Chapter 2
Arthur would admit that his misgivings were put to rest as soon as they boarded the train and were lead to a first class cabin. He was also impressed that Francis' smooth talk managed to get him on the train sans-passport. Perhaps it was because of the fifty he saw him slide so casually into the guard's hand.
Inside the compartment was a small table and a pair of big, stuffy armchairs surrounded it. There were even two separate beds, settling the feeling of imminent assault that had been nagging at him. He sat down on a bed, marvelling at the comfort of the mattress while Francis sat in a chair, propping his feet up on the small table.
"So why did you have two tickets to Rome?" Arthur slid his coat off, throwing it over a chair. His entire body felt heavy, but he felt as though he should at least try to talk to the man taking him to Rome.
"I was originally going with my cousin," said Francis, "but his sister got sick and he had to stay behind in Switzerland."
"Oh…" Arthur kicked his shoes off and lay down on the bed, relaxing. Not falling asleep, just resting.
"Instead of throwing away two perfectly good tickets, I'd figure I'd find someone to go with, or just go alone." Francis continued, idly playing with a thread on his shirt.
There was a knock at the door and an attendant walked into the room. On his tray he balanced a number of mugs and glasses. "A nightcap, monsieurs?"
Arthur waved him over and took a mug of steaming milk. Francis only took a glass of water, thanking the man. "It's all worked in the end I guess," He said, swirling the clear liquid around, "Vash probably would've complained about spending too much money on this compartment anyway. He's a Swiss through and through." He laughed quietly, sipping his water.
There was no response. Arthur was already fast asleep, the mug held against his cheek as he snored lightly. Sighing, Francis stepped towards the young man and pulled the mug out of his hands. After a moment's consideration, he picked up Arthur's discarded coat and tucked it over him. Taking his seat, the blue eyes watched the window as the train pulled out of the station. Rain had begun to fall by the time he called it a night and curled into his own bed, dimming the light and falling asleep.
The train swayed violently, jerking Arthur out of his sleep. He gazed around the dark cabin, rubbing his eyes. In the other bed, Francis was sleeping quietly, back turned away from him. Outside, the countryside slide back, illuminated by dull moonlight. Rain splattered against the window while in the distance, large storm clouds wreathed and coiled, lightning flashes every few minutes. He glanced at his wristwatch, trying to angle it so he could see it in the darkness.
3:38.
Arthur fell back onto his pillow and place a hand on his head, staring at the ceiling of the compartment. He was exhausted, but now that he was awake, everything seemed so much clamorous. The jerking of the train, the bombard of rain and the almost constant rumble of thunder. How did he manage to sleep through all of it? He glanced at his watch again.
3:40.
Forcing his eyes shut, he rolled onto his side. The train entered a tunnel and everything went quiet. Arthur sighed happily, already drifting back to sleep. Just as he was almost asleep, the train burst back into the outside world just as a particularly loud peal of thunder erupted through the sky.
Moaning, Arthur pulled his pillow over his head, attempting to dampen the sound. He sat there for God knows how long, keeping the cushion secured over his ears, until he fell into a fitful sleep. His dreams were filled with odd references to Cossacks, Old Country and - always in the most compromising of positions - Alfred. Each dream was worse than the last making his already troubled mind even more unsettled.
At 8 am Arthur awoke. He sat up immediately, trying to blink the image of Alfred and a faceless man out of his mind. Francis was already up, sitting at the table, reading the newspaper while munching on a piece of toast. Francis noticed his companion and smiled, "Bonjour Sourcils," He said, waving the bread temptingly, "Want some breakfast?" The train shifted suddenly and Arthur groaned, sliding back under the covers and falling back into a restless doze.
An hour later, a hand found his shoulder, shaking him awake. "Get up or else you're going to be trapped on the train."
Arthur rolled over, blearily looking around the compartment. "Wha?"
"Up." Francis repeated sternly, pinching his cheeks, "Make sure to eat something before we leave, not sure when we're going to eat next."
In a stupor, Arthur slid out of bed and pulled on his shoes. As the train coasted to a stop, he grabbed a muffin, shoving it into his mouth. Francis put on his own white coat and turned to see if Arthur was ready. The man was sitting on the bed, his head tilted back, snoring. Grabbing the suitcase and the heavy trench coat Francis tugged it over Arthur's shoulders and pushed him out of the train onto the rainy platform.
He dragged Arthur into a taxi, ignoring the face that he seemed to be in a comatose state. "Via Del Sole," He directed, looking at a folded piece of paper in his pocket, "There's a hostel on that street, you know where it is?" The driver nodded and pulled away from the curb.
The trip through the streets of Rome was nothing more than a blur of foggy buildings and a swaying, perilous taxi ride to Arthur's half-awake mind. He spent most on his slumped into his corner, green eyes fluttering open every few moments as he attempting to stay awake. Francis was talking to the drive enthusiastically in broken Italian, while the windshield wipers beat endless against the rain, sending him into a trance-like state. The car slowed suddenly, breaking him out of his daze.
Francis paid the driver, thanked him and hauled Arthur out of the taxi. The cab pulled away and disappeared around a corner. Arthur opened his eyes as rain splattered onto his face, yawning widely. The damp air was tinted with the sweet smell of the ocean and he found himself waking up promptly. Rubbing his eyes free of sleep, he stared up at the building across the street.
The hostel was three stories tall, leaning slightly to the left, towards the sea. Bright red letters announced its name - La Dolce Vita - while the rest of the building was coated in a peeling creamy yellow paint. Square windows decorated the wall in a seemingly random fashion. A tall stone enclosure ran around the left of the building, hiding a small courtyard. The hostel in all looked like it was scheduled to be demolished.
"I'm not staying here." Arthur said simply.
"You don't have a choice." Francis said.
"Of course I do! I am a grown man!" He planted his feet and folded his arms across his chest and stuck out his tongue. Very mature in his opinion.
Francis raised an eyebrow, clearly at the end of his rope. There was only so much grumpy English-men grousing he could handle. "Are you? Well my little garçon I hope you have fun in the rain." Francis walked towards the door and, giving Arthur a smug smile over his shoulder, stepped inside.
Arthur stuck his lips out as the rain intensified. Thunder grumbled overhead, warning him of the coming torrential downpour. He conceded, not to the Frenchman, but to the sword. He may be British but that didn't mean he enjoyed the rain. Picking up his suitcase he lifted his arm over his head and hastened after Francis, pulling the door open to the hostel.
The lobby was barely the size of his living room. Across the room, an old wooden staircase spiralled out of view. Beside the door that Arthur suspected led out to the courtyard, there was an old, tattered armchair and a side table covered in months-old magazines. A desk was shoved into a corner; behind it was a young brunet man who was sleeping peacefully on his folded arms, a single curl sticking out the side of his head.
After giving Arthur yet another satisfied smirk, Francis stepped up to the counter and nudged the young man. Hazel eyes opened slowly, blinking repeatedly as he looked between the two men in his lobby. "Ciao!" He said, voice light and friendly, "Benvenuto a 'La Dolce Vita', my name is Feliciano. Do you have a reservation?" A leather book was pulled out from under the desk and flipped through. Arthur noticed that none of the pages seemed to have writing on them whatsoever.
"No, we do not," said Francis, resting his arm on the desk, long fingers toying with the edge of the book, "We need a room for two please, a view of the ocean if you have it."
The young man nodded, picking up a pen and marking something in the registration. "And that will be one bed?"
"What!?"
"Mon Dieu!"
"No way! There's no chance in hell-"
"The idea is simply appalling-"
"That I would ever even-"
"Me? With that impolite, foul-mouthed,"
"Think of touching that dirty-"
"Bush-browed, smug,"
"Conceited, utterly self-involved,"
"Stupide Anglais!"
"French bastard!"
Feliciano stared between the two men, looking fearful for his life. "Two beds then." He said, marking the page with a tick.
"Feli?" The three men turned in the direction of the staircase, "What's going on here?" On the stairs was a burly, hulk-of-a-man. His blond hair was pulled back in a severe flattop while a black wife beater showed off his fit body. In his gloved hand he held a wrench, tapping it pensively against the palm of his other hand. Sharp blue eyes glared from behind a pair of half-rim glasses.
Francis and Arthur paled and shuffled closer to each other. Feliciano flounced over to the man, taking his arm and dragging him towards the two guests. They stared at him, shirking back and huddling even closer. The blue eyes blinked slowly down at them.
"This is Ludwig Beilschmidt!" Feliciano said, clinging to the man, "Our repairman. He's from Germany and he's very tall and very strong." His cheeks puffed out as he saluted flimsily.
Ludwig offered a hand. "Pleased to meet you." Arthur took it, eyeing the Iron Cross that hung around the thick neck. A Frenchman, a lazy Italian and a German soldier, truly the winning combination to an Englishman's vacation.
After the brief introductions, Ludwig climbed back up the stairs, saying something about fixing the leaking pipes on the third floor. Only once his dark boots had disappeared around the corner did Arthur and Francis relax. Feliciano smiled at both of them. "Let me show you your room."
Feliciano walked up the stairs, the fourth one squeaking loudly. "What that step, it creaks." He commented unhelpfully.
As then reached the second landing, they saw that only two doors lead off the small hallways before continuing up another set of stairs. From the floor above, they could hear the echo of metal on metal, most likely Ludwig working on the pipes.
"The bathroom's down the hall." Feliciano said, gesturing vaguely. He pulled a key out of his pocket and placed it in the first door's lock, opening it. Arthur stepped inside, Francis peaking in after him.
Rain splattered against French doors that led onto a small balcony. The rest of the room was bare save for two beds and a small wardrobe and desk. The wooden furniture had definitely seen better days and Arthur sniffed and immediately surmised that the room obviously hadn't been inhabited for weeks, maybe even months. Francis slide beside him, throwing his coat onto a bed and hurrying over closed doors, staring at the murky ocean. He turned back to Arthur, a broad smile on his face. "It's perfect! We'll take it!"
"Wait a second," Arthur said quickly and, in a much quieter voice, "Francis, are you sure about this? I don't mind paying for an actual hotel." He glanced over his shoulder at the Italian. Feliciano was leaning against the hallway wall, humming happily to himself.
Francis snaked an arm over the younger man's shoulders. "But my dear Arthur. Have you forgotten? You have no money." He smiled at the slack jawed expression, giving him a hearty slap on the back. "We'll have two keys please, Feliciano. And do you think you could point us in the direction of the nearest restaurant? I am, how you say affamé after our long journey."
Perking up at the sound of his name, Feliciano wandered over to the Frenchman, handing over two silver keys from his pocket. "There's a great café down the road, they have the most delicious pasta there. It's called Tramonto, the owner is my grandfather, Roma." He frowned for a moment, poking his nose with his finger, "Actually, I'm hungry right now. I will join you!" And before Francis or Arthur could say otherwise, he flounced from the room.
Shrugging at Arthur, the tall blond followed Feliciano down the stairs. Sighing, Arthur hurried after him, wincing as his foot contacted the fourth step, which whined irritably. As they entered the lobby, they were surprised to find two new people standing beside Ludwig and Feliciano. One had beautiful tanned skin, bright green eyes and was bothering a shorter man who bore an unmistakable resemblance to Feliciano, though his face did not have the same dopey smile. Serious Feliciano - as he would be called until a proper name was given- was yelling loudly at the other man, calling him a bastard and numerous other names.
Noticing his two guests, Feliciano introduced them to the fighting men. "This is my older brother, Lovino," He said, gesturing at his look-alike, "And this is one of our guests, Antonio. He's from Spain." The tanned man gave a cheery wave, resting an arm on Lovino's shoulder, ignoring his profanity-ridden objections. Obviously Lovino did not like Antonio; obviously Antonio didn't seem to care.
Arthur wondered vaguely if he would meet a normal person on this trip as they all stepped out into the cool night. Immediately, everyone paired up. Antonio and Lovino were ahead, the Italian yelling loudly at Antonio while he laughed, ruffling the younger man's hair. Ludwig walked with Feliciano, answering the happy Italian in a gruff, low voice. These couplings left himself and Francis to walk side-by-side, an awkward silence stretching between them.
What do you say to a man that you've known for less than twenty-fours, most of which you were either sleeping, in an inert state or yelling at him? "Nice night." Arthur commented vaguely. The weather. How cliché.
Francis looked at him. "Hmm? Did you say something?"
"No, I was just…" He trailed off and they said nothing the remainder of their short walk.
Tramonto did not stand out from the countless other buildings on the street save for it's bright red door. As they gathered in front of it, Arthur taking note of the darkened windows and the sign that hung on the door that read 'Closed.' He scowled, hugging himself and shivering. "You don't even know when the one restaurant on this street is open?" He spat at Feliciano.
Behind him, Ludwig stiffened, glaring at the Englishman, but Feliciano seemed completely unfazed. "Don't be silly! Of course it's open!" And, ignoring the 'Closed', he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Everyone followed after him, Arthur going in last, hoping they weren't about to get jumped by the Italian Mafia.
Knowing his luck, he'd be Feliciano's bitch before the hour was up.