GerIta/LudFeli, Hurt-Comfort
Feliciano returns to HRE's house after a long, long time.
Feliciano gently pushed open the ancient, weather-beaten door, cringing as the rusted hinges screeched in protest. The hall beyond was deserted, the once-glossy floor coated with a thick carpet of dust and the crystal chandelier trapped in a dismal silence of cobwebs and broken dreams. The formerly beautiful home had fallen into a state of sorrowful disrepair, but the Italian's aching heart quickly filled the empty space. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, the hall was warm and bright once more, bustling with the swaying forms of royalty and dignitaries in their extravagant satins and velvets. Music and the smell of a banquet wafted in on the slight breeze ghosting through the house, tempting his senses. Blood pounding in his ears, he opened his eyes only for the ball to fade into the darkness.
Feeling eerily alone, he stepped forward into the gloom. The dust kicked up by his worn, leather boots tickled his nose. Feliciano remembered with a bitter sense of irony the hours he'd spent polishing the seemingly endless stretch of marble.
His hands were blistering, rubbed raw by the constant friction they held with the brush. However, he refused to complain, biting back his sobs as tears rolled down his plump cheeks. If Austria heard him whining, he would be denied his supper yet again. A blister split, warm liquid oozing agonizingly from the newly-opened wound, causing a scream to rise to the young nation's lips.
"Italien?" The master of the house slowly made his way down the stairs to meet the brunette, "What are you doing here?"
The voice echoed across the deserted hall, ringing awkwardly in Feliciano's ears. He blinked, and the familiar form of Ludwig swam into sight, replacing the shorter blonde apparition completely. His posture, that reluctant, bashful expression, this house, those memories…
"What are you doing here, Germania?" His tone was light as he struggled to blink back tears.
"I just asked you that." Ludwig replied sternly, "Where are we, anyway?"
"A powerful nation once lived here." The Italian explained. My first love. "It was a beautiful house then, but…"
"That portrait… is that him?" A leather-gloved hand rose to point out the painting in its sad-looking gilt frame. Feliciano's eyes grew wide as they fell upon the likeness of the young man, and he soon found himself with his nose pressed almost to the canvas. It was carefully preserved, looking as though it had been completed only days ago, and for a moment, the Italian was almost convinced that a window between the ages had opened; if he reached forward, he would be able to grasp his once-beloved. Instead, his straining fingertips were met with the cool, long-dried pigments as they fondly traced the contours of the boy's pale face: his thin, pink lips, his intelligent, blue eyes. He could almost feel the warmth of the fallen nation's flesh, and on an impulse, Feliciano leaned forward onto the very tips of his toes and planted a small kiss on the portrait's cheek.
Ludwig cleared his throat, feeling awkward and more than a little confused by his ally's actions. "Who was he, Italien?"
"The Holy Roman Empire… Sacrum Romanum Imperium." The name sounded rusted – creaking tiredly from his lips after a long period of disuse.
"I believe he was called Heiliges Römisches Reich in my language. I inherited a lot of his territory, according to Gilbert…" There was a long silence as the blonde studied the portrait, not seeming to recognize the resemblance between the fallen nation and himself. Feliciano bit his lip – he'd known that they looked similar, but never had he realized just how similar – had Ludwig been… he couldn't have been… was he…?
"Did you look like that?" The Italian blurted suddenly, "When you were young, I mean."
This question seemed to surprise Ludwig, and he squinted up at the painting with a renewed interest. He tilted his head this way and that, as though he couldn't see the image properly. "Do we really look so alike?"
"Yes!" He was almost desperate now, begging for answers. His heart was palpitating wildly in his chest as he watched the German with wide, copper eyes. "You could be brothers!"
"Another older brother?" The nation's brow furrowed, "I really don't need another one of those."
Without fully understanding why, Feliciano reached up and grabbed his hair. Before the stunned blonde could understand, his ally had pulled his pale locks free of their severe style. As his flaxen bangs tumbled onto his forehead, the Italian was struck by their true resemblance. Those deep, sapphire eyes narrowed slightly as they turned onto the grey-coated marble, a faint blush rising to alabaster cheeks. A thin lipped mouth turned down at the corners, locking away clumsily cobbled-together words. His own eyes squeezed shut, tears oozing from their corners.
"We should go now, Italien." Ludwig fidgeted, unsure of how to respond to his friend's distress (he hadn't yet found the proper manual). "It'll be getting dark soon."
"R-right…" Feliciano rubbed his waterlogged eyes with tightened fists. "I'm sorry…"
"Don't be." Turning on his heel, the German began to climb the staircase. Curious, the shorter nation followed, wondering how exactly his ally had gotten into the house in the first place.
For one who was unfamiliar with the old house, Ludwig navigated it like a pro. As he trudged along, the Italian following him had to keep blinking away the specter of a black cloak that swept behind him. Suddenly, he stopped, and Feliciano collided (rather painfully) with his back.
"Germania?"
"Italien… is this you?" Picking up a fallen painting, the German passed it back to his friend, a look of awe on his face. When the brunette saw it, his face crumpled and he fell to his knees. Hugging the frame to his chest, he struggled to hiccup out an explanation. The words refused to exit his lips as he knelt on the moth-eaten carpet clutching the amateur artwork in his shivering arms.
"He painted me." Was all that he could manage before dissolving into tears. Ludwig stood there awkwardly, glancing around the empty corridor as if searching for help. After a minute or so, he simply gathered the distraught Italian into his arms and held him there.
"He loved you very much, Italien." The nation whispered, voice almost too low to hear over his companion's muffled sobs. "I can feel it."
Feliciano opened his watery eyes just in time to glimpse a young, blonde boy disappearing around the corner, a dark cloak snapping behind him in the stale air. A shiver ran down his spine as shy laughter drifted into his ears, but when he looked up, he saw that Ludwig was smiling.