Ludwig was not, by any means or in any relation to the word, in his right mind. He was not the type of man to just lay around and do nothing because there was always work to be done and it was foolish to waste so much time being lazy and fat and sad. But here he was, lying in his dark blue bed sheets while watching some very sad romance movies that Gilbert had left at his house a few months ago before all of this mess started, and he really needed a shower too. He desperately needed to eat and have some water, too. But coffee pumped through his system and that was about it.

It wasn't like he was trying to be a drain on society, but he'd missed two days of work already and Gilbert, as persistent as ever, was still calling him a minimum of ten times a day.

Ludwig ignored him.

He did not like liars and cheaters and even worse than those things were the people who were completely aware but stood by and did nothing. It wasn't as if that person was the catalyst, but they sure didn't help the situation.

So Ludwig just sighed when he heard the phone vibrating again, too lazy to get up and go turn it off. He had tossed it across the room, after all. He was surprised that it hadn't cracked on the wood flooring. He rolled over when it vibrated again, blinking blearily through his tear battered blue eyes. It wasn't a good day.

It wasn't until a few hours later, however, around three in the afternoon, that Ludwig began to feel a disturbance in the natural order of things . . . Well, at least his newfound natural order. He heard a loud slam, something akin to a car door just outside, which was strange because the only person he knew that had a car besides him was Gilbert and he should know better than to come around when Ludwig was in a bad mood! Even though . . . this was a bit different from a bad mood.

This was no 'bad mood'. This was a full blown depressive episode and frankly, he wouldn't be surprised if Gilbert was breaking his rules in order to fix things.

He still didn't get up though, curling into his soft sheets that were far too overused but still caressed him in a comfort that he didn't know how to get otherwise. Maybe he could go get drunk at that stupid club, let Ivan stuff him with drinks to his heart's content, and then take home a scantily clad dancer who only wanted to get off and nothing more. That's what he should have done in the first place, if he were being honest with himself.

Just when he thought that no one was actually coming though, he heard the front door jiggling, a few different voices, and then into his quiet, dull home came what sounded like a herd of elephants. Gilbert nor his usual crowd of friends usually had any finesse anyways. He was not surprised.

Now he got up, curling his stiff toes against the cold hardwood floors and tugging at the old t-shirt he was wearing along with flannel pajama pants, stretching his arms above his mussed head. He really needed that shower soon. Maybe a shave too.

" . . . Hello?"

No answer.

A lack of answers seemed to be happening a lot lately.

He sighed and began to walk out of his room, poking his head out into the hallway before he deemed it safe enough to go out and down the stairs, the creaking under his feet making it obvious to anyone who'd just entered his home that he was coming.

When he rounded into the living room, he paused, unfazed completely when he saw Gilbert, along with Antonio, Francis, and Lovino standing there bickering amongst themselves. He stared at them, deadpanned expression, and realized they had, in fact, not heard him come downstairs.

" . . . What. Are. You. Doing."

His voice held a bit of malice, but it was mostly just tired, resigned, and annoyed. He glared pointedly at Gilbert.

"Oh! Hey West. Listen, I'm getting' real sick of you moping around and being . . . Well, not you. So, we're here to stage a little intervention."

"You are the last group of people I want to see right now."

He turned on a heel, intent on going back up to his room and locking the door behind him, which in the long run wouldn't do much since Gilbert was strangely good at picking locks.

He didn't get far, however, before Lovino was shooting out of his chair, grabbing his wrist and yanking him back. Ludwig was frankly surprised when he turned, getting a good look at the man.

It was pretty obvious that it was Feliciano's brother . . . but he was darker, more rustic than Feliciano, his eyes darker and a bit smaller, but that could be from the angry squinting. He was also a little taller, broader, like he worked outside more often than not, or at least used to. It was the body of a dancer, though . . . Just like Feliciano had said. Lovino was beautiful, too. But not as beautiful as Feliciano.

No one was as beautiful as Feliciano. He felt like he was going to be sick.

"Listen up you fucking child."

The Italian's grip grew tighter on Ludwig's wrist, his dark brows furrowing with frustration. He was furious, and it was rather obvious.

"My brother is stupid. He's absolutely brilliant but he's stupid. He goes with what I say just because I'm his brother and doesn't ask any questions, so if you want to be angry at someone, be angry at ME, because I don't fucking care."

Ludwig felt his face grow softer and softer the more Lovino talked, as he could hear the quiet desperation under the yelling and cursing and gruff venomous mannerisms. He was not helping the situation, and Lovino knew it as well as he did.

"Feli asked everyone not to say anything, because he fucking loves you and you're too much of an idiota to even understand that! He's been lying in bed, same as you, depressed and not eating or sleeping and fuck all if he needs a bath like you do! Get over yourself and go talk to him. I'm not saying to apologize, but just fucking talk, mio dio!"

It was then, and only then, that Lovino released his hold on Ludwig, huffing in frustration before he went back to sit next to Antonio, who looked unfazed and even agreeing to the man's outburst. It wasn't surprising to Ludwig anyways, but they all seemed so used to it.

Ludwig could see the sadness and pleading in every one of their eyes, Gilbert the first to speak again.

"I know you're upset about everything but you love him, man. You were real happy when he was around and you went and told him to get out of your life because he was naïve and listened to that imbecile's suggestions."

He pointed a pale finger at Lovino, who glared ineffectively at him.

Ludwig didn't know what to do. Should he go talk to Feliciano? Should he fix this whole thing and get his wonderful sunshine back? His beautiful, perfect, delightfully sunny boy who painted without a final goal, who cooked without minding if he got flour in his hair, who sang at the top of his little wind chime voice, all for him . . . all for Ludwig and no one else.

How had he lived before? How had he been happy with such regiment, such order, such quiet? Without Feliciano, now that he'd gotten a taste and been happy for even a few days, he couldn't . . . wouldn't let it go.

All of these thoughts raging in his head, tears threatening at the back of his eyes as he wrung his long, pale fingers in the bottom of his worn shirt, and only one thing came to mind the whole time. He had no choice. He really, really didn't, no matter what he tried to tell himself.

"Mon ami Feliciano needs you, you know."

"Si, he's done nothing but cry and whine about how much he wants to apologize to you . . ."

"Come on West, please?"

They all begged him, wanting him to go, when he'd already made his mind up. He had to see Feliciano again, even if nothing was going to be the same. Everything had fallen into place even after such a short amount of time and even when so much had happened, he wanted things to be how they could have been . . . how they were starting to be.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly before he nodded, looking at Gilbert with a look that said everything he needed to. That was the glory of having a half decent relationship with the albino . . . things were telepathic almost.

"Alright. I'm going to talk to him. I'll fix things."

At Ludwig's words, he could see everyone relax completely, a silent air of thankfulness and relief washing over them like waves on sand, and he couldn't have explained the immensity of which he felt better. Not with any words, English or German, could he explain it. Because he knew that Feliciano missed him just as much.

It was then, regrettably, that Gilbert opened his big mouth and ruined the moment.

"Well, Westy, you're gonna need to take a damn shower and shave before you go anywhere, unless you wanna absolutely kill Feli with your grime."

His voice returned to its normal overbearing and loud state, the gruffness evident as he clapped Ludwig on the shoulder roughly, causing the blond to wince. He was a little sore and stiff from lying in bed like a stubborn, pouting child, and Gilbert definitely was not helping.

"Yes Gil, I KNOW!"

He huffed, crossing his arms.

"Now is everyone going to get out of my house so I can get ready to leave? Or do I have to chase you out?"

All four of them sighed, standing and gathering again by the door. They all knew Ludwig to an extent, thanks to Gilbert's rambling about his cute 'baby' brother who could do absolutely no wrong, so they all knew that he was a man who was no good at expressing all of his emotions outright. Ever since he'd started going to the club that Feliciano worked at when he'd first seen him, he'd been getting better, but he was still stifled. He preferred to brew in his feelings like a nice stew, savory as it touched the tongue. That was Ludwig.

So they did not push it any longer, simply gathering their coats and slipping out his front door one by one, Gilbert going last. The man then paused on his way out, poking his snowy haired head back in only to give a quiet grin and a thumbs up before leaving Ludwig alone, the click of his large wooden door echoing through the walls of his bland house.

His bland house which had so much life plowed into it as soon as Feliciano walked into the front door and begun to make a second home in such a short time, and his bland house that was sucked clean and devoid of that same life as soon as he'd made the imbecilic decision to get angry at the poor thing.

He missed him, with his big doe eyes and long fairy lashes, his tiny but long painter's hands, the way he was so light on his feet that Ludwig would have to strain his ears to hear the boy running around the kitchen. He missed how much he loved him. He still loved him, after all.

So once he was sure the group was gone, he made his way back upstairs, gathering a brand new razor and a clean towel, tucking away into the shower for a good thirty minutes. Once he was clean and smelling of green apple and aftershave, he went into his bedroom and put on a pair of black jeans, a cream colored button up, and an army green jacket, combing his hair back as well. If he were to reconcile with Feliciano, he would not want to appear disheveled and pungent with stagnant odor. There was simply no way.

Once he was ready and looking rather nice if he was to be conceited, he slipped his boots on, grabbing his keys off the counter and heading out. He was glad that he hadn't been so drunk that night that he didn't remember where Feliciano's apartment was located, since he definitely didn't want to get lost and have to make one embarrassing phone call to Gilbert for help.

It was only a twenty minute drive. The apartments looked just as run down as he remembered, but at least it wasn't as creepy and shady as it was at night. He double checked the lock on the car regardless, however.

He then sighed, as if he were exhaling all qualms and regrets right there onto the faded and cracking pavement, not wanting to allow himself to turn back now. Walking into the corridor, he clunked up the old stairs, his footsteps heavy and nowhere near as pixie-like as Feliciano's would have been, and found the same apartment, the door once again hanging an inch or two open. How unsafe, a door that would not close. Feliciano and Lovino must truly not be well off to barely afford somewhere such as this. Ludwig felt better knowing that he might be able to get the other out of this place.

He pushed through the green panel, paint peeling like parchment left in the sun, and the creaking and Ludwig's steps echoed off the walls of the almost barren apartment. It wasn't like the ghettos or the swales or something like that, but Ludwig was not comfortable, that was for sure.

"Feli?"

He called his name, like sour honey at the tip of his tongue. It had fermented while they were apart and wallowing, he supposed.

There was no answer. This was a reoccurring fad.

"Feliciano, I am coming in."

It was obvious which door was the Italian's bedroom, for Lovino's room was wide open and the light was on, probably left that way through carelessness for the electric bill even though they of all people should be worrying of that! He flipped the switch off when he passed.

Feliciano's door had stickers and a little Italian flag stuck childishly on the outside, little dribbles and smudges of paint on the handle and around the outside edge, where he'd probably grabbed it to open or close one too many times with grubby, paint covered fingers.

He was so beautiful, even in regards to his mannerisms.

Ludwig still knocked, pausing a few seconds before trying again, getting no answer, and finding the door unlocked. He pushed it open slowly, the dark and stagnant air pouring over him immediately.

"Feliciano, we need to talk."

His voice was so soft, so gentle, his steps light for once as he entered the room and sat at the end of the bed, just beside the delicate feet that stuck out from the bright red and yellow and orange quilt. The toes curled briefly before they disappeared, Feliciano's legs curled up and away as if Ludwig was some kind of disease or violent storm.

" . . . Why would you want to talk to me? . . . I'm trash . . ."

The Italian's voice was soft, as always, but rough, underused, tired. It was like he hadn't slept in days even though he'd been laying here doing nothing.

Ludwig's heart was breaking. In the silence of the room, once again, it was audible.

"You're not trash Feli. You're not. Please just talk to me. I am not upset with you, I just want you to talk to me, okay?"

He sighed, worried. He wanted Feliciano to get up, to smile, to eat pasta and drink too much coffee. He wanted him to come back home with him again and let him watch him paint for hours. This was horrible.

But, after a few moments of patience, the lump under the covers began to stir, slowly sitting up as the brightly color quilt slid down his nimble body, revealing an exhausted looking Italian. His lovely hair was matted and unruly, but nothing a good shower wouldn't fix, and his eyes that were usually so wide and bright were squinted and sad and had huge bags under them.

How strange, Ludwig thought, that they could both be reduced to this after only a small while of being around each other. It didn't help that Ludwig had these feelings as well. He could only imagine how bad it would have been if he'd known.

"Feli, look at me . . . I promise I am not upset. I am just worried about you."

"B-But . . . You told me to stay out of your life . . ."

Feliciano looked down at his own hands, nervousness written all over his face.

"I didn't mean it."

Ludwig stated it simply, his expression gentle but serious and stern, pushing across the fact that he meant what he was saying now.

"I want you to be in my life, Feliciano. I don't care what kind of issues you have, or had, or whatever. I don't care if your brother asked you to lie for him. I don't care. I just . . ."

He sighed heavily, Feliciano still silent.

"I want you and everything you bring back in my home. I want your singing and your messy paints on my wood floors, and your dirty dishes in the sink. I want your smile and laughter and your little feet on my floors when I get home from work and you were there. Do you have any idea how good that felt?"

He looked at Feliciano, an almost desperation in his eyes towards the boy, wanting him to understand. He did understand, didn't he? How could he not know now? It was being spilled out into the open like a mud slide.

"Ludwig, I . . ."

It seemed the Italian was speechless as well.

"Please, I'm sorry for getting angry and not allowing you to explain yourself. I'm sorry for prying when I shouldn't have and making you feel sad. I don't want you to feel sad . . . I like when you smile."

Admitting all of this . . . It really was like swimming through cotton while wet, sticking to everything and feeling as though something is not right even though breathing is still possible. A good analogy for shyness and trouble with words, he supposed.

Meanwhile, Feliciano was simply staring, wide eyed and surprised but still despondent, as if he couldn't formulate words no matter how hard he thought about it. Maybe he'd made a mistake, Ludwig thought, telling the boy all of these things.

But just as he was about to take it back, apologize repeatedly and take his leave to crawl into his bed again to continue his own moping, he felt the mattress shift. It was then that two small arms wrapped around his shoulders, a sleepy Italian's head nestling into the curve of his shoulder and neck. It was like a sunrise, or a finale at a fireworks show, warmth bursting through his chest.

"I'm so sorry Ludwig . . . I am sorry I didn't tell you . . . I just . . . I just fell so deep, and I didn't want to lose you . . . But it became too much and I just ran away like a coward. I'm sorry."

Feliciano's voice was soft, delicate, but happy and relieved now.

"It's alright . . . it's okay, I promise. I'm going to take care of you . . . But because I want to . . . Because . . ."

At this he paused, taking a slow, deep breath.

"Because I love you."