignored him. "What's going on?" he asked bluntly, glancing from face-to-face. He gestured to the large stranger, and added: "Who's this?"

"Who, indeed!" Roma laughed, red-cheeked. He swayed in his seat. "You would make a fine jester, younger Beilschmidt! A fine jester! Who?" he bubbled. "Why, it is your father, of course! He's come for the wedding! Alas! It is all for naught, for my sweet Feliciano has vanished! Vanished!"

Gilbert stiffened. Roma carried-on, but the German had stopped listening after the word father. He looked at the big, violet-eyed man skeptically, then captured Lars with a piercing glare. "My Vater—?" he repeated slowly.

"Yes, yes," Roma waved in dismissal, "Ludwig has already made his introductions."

"Yes, I'm sure he has," Gilbert said, glaring at Lars. "Say, Ludwig—? May I have a word with you in private?"

"Actually, I was just about to—Ah, yes, okay then," he grunted as Gilbert seized his collar.

Impatiently, Gilbert hauled Lars indelicately to his feet. "If you'll just excuse us a moment, Signore Vargas," he said, marching Lars away. Once a suitable distance had been achieved, he stopped, turned on Lars, and snapped:

"What the fuck?"

"Okay, you're upset," Lars acknowledged, raising his hands defensively, like a beast-tamer.

"You're fucking right I'm upset! You lied to me!" Gilbert growled. "You lied to Roma, to everyone! Did you lie to Feliciano, too? Just which Ludwig is he supposed to marry, you or my brother? And where is he anyway? Ludwig, I mean. One of you is supposed to get married tonight, but the boy is gone—? Is that true? Where is Ludwig? And who in hell is that man?" he stabbed a finger at Ivan. "What the fuck did you do?"

"Gilbert," said Lars soothingly, "mind your blood-pressure, cousin. I can explain—" he began, but suddenly a herald's voice interrupted.

Loudly, the servant announced to the entire garden: "Presenting Señor Carriedo and Signore Vargas, and his esteemed sir, Herr Beilschmidt!"

Enter ANTONIO, LOVINO and HERR BEILSCHMIDT.

Gilbert turned to look slowly, wide-eyed, like someone surveying the carnage of a battlefield. Waltzing along the promenade was the mad Spaniard, a characteristic giddy grin on his face, with Lovino clasping his arm, jogging to keep pace. Antonio hollered a greeting to the party, which Gilbert didn't acknowledge. He was too focused on the formidable man proceeding them, marching toward the party like a warhorse fearlessly charging at the enemy-line. It was Herr Beilschmidt Senior. His father.

Gilbert swallowed trepidation. He felt all of his anger transform into pity as he glanced bleakly at Lars, who suddenly looked sick.

"Start running," he advised.


Antonio wasn't quite sure what game he and Lovino had interrupted, but he counted himself fortunate to witness the breaking-point. Herr Beilschmidt's appearance seemed to have a sobering effect on the entire party (everyone except Roma Vargas, that is).

"Imposter!" he thundered, making Lovino flinch at Antonio's side. The angry German patriarch was pointing to Roma's big, violet-eyed guest; a man whom Antonio had never seen before. The man—the noted imposter—merely blinked at Herr Beilschmidt in curiosity as he and Roma stood to meet the accusation. Roma, whose face was cherry-red and bleary-eyed, managed a foggy introduction, which the German violently silenced:

"That man is not Herr Beilschmidt! I am Herr Beilschmidt, you daft old Italian!"

Roma frowned, his wine-heavy brain struggling to process the other's words. "Now, see here you—you—you brute! How dare you insult me in my own house! I think I know the identity of my own guests, thank-you. This is the esteemed Herr Beilschmidt," he said, gesturing to Ivan. Ivan grinned. "It is you, I think, who is the imposter, sir. You are nothing but a—a—a beggar! Just look at your clothes, disgraceful! You have come to steal my fortune, haven't you, you—you—you Germanic barbarian!"

Antonio was grinning like a fool, enjoying the back-and-forth. Gilbert and Lars, however, looked pale enough to faint.

Herr Beilschmidt's icy eyes blazed and his hands curled into fists at his sides, itching to draw his sword and avenge the drunk man's slight. Instead, he retained his temper and snapped: "Gilbert!" Gilbert flinched. "Kommen Sie bitte hier!"

The younger Beilschmidt leapt to attention so fast, Antonio snorted. It was rather amusing to see the cocky, self-entitled German heir reduced to a quivering, white-faced vessel of nerves, like a puppy prepared for a scolding; ears flat back, tail between his legs. "Ja, Vater," he said, averting his gaze and bowing his head. Antonio wondered if it was respect or fear that permeated Gilbert's submissive tone.

"Gilbert," said his father sternly, "tell me what is going on." He addressed Gilbert directly, but he spoke in a common-language, inviting anyone to reply.

"I-I—I honestly don't know, sir," Gilbert stuttered. "I had nothing to do with it. I don't have the faintest idea who that imposter is, sir."

"Look at me," Herr Beilschmidt ordered. Obediently, Gilbert raised his head and met the frosty, ice-blue gaze of his father. To his credit, he didn't blink or look away; though, Antonio thought he was holding his breath. He stood statuesque until his father's tone commanded otherwise. "Yes," he said, "I believe you, Gilbert." In acknowledgement, he momentarily rested his hand on Gilbert's silver-white head, as if to say: Well done, son.

Gilbert visibly relaxed, like a diver finally breeching the surface for air.

Good dog, Antonio put derivative words to the exchange. For a minute, he actually felt sympathy for Gilbert. Then he glanced at Roma, and he honestly couldn't decide which parenting tact was worse: Roma's favouritism and over-indulgence of one child, while neglecting the other; or Herr Beilschmidt's dominance and high-expectations, which was a fear-inducing tactic more akin to training soldiers—or dogs—than raising children. Antonio found that he pitied the Beilschmidt brothers their stolen childhood almost as much as he pitied Lovino's for its loneliness, and was glad for the first time that his own negligent late-father had not been an overbearing presence in his life.

I won't be like that, he thought. I'll never hurt my children like that. I'll never rule my household by fear. I'll never manipulate my family. I'll never break their spirits

But you already have, whispered a voice in his head.

Antonio looked down at Lovino, shocked by the unflattering self-reflection. Lovino was nestled beneath his arm, the boy's gold-flecked eyes huge as he watched the scene unfold. He looked very young and fragile just then, not at all the sharp-tongued spitfire he had been only weeks ago. The transformation looked so complete that it was—sad.

I did it, Antonio thought, but there was no satisfaction in the victory. I broke Lovino Vargas.

Feeling suddenly hollow, he looked up at the competing figures of plotting Roma Vargas and iron-fisted Herr Beilschmidt, and when he saw the horrible picture of his future, he nearly choked.

"Where is your brother?" Herr Beilschmidt asked Gilbert.

"I don't know, sir."

"You don't know?"

The accusation cut Gilbert like a blow. Stiffly, he repeated: "No, I don't know, sir."

"Now, wait just a minute," interrupted Roma, confused. "Ludwig Beilschmidt is there." He pointed to Lars, who did not look pleased to be singled-out.

Herr Beilschmidt glanced at his nephew, and then sighed deeply, frustrated by the Italian's apparent idiocy. "You," he said to Roma," need to have your eyes checked, you drunk old fool. I am Herr Beilschmidt, and that is my nephew, Lars van den Berg—who I'll get to in a minute," he threatened, stabbing Lars with a glare. "But first I want to know the whereabouts of my son, Ludwig."

"But—but—but—" sputtered Roma, his face reddening in surmounting anger. He did not like being tricked. "If you're not Ludwig," he shouted at Lars, "then who in hell is marrying my—

—"Feliciano!"


Enter LUDWIG and FELICIANO.

Feliciano froze, half-submerged by shrubbery. He had not expected anyone to be in the rose garden as he and Ludwig snuck back inside. Quickly, he tried to retreat, but Ludwig was behind him and, thinking that his newlywed spouse was stuck, pushed him helpfully forward before emerging, himself. Feliciano stumbled for a couple of steps, his arms flapping foolishly before he caught his balance. Then he lifted his flushed face to the incredulity of everyone present.

"Oh, uh... Ciao," he smiled nervously.

In shock, Roma opened his mouth to reply, but the thundering of Herr Beilschmidt drowned out his voice:

"Ludwig!"

Overhead, Feliciano heard Ludwig curse in German.

"Ja, Vater," he said, placing a supportive hand on Feliciano; support for the boy or himself, Feliciano didn't know.

Herr Beilschmidt brushed past Roma and stalked toward the newlywed couple. Feliciano tried to escape; his father-in-law towered menacingly over him, ice-blues eyes peering out from a sharp-featured face not unlike Gilbert's. Ludwig held his ground, but the pressure on Feliciano's shoulder increased. What am I, a human-shield? Feliciano thought indignantly. Prying himself free, he dodged out of Ludwig's grasp and retreated to a safe distance away from the line-of-fire. Ludwig cast a look of fleeting helplessness at him, eyes narrowed as if to say: Coward.

"Ludwig, explain yourself," Herr Beilschmidt ordered.

"Yes, indeed!" said Roma, joining the interrogation. He took Feliciano's hand and rubbed it in a paternal way that revealed his relief. Feliciano relaxed, confident of Roma's protection. "If you are the real Ludwig Beilschmidt then you have lied to me, boy! Have you lied to my Feliciano, too? Tell me!" he demanded. "What is the meaning of all this? Did you abduct my sweet grandson? And you!" He threw a sideways glare at Lars. "You scoundrel!"

"Speak," said the German testily to his son.

"I'm truly sorry for lying, Vater." Ludwig bowed his head, but Herr Beilschmidt was not satisfied. He planted a large hand on his son's shoulder and forced him shamefully to his knees. "But," Ludwig continued bravely, "I'm not sorry for what I did or why I did it. I'm in love with Feliciano Vargas," he declared, going scarlet in embarrassment. "And I married him. As of yesterday, Feliciano is my legally-wedded spouse."

"Legally—? There is nothing legal about what you did, you fiend!" cried Roma. "You stole my Feliciano away! You tricked him, you must have! I did not agree to this union!"

"Actually," said Ludwig delicately, "you did. You signed a contract agreeing to the marital union of Feliciano Vargas and Ludwig Beilschmidt."

When Roma merely blinked, Ludwig pointed to Lars and Ivan; Ivan, who waved pleasantly. In that moment, Roma's face turned un unhealthy beetroot-purple.

"It is done, then?" asked Herr Beilschmidt coldly.

"Yes," answered Ludwig.

Herr Beilschmidt was stone-silent for a long minute, then he exhaled. "Fine," he said soberly. "I cannot undo what has been sanctified by God. However," he added, reprimanding, "this is not the spouse I would have chosen for you, my son. You could have done much better."

Both Roma and Feliciano scoffed in insult. "Excuse me!" said Roma, affronted. "My Feliciano is a prize!" he insisted. "Why, ask anyone here! He's the most beautiful and virtuous boy in all Padua! I defy you to claim otherwise!"

"Beautiful, yes," Herr Beilschmidt allowed, "but virtuous—? Ha! Don't make me laugh, Vargas. That boy lied to you and eloped with a man whom he's barely acquainted with, leaving his whole family to worry. And he's not even ashamed of it. Look at him, such impudence! Had I known you would choose such a spouse, I would never have sent you to Italy unescorted," he said to Ludwig. "I never would have given you permission to marry this boy. But if you're so infatuated with Italy, I might have agreed to let you marry that one."

Ludwig's head swivelled. So did everyone else's; then their jaws dropped.

Herr Beilschmidt was pointing to Lovino.


Lovino felt everyone's eyes land on him simultaneously. He felt Antonio stiffen.

Gilbert was the first to speak. "Are you kidding? Sir," he hastily added.

Herr Beilschmidt squared his broad shoulders. "I don't kid, Gilbert. I assure you, I'm very serious. That boy," he indicated blushing Lovino, "is the epitome of a dutiful spouse. He is quiet and polite and obedient and unfailingly loyal to his husband, however uncivilized the Spaniard may be. He is the only Italian I've met who has acted with even a shred of decorum or dignity. One needs only to observe how he stands there at his husband's side. There is respect." He nodded in approval.

"No, no," corrected Roma, parading Feliciano forward to display. "I think you are misinformed, sir. Feliciano is the good one; Lovino is... uh, that is... He's also very beautiful, but..."

"I care less for beauty than for virtue," said Herr Beilschmidt sternly, "and that boy, Lovino, has more virtue than any of you. He has an honest face." Again, he nodded.

An outcry of disagreement erupted. "Now wait just a moment—!" they said, but Lovino stopped listening. He looked skeptically up at Antonio, only to find the Spaniard staring blatantly at the German, looking both shocked and oddly unsettled. The intensity of his green eyes revealed a hint of internal struggle, though Lovino didn't understand why. Antonio was fearlessness incarnate. Or, that's the reputation he had yet earned, but perhaps there was a depth to him that he kept hidden. A secret weakness. Dare he even say—vulnerability? Antonio's facade was well-crafted, but Lovino had seen cracks of kindness in it before. In the rare moments when Antonio was taken by surprise, he revealed his youth and uncertainty. It was the face of a man who was lost in the world, which is precisely how he looked now. It was, admittedly, Lovino's favourite of his husband's many faces.

"Insult!" Roma continued to holler. He raised his fists, determined to avenge the slight to Feliciano's honour. "Come back here and fight me like a man, you blue-eyed snake!"

Ignoring Roma, Herr Beilschmidt crossed the rose garden to where Antonio and Lovino were standing. "You are nothing short of a spoiled, undisciplined brat, Spaniard, but you have the great fortune of an honourable spouse."

"Uh... yes, thank-you. I think so, too," Antonio said hesitantly. "If you'll just excuse us," he added, green eyes surveying the scorned faces of his fellows as he gently guided Lovino backwards in retreat, shielding the boy with his body. "Lovino and I need to prepare for tonight's festivities. That is, if there's still to be a wedding—? Or, at the very least, a wedding reception?"

Roma exhaled a puff of compressed anger and threw his hands up in defeat. "Oh! Why not?" he crowed. "The arrangements have already been made. What's done is done." He glanced menacingly at Ludwig. "I suppose I did give consent to the marriage. So, if Feliciano doesn't object to it—?" He looked hopefully at his grandson, who shook his auburn head and smiled sweetly. Roma sighed. "Then nothing changes, the contract stands," he finished. "Ludwig, my boy... Congratulations."

Ludwig bowed in acceptance. "Thank-you, sir."

"I suppose the only thing left to do is transfer Lovino and Feliciano's dowries to their respective husbands."

Antonio had started to lead Lovino out, hoping for a discrete exit, but he stopped sharply when he heard the words transfer and dowries, like a dragon smelling gold.

Lovino sighed. The kind-hearted youth was gone; the fortune-hunter was back. Suddenly, the boy felt weary and wanted nothing more than a cold drink and a hot bath; a change of clothes; and a long, undisturbed nap. He was, however, pleased that he and his husband would soon be restored to a wealthy status befitting Lovino's noble blood. He had thoroughly disliked the time he had endured in poverty and vowed to never again re-live the unpleasant experience. He was, in truth, much too proud a boy to live humbly.

"Oh, Gilbert!" called Antonio, as the party dispersed.

Gilbert paused and cocked a silver-white eyebrow at the Spaniard. He, too, looked tired.

"I believe that you and I had an accord," Antonio grinned, pressing a leather parcel into the German's hand.

Curiously, Gilbert unbound it and pulled out a handful of pricy bills. His wine-red eyes went from befuddled to irate to resigned in the span of a single breath. "Oh," he said unenthusiastically, "right."

"Antonio, what is all of that?" Lovino enquired.

Antonio's grin grew—if possible—even wider. "It's the bills for our honeymoon, chiquito. You see, Gilbert was kind enough to finance the whole thing: the house, the furnishings, the food, the horses. You have Gilbert to thank for all of it. Isn't that right, Herr Beilschmidt?"

Gilbert's jaw clenched as he read the expenses.

"Go on," chided Antonio playfully. "Say thank-you, chiquito."

"Thank-you," said Lovino, still confused.

Gilbert sighed and rolled his eyes. "You're welcome, Lovino. Toni," he said, clapping the Spaniard's shoulder in a fraternal way, "well played." Antonio inclined his head, mock-gracious. "I just have one teeny-tiny little question," Gilbert added, drawing Antonio closer; so close that the German's lips nearly touched the Spaniard's ear when he said (shouted):

"You spent a goddamned fortune on tomatoes!"

Antonio cringed at the irate volume. Then he smiled innocently, and said: "That's not technically a question."

Lovino shook his head, muttered "idiot", and then swiftly walked away before anyone could see him smile.