Hi there! Here's chapter 3, proofread and beta'd by my awesome best friend, WHADDAPACK. For MaKorra fans out there, please do check out his new fic! He's great! :)
Sorry for the wait. Happy reading!
Disclaimer: Once again, I don't own Hetalia.
Patches of light peek in through the sheer fabric of the window curtains, the late afternoon sun basking the artist in the light of its rays, a radiant shine that perfectly complemented the brightness of his eyes. The Italian must have been mistaken. While Ludwig was complimented for having great physical features, given his role as a model, Feliciano's beauty was unlike any other.
His hair a dark auburn, his eyes a deep amber, his body lithe and petite. Had this been any other person, Ludwig would have probably considered him just a little bit above average, cute if not handsome, and would have ended it there, leaving no more room for further explanation. But no, Feliciano was more than that. He deserved more than that.
Just one good look and it was easy to tell that Feliciano Vargas was more than just a pretty face. His was a metaphysical form of beauty that transcended even the aesthetical sense of the word, going past the ostensible perfection of his skin, his eyes, his features, and his smile, reaching into his very persona, the core and essence of his being. There was just something about him; something unique, something different – something strangely enticing.
It harbored a feeling that clawed at his soul, his consciousness, grabbing his attention with such great intensity that Ludwig found himself wanting to dig in even deeper, even farther, to unravel the mystery behind this beautiful being. He wanted to discover more about the Italian – his fears, his joys, his happiness, his sadness, his emotions, and his secrets; every reason and fact about his very existence.
And if there was ever any thing that could have been used to define the existence of Feliciano Vargas, it most certainly had to be the passion and the fervor he held for his artistic masterpieces.
So he watches the man, with every scritch of a pencil meeting the surface of a canvas, with every stroke of a brush gliding across a vast expanse of white. He watches his hands, so adept and skilled, crafting and creating and cradling, with the mere touch of his fingertips, an entirety of a whole new world all his own.
"Why do you paint?" Ludwig asks the man, his voice perceivably loud amidst the broken silence and the whirring of the electric fan in the artist's studio.
The Italian looks at him briefly, tawny eyes trapped in pensive thought, before he turns away and sets his gaze onto the view outside the window. Beads of amber falling languidly onto the world where the trees danced with the breeze and the shadows of people oscillated on the stony, pebbled sidewalk underneath their feet.
"I paint because I want to remember. And also because I want to forget."
"Entschuldigung …?" Ludwig replies, bemused. He didn't quite catch the last thing Feliciano had said.
"Oh, scusa,what I mean is…to me, painting is like an escape, I guess. It helps me remember the past better, helps me relive all my happy memories, and when I do that, I get to forget about all my sad ones too. Aren't we all the same, Ludwig? Don't you have things you want to forget? Don't you have things you want to remember and keep on replaying and reliving to get rid of that pain, too?"
"I guess most people are like that," he agrees with the artist, only to shake his head soon afterwards. "But I'm afraid that I am not like most people, sadly."
The answer is enough to bring the artist to a complete stop. The model's words have left him feeling lost and confused, sensing the loneliness that resides deeply within the German's expression and subtly shaky voice; a loneliness, Feliciano thinks, that is not so far different from his very own.
He sets his brushes aside, the faint rattle of plastic meeting wood seemingly unheard and ignored by the pair. He pauses from his work as he turns to face the blonde, their eyes meeting for a second time.
"Perché, Ludwig? Why is that so?"
"It was during the war back in 1917, when I had been stationed to the lines in Messines. The British opposition detonated numerous mines, and I had been caught in the aftermath of the explosion. And when I came to, I found myself in a hospital room; a man with silver hair and ruby red eyes sat at the foot of my bed and smiled at me. He said that he was mein bruder."
"Ve~ Was that Gil?"
"Ja, it was Gilbert. I didn't believe him at first, since we looked nothing alike, but when I thought of leaving him and going back to my home…I realized that I did not know where my home was anymore. I did not remember anything about myself. I had lost all my memories."
"Davvero? So you don't remember anything? Not anything at all?"
"Nun…there was this girl. A mädchen. And every night, without fail, I would see her in my dreams. They were always so vivid; so clear and precise down to each very detail, that I am certain that they had to be more than just imaginary. She had dark brown hair worn short in a pixie cut, caramel yellow eyes that twinkled like the stars, and she would always wear this dress, a light earthy green, the same shade as that of leaves and flowerbuds in the first few days of spring. She was beautiful, sehr schön, but I only wish that I could see her smile. Or at least, I wish I could remember the moment when that girl last did. She was always crying in my memories."
"Perché è così?"
He turns to the Italian and shakes his head, directing his gaze to the wooden floor. A small cough escapes him, then he opens his mouth to speak; his voice so quiet that Feliciano wondered if he had meant for him to hear it.
"Because the only memory I have left of her was of the day we said goodbye."
Translations:
[Italian]
scusa - Excuse me/I'm sorry (casual)
Perché - Why
Davvero - Really
Perché è così? - Why is that so?
[German]
Entschuldigung - I beg your pardon.
Nun - well...
mädchen - girl/maiden
sehr schön - very beautiful
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