Hey guys, long and slightly fluffy chapter upcoming. I decided to continue the story due to your interest (thank you for all the comments and favorites!) Last week was finals, so I didn't get to write anything, but I'll be catching up this weekend and next week. Hope you enjoy! :)
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"So you're really leaving?" the Italian asked again, in disbelief, as red Bolognese sauce dripped to the oak floor from the wooden ladle he was still holding, suspended in mid-air.
"I'm afraid so, meine Liebe." Germany replied after chewing his last forkful of the delicious, basil-and-tomato-flavored spaghetti. He wiped the corners of his frowning mouth with a handkerchief politely, and stood up, already putting on his khaki coat with new, chrome buttons. "The French problem has been dealt with," he added curtly, painfully remembering the experience, "however, British troops are on the move, Feli. Word has it they have gone as far into my country as Stuttgart – which is unacceptable, of course. Austria will be helping me, but it will still be difficult to hold our positions – the English are advancing through dense woodland and thus have the cover of – "
"Fine," Feliciano sighed, and dropped his gaze to the floor, folding his arms over his apron. Ludwig approached him, military boots thudding against the wooden floorboards of the kitchen in Florence. While still buttoning his coat, he bent his head down slightly, until his forehead was pressing against the Italian's, and he could hear him breathing.
"I'll be back as soon as I can, Feliciano," whispered the German softly, caressing Italy's cheeks softly with his now-gloved hands. "I promise. Do you know why, mein Herzchen?"
"Why?" the Italian's facial expression changed from furious to curious, and he lifted his gaze so that he was now looking at the German with a sparkle in his eye.
Ludwig smiled smugly and, blushing slightly, said, "Because I can't live without you."
"Awwww," Feliciano grinned from ear to ear and pulled the German towards him, wrapping his arms around him tightly and squeezing him so hard Germany had to pull away for air. But he soon returned the hug, scooping his arms underneath the Italian's, and slamming his entire muscular body into Feliciano's delicate frame. The warmth of Italy's body seemed to seep right into him, heating him with new desires – the desire the win the war for him, the desire to be back here, in his cute little cottage in Florence, and the desire to –
Suddenly, his imagination took him on a short, but intensive rollercoaster ride. An amalgamation of flashbacks and potential flashforwards flooded his head, filling his mind with images of his and Feliciano's naked bodies colliding, the Italian panting loudly as he planted kisses all over his perfect, flat stomach, just below his pokey ribcage –
"Oh," said Feliciano with a giggle as his voice pulled Ludwig out of his pleasant reverie and the German realized he was breathing heavily and there was a questionable bulge in his coarse military trousers. The Italian kept giggling as his small, right hand descended down the German's muscular front and settled on the said bulge, rubbing it teasingly.
"F-Feli," Ludwig barely articulated his words, and his cheeks appeared to be radiating a crimson aura as he flushed, embarrassed, "as m-much as I would love to, I cannot." He pulled away from the Italian whose expression changed from that of playful euphoria to the glum disappointment from a few minutes back. "As much as it hurts me, I must go," he added, and put on his black cap. Tipping the rim downwards and back up, like a true gentleman, he saluted the Italian and strode off to the chestnut door which stood slightly ajar, letting light and fresh air into the house. As the German crossed the threshold, Italy ran up to him, barefoot across the wooden floor, and grabbed his large, clenched hand.
Feliciano pried open Ludwig's fingers and placed something small and white in the large palm before him, saying, "Take it."
"What is this?"
"It's a tissue. You know, like the caballero's used to get from their amante."
Ludwig stared at the slightly moist, white square before him. "Feli…. Those were handkerchiefs. Not tissues."
"Take it or leave it!" Italy stomped his left foot madly.
Germany smiled and folded the tissue in four, and slid it into the chest pocket of his uniform. Then, without a word, he was off.
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Feliciano was not living through days and nights – he was merely painfully enduring time, his days divided into "troubled sleep time" and "worrisome pastamongering and consumption". At times, he would even combine the two and eat bowls of spaghetti in bed while worrying. There was no time during the day that his radio transmitter would not be on, tuned into both Italian and German stations, as Italy tried to scrap together some information on where Ludwig was and how he was doing.
He had no idea how many days had passed since Germany had left the threshold of his house, because whenever he tried to estimate the time it always seemed between one to two eternities. The sole black-and-white photograph of Ludwig that he owned had a thick white stripe on the right side where his thumb held the photo and rubbed it compulsively. In fact, Feliciano felt absolutely useless and worthless, like he wasn't even very human anymore, because he simply could not find anything to occupy himself with when his German wasn't there with him.
Cats began flooding the Italian's house slowly, at first a few tabbys licking the leftover sauce from the dirty dishes and saucepans lying on almost any flat surface in the cottage – however, soon the tabbys brought their families and friends and soon there were over thirty living in the Italian's kitchen. Italy hugged them, petted their soft little heads, hugged them again, and then often ended up crying into their striped fur, thinking about how Ludwig probably doesn't love him anymore, and then crying even more when realizing that Ludwig probably hates the fact that he's such a crybaby.
During one of the crying-into-a-cat instances, the door to the hovel opened and two dark figures stood out against the bright sunlight outside.
"Eh, pompinara!" a familiar voice called out. "Have you gone completely mad to the rest?"
"Who's there?" Feliciano asked, sniffling into a cat, with a snotty nose.
"It's me, your one and only brother, segaiolo!"
Feliciano wiped his nose on the sleeve of his burlap shirt and sat upright on his bed. Only then did he actually recognize the two figures himself – indeed, it was his older brother Romano, dressed quite smartly in a snow-white shirt and tight, black trousers; and his – uhm – Spanish friend, Antonio, wearing a red shirt with rolled up sleeves and cougar-colored cargo pants.
"I got a telegram from the mayor of Florence, that you haven't left your house for a whole week. People were starting to get worried, since all the cats in the area seem to have moved to your house. It's quite suspicious to these superstitious northern idiots, I guess."
Spain butted in with a large grin on his face, "We thought we'd visit you. The telegram said Germany had left and I thought that what you probably really need is some human company!" The Spaniard explained to Feliciano and then approached Romano from behind, wrapping his arms around his neck, plopping his head with its messy, walnut-colored hair on the southern Italian's shoulders.
"Vee," Feliciano sighed with content, "really? That's so nice of you two! Sit down or something, I'm going to make some pasta." He sprang right up and dashed over to the small gas stove, striking a match and setting the water kettle on to boil, and busying himself with cutting some tomatoes and basil into a bowl.
Antonio pushed Romano lightly towards the northern Italian's bed which stood at a corner of the hovel directly opposite the kitchen. "You're such a good older brother," he said teasingly, grinning his dazzling, white grin at the southern Italian's sulky expression.
"Well, I love him, and stuff," pouted Romano, "and anyways, I'm much nicer to him that I would be to anyone else!"
"That's true," the Spaniard agreed and cocked his head to the side slightly, nodding a few times. His easy-going nature, ever-present, beautiful smile and indestructible optimism always brushed off on Romano slightly, who felt happier just being with him. Not that he'd really admit it to anybody, not even himself.
But the southern Italian wasn't ashamed to find Spain's hand and wriggle his fingers snugly so they rested in the tailor-made spaces which seemed so perfect for the Italian's hand. Antonio then rested his head on top of Romano's, who in turn surreptitiously threw his hand into the back of Antonio's trousers, squeezing his left butt cheek abruptly.
Italy approached them holding two bowls, one full of his trademark Bolognese sauce, and the other full of cooked pasta. He reclaimed a few plates from the cat kingdom and served three portions for himself and his guests. He then sighed repeatedly, after chewing each forkful of spaghetti and looking at the two men in front of him.
"What, segaiolo?" Romano finally burst out in question, after the Italian sighed again upon looking at the pair.
"No… nothing, brother." He sighed again, and after a short pause he said, "I love you both for coming here, and getting me back in touch with reality. It's just that, when I look at you two… I can't stop thinking about him."
"Pff," the older Italian rolled his eyes, "romantic bullshit."
"Hey, you'd miss me too, right?" Antonio demanded.
"Well, I guess."
"You guess?" Antonio raised an eyebrow playfully.
"Fine! Yeah, I'd miss you." Romano dropped his gaze. "So I guess I understand you, a little." He shot back at his brother.
"I just want to hear if he's okay. I worry about him all the time! What if those bad Brits are up to something and hurting him right now, like France did to me… I should be saving him, right?" Feliciano looked up from his pasta with worry in his eyes.
"He's fine," Spain reassured him, waving his hand. "I've never known anyone stronger or more heroic than Ludwig. I bet'cha he's kicking all the English asses right now!"
Feliciano brightened up a bit and finished his pasta. He then collected the plates and threw them into the sink, and sat back with the pair of lovers. They spent the rest of the day talking, laughing, exchanging stories about current life in Spain (where Romano was living at the time) or stories about how the war was going, about the growing tension between Ivan and Alfred, and unresolved conflicts between Honda Kiku and Yao Wang. Feliciano even gathered up some courage and told the two friends about the entire incident with France, the torture and then their near-death experiences. After a lot of sighing and considering, he even lifted up his burlap shirt slightly so the visitors could see his deep scars which still shone crimson, the ugly word imprinted into the Italian's body permanently. Antonio studied the scars carefully, checking their depth and color from up close, tracing his fingers against it, while the southern Italian sat with his arms cross, rolling his eyes and pouting jealously. As the sun began descending and the Italian air grew a little cooler, Romano and Spain begun getting ready to leave on their journey back home.
"It was nice seeing you, pompinara," the older brother said by the doorway, and Spain nodded his head in agreement. Romano waved at his brother from afar and Antonio embraced Feliciano in a friendly fashion, still getting the older Italian slightly jealous.
As the two walked outside the cottage, holding hands boldly, disregarding the crooked looks from most passers by who were also strolling down the cobblestone street, they were both marveling at the beauty of Florence during sunset. Romano turned towards Antonio as they approached their two-man motorbike parked by a cast-iron streetlamp. The walnut-haired man sat down in the leather drivers seat, putting on his iron motorbiker helmet and goggles, and the southern Italian bent down to place a soft smooch on the Spaniard's luscious lips. Then, using his hands, he brushed away the messy hair which covered his right ear and he nibbled on Antonio's earlobe and whispered, with a purr in his voice, "I want to ride you all night long."
Spain laughed a good-hearted chuckle and said, "I thought we were taking the motorbike?"
Romano sighed profoundly, buried his forehead in the palm of his face and plopped down in the passengers seat, astounded by the sheer extent to which Antonio was capable of being sexually oblivious.