Hi guys! Just a little update before I tread on to the dangerous waters that is our school's exam week. Last week, we had project making for 3 days, so that meant no classes/lectures at all and all hours were devoted to cramming projects and building popsicle stick bridges and making videos and oh god it was just stressful. I had a fucking amazing group, though and we managed to finish all the workload ahead of time, so I managed to sneak in some work on this fic as I spent my time in school looking 'productive' in between periods. Word of warning though, I'm sorry I absolutely cannot write decent date scenes. ;A; (please don't hate me, my imagination can only do so much and I have no experience whatsoever I am a sad teenager huhu) And my attempt at fluff here is just pitiful. HAHAHA. FORGIVE ME PLS. orz
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
"Where do you want this to go?" the German says as he holds the framed canvas in his hands, a large cradle of wood withholding the painted memory of a cherished sunset.
At this, the Italian flashes him a grin, albeit a little shy and bashful, and responds to his query gently. "Just hang it beside the landscape of the trees in the left wing. Grazie."
The artist eyes him carefully as the model turns on his heel with a dutiful nod, movements rhythmic and not robotic, with lack and absence of even a single flaw. He acts with precision, quick and with haste, a dash of grace in his motions beguiling the artist and grabbing hold of his attention. It enthrals him, and he can't help but stare.
Feliciano struggles to tear his gaze away, lest the model be bothered to question his intentions.
-x-
"It's beautiful," he says, breathing the words out in a whisper, voice soft but not ashamed.
They're in the corner of the museum, the deepest end of the gallery, now working to display the fifth of Feliciano's masterpieces. The copper-clad frame of the large painting towered over them, their two lone figures standing alongside one another amidst the emptiness of their scene. Leather shoes slide past marble tiles, running along their surface as Feliciano shrinks the vast expanse of their distanced breadth, tinny squeaks overpowering the solemn quiet of the hallway.
"Grazie, Ludwig," Feliciano says as he turns away from the painting, his irises warm and bright, as he locks his gaze onto that of a pair of pale blue. "This painting means a lot to me, you know, so I'm really happy that you like it."
"You don't mean—"
"I told you that you two looked alike, didn't it? " The artist cuts him off with a hearty chuckle, and then, later, a gentle, off-handed laugh. "Even your expressions are the same."
The German inspects it further, eyeing the masterpiece that lay before his eyes. A boy lived in the canvas; flaxen blonde hair, eyes the colour of the sky – a bright, vivid, blue shade of sapphire. His lips were curved upwards in a tight-lipped smile, a dash of pink blush tingeing his cheeks.
"That's him, Ludwig," the artist says with a sad smile, nostalgia surging through his soul as it blurred his vision with a light coat of dovetailed mist and loneliness. "That's the boy."
-x-
It's a quarter past twelve when the two finish hanging the paintings in the museum, and the sound of their grumbling stomachs is enough for the young Italian to coax the model to join him for lunch.
"Ehi, Ludwig," Feliciano says as he tosses the folded cloth that wrapped his canvases into the cardboard box of the room; he's on the floor, knees folded as he sits quaintly, an apron on top of his button-up, sleeves rolled up until his elbows, sweat on his arms and traces of dried paint lingering on his fingertips. "Let's go out."
"Mr. Feliciano," the model splutters at the other's choice of words, swallowing thickly, cheeks marred with a faint trace of rose. "What are you implying?"
He is quiet for a moment; the absence of his words the only response that he grants the German. And though his ever-perpetual smile is playing on his lips once more, his gaze has grown distant. Feliciano can't bring himself to think of a response, his mind all a blur of scattered memories – blue eyes, blonde hair, a black coat, and warm hands.
There's really no denying how much they're alike.
"Ve~ But I'm hungry, Ludwig, "the Italian whines to the German, his tone lackadaisical as he continues to prod on; bringing a hand up his waist to untie the knot of the apron that hung on his frame. "Isn't it about time we head on out for some lunch? Pranzo? "
"Ah, well, yes," the German says as he clears his throat to respond, glancing at his wrist to view the time on his watch. "I suppose it is time for us to eat,"
As always, he flashes him a smile, winning the seemingly stoic model over with the power of his Italian charm. Without a word of warning, he grabs hold of Ludwig's hand and cradles it in his, a swift graceful motion done before a single moment can be wasted any more. "Let's continue our date then, shall we?"
-x-
"Ludwig! Ludwig! Look, ve!" Feliciano pipes up as they walk past the crowd, the tenor his voice bright and cheery and coming off as tiny squeaks. "There's a cinema over there! They're showing Al Jolson's 'The Jazz Singer;' he's really great, ve! And it's got May McAvoy playing that Mary Dale character, and she's a real bella, you know! Do you want to watch? "
"I suppose we could-"
"They've got flapper girls there too, " Feliciano continues, his mouth cutting the other boy off to explain further, "you know, those ragazze with their large necklaces and short, fancy dresses." He looks at the German, his bright amber eyes widening with curiosity and a little bit of surprise. And to Ludwig's consternation, he sees that little hint of a smirk, the minute curve of a smile, teasing and mischievous, playing on the artist's lips. "Ehi, Ludwig, do you like flapper girls?"
The model reddens, his expression on the cusp of embarrassment. "Nein," he says before averting his gaze and clearing his throat to respond, "I don't. Nevermind."
"Oppure, how about we go to that jazz club over there? It's really fun and the music's so nice. There's this pianist, Mr. Ellington, and he's such a virtuoso. It's like when he plays; he brings back the colour and the vigour back into the dullness of our lives," the Italian says, a pleasant warmth twinkling in his eyes, "just like how Mr. Roderich would play for me when I was a kid. It's so pretty."
The artist moves on to point to the building across the street, attention shifting to a new distraction, prattling on a whole new tangent altogether. "O, they're holding a dance marathon there later tonight! You know, my fratello taught me the Charleston there before, and the American Tango. But I swear, they must've named it wrong. It should've just been the Italian Tango, you know? It was so easy and fun to learn, ve, it was like it was made just for us Italians! I'll show you. Oh, and we could dance, too!" He says with a little clap of his hands, stopping only as realization dawns on his face. "Ah, but Ludwig, do you know how to Charleston? Or foxtrot? I guess I could teach you, too, but I'm not very good in teaching, ve…"
"We could grab ourselves a drink in the café there instead, " Ludwig says as he motions towards the humble café, entitled Kirkland's Finest: Delectable Delights, 'Offering Scrumptious Scones – two dollars for a set of fifteen!' written on a banner taped to the clear glass window. "You're still just recovering after all, so I think it's best that we avoid such frivolous activities before your condition relapses and you fall sick again. "
"Ve~ Ludwig's so wise," the artist says in appraisal, tone brimming with a semblance of reverent awe. "Okay then, ho fame, so let's eat. It'll be my treat!"
"Nein, stören nicht, that's all right," the model interrupts as he opens the door to lead them both inside. "It'll be mine."
I apologize for the OOC-ness. I hope this was still okay for you guys. Please leave a review? It would mean a lot. Thank you!
Translations:
[Italian]
Ehi – hey
pranzo - lunch
bella- beauty
ragazze - girls
oppure - or
Ho fame - I'm hungry
[German]
Nein, stören nicht – No, do not bother