Feliciano sighed, staring pensively out the kitchen window at the autumn clouds that were collecting in an otherwise pale blue sky. With one hand, he idly stirred the bubbling pot of potato soup in front of him, judging it to be just about ready to serve. To his tongue, it was a bland dish, but the Italian hadn't had a chance to walk out to the nearby town for supplies yet. He had to just make do with whatever foodstuffs were already stored in the freezer and cellar. He wanted to ask Ludwig for permission to go to town soon, though, before the weather started to get too gloomy and the autumn rains turned the unpaved country roads to mud.

Thinking of a trip to town, the Italian perked up a bit. He had always loved going with Francis on market days, the elder showing Feliciano how to choose the ripest tomatoes or the freshest herbs (not to mention the best ways to flirt with pretty ladies). Market days were always so full of color and sound—girls wearing ribbons in their hair, children fighting over candies, local farmers advertising their goods. Feliciano wondered what the local town was like, and hoped it would be similar to what he was used to. Maybe he could even convince Ludwig to come along. The fresh air might help put a smile on the dour man's face.

After the first night, Feliciano had seen much less of Ludwig than he would have expected. The large man seemed adept at hiding himself in the labyrinth of the house and there were so many closed doors that led to rooms Feliciano hadn't yet mustered the courage to intrude on. Instead, he'd busied himself with cleaning and preparing meals. Whenever he did interact with Ludwig, which was mostly just to bring him food, the man was terse and unsmiling, and often smelling faintly of alcohol. He rarely said more than two words at a time and sometimes didn't acknowledge the young housekeeper's presence at all. Unable to speak, to shout, to cry aloud, Feliciano could do little but endure the other's silence patiently, hoping that as time wore on they would warm up to each other. Feliciano was sure that once he got to know Ludwig a bit more, he would find that he was a kind person. After all, Miss Elizabeta seemed to care deeply for him. She had nearly cried when speaking of him in the car. And if gentle Miss Elizabeta loved him, then he couldn't be all that bad, right?

Feliciano prepared a tray with silverware and a bowl of the hot soup. Balancing the tray carefully, he made his way toward Ludwig's study, his footsteps echoing in the quiet house. He hated to admit it, but he was getting very lonely here. At Mr. Edelstein's house, there had always been someone laughing or singing or shouting. One of Mr. Edelstein's relatives had two children who were still at the age where they would chase each other through the halls with tablecloths tied around their necks like capes, waving sticks as they played at being soldiers. The ruckus they made had always given the household servants a good laugh—at least, when they weren't busy muttering curses as they cleaned up the children's mess.

But even now, it wasn't so much the silence in Ludwig's house that bothered him. It was the stillness… so still that it bordered on lifeless.

Feliciano knocked hard on the door of Ludwig's study, but there was no reply. Was Ludwig asleep? Or perhaps he was somewhere else in the house…? Hesitantly, he tested the doorknob. The heavy door swung wide open with creak, as if pulled open by invisible hands. The room was empty but the desk lamp was still on, sending a faint electric hum to Feliciano's ears. A bottle of scotch was standing uncorked amongst a mess of papers and books.

He surveyed the empty room with a trace of anxiety. He said never to come in here without his permission, but it won't be good for him to miss a meal… I guess I can just leave the food on the desk…he'll probably be right back.

The housekeeper placed the tray on the desk and turned to leave. He knew he shouldn't touch anything, especially now that he'd already broken the one rule that Ludwig had been so adamant about setting, but he hated how musty and stale the air was. It practically smelled like rot in here and yet Ludwig spent most of his day holed up inside this cramped space like it was a prison. Surely, if Feliciano just cracked open the window a bit, it wouldn't hurt anyone? A little fresh air would be healthy, after all.

Feliciano tip-toed over to the window (why he felt the need to tip-toe, he wasn't sure, but it felt weird to just stride across the room like he owned it) and drew aside the velvet curtain. Dust exploded in his face and set him into a coughing fit. When was the last time anyone cleaned in this place? Ludwig was going to get lung disease if he kept breathing in this toxic air!

Wheezing and blinking dust out of his eyes, Feliciano pulled against the rickety window. The recalcitrant thing burst open with a slam, sending him backward onto his rump with a grunt of surprise. Wind whirled into the room and papers flew off Ludwig's desk, settling on the floor around the startled housekeeper.

Oh no… Ludwig was going to be so mad. Feliciano berated himself as he knelt on the floor and gathered the papers into a semi-orderly pile. He knew he shouldn't look, shouldn't read anything, since they were Ludwig's property and they might be personal. But it wasn't like he could exactly control what his eyeballs caught sight of…and if he caught sight of it, well, he could really help but read it.

He picked up one paper which appeared to be a letter, penned in large masculine handwriting. Glancing at it idly, his heart began to pound in his chest as soon as he realized what he was reading. It was a very personal letter, and instinct told him he was doing something bad by reading it, yet his curiosity quickly overcame his sense of caution.

Ludwig,

I hope this reaches you at whatever spit of iced-over hell they've stationed you at now. I have about eight hundred things I could say about that, but if I do I know the censors reading this letter before you will just axe it (yeah, fuck you) so I'll say this… Uncle told me what happened, at least the parts he knows through the grapevine. I guess in the end I'm not surprised. I take back the things I said before Lutz, you're no dog and you never will be. Remember when we were just kids and you punched that fat shithead Heinrich in the teeth for teasing little Lili Zwingli? The teachers brought the switch to your arse but you never once apologized for what you did. I guess you're more like me than either of us thought—you're willing to fuck the rules, at least when you know it's important—maybe that's no consolation now but I'll say it anyway. By God Lutz, you'll make it through this. I know you're still too damn angry and prideful to write me back. I'm still going to write, even if you won't. And when this damn war is over, I'll be the one to bring you home.

Your Brother,

Gil

The letter was dated years ago, Feliciano realized, his hands trembling as he held the fragile note in front of him like a holy relic. There were others just like it, dozens of them, many of them years old, having somehow survived—no, Feliciano saw how the paper was worn soft, how deep the creases were—these letters had been read over and over, had been handled, touched, maybe even cherished—

"What are you doing."

The cold, flat voice struck Feliciano like a lead weight. His head snapped up to where Ludwig was standing in the doorframe, his face white except for two high spots of color on his cheeks. His lips were pressed into a thin, furious line.

"What—are—you—doing?"

Feliciano shrank back. Unable to voice a defense, he dropped the letter back into the heap on the ground and tried to shuffle backwards on his hands, away from that acidic blue gaze. Ludwig followed him into the room and grabbed the young Italian by the wrist in a bruising grip, jerking him to his feet and wrenching the boy's shoulder as he did so. Feliciano let out a sharp gasp, tears of fear and pain springing to his eyes.

"How dare you—" Ludwig bit out viciously, "After I made it explicitly clear—What the hell do you think you're doing snooping around in my private affairs, boy?"

Feliciano shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to twist out of the stronger man's grip. What could he do? Even with a voice, he wouldn't have been able to explain himself. Oh god, he was such an idiot, such a stupid idiot, and now Ludwig was—he was going to—

For a moment, looking into the rage and pain in those blue eyes, Feliciano felt a thrill of primal fear cut through him. Was this what they called instinct? The overpowering urge to protect yourself, to seek safety and flee from pain?

But the moment passed. Abruptly, Ludwig's anger turned brittle and the unnatural brightness in his eyes dulled once again. The larger man let go of his wrist, letting him crumple to the floor by his feet.

"You—get the hell out of here," Ludwig ordered hoarsely. "Just go."

When Feliciano hesitated, the man rounded on him. "Get out," he snarled.

Hot tears spilled down Feliciano's cheeks as he fled blindly from the room. Not knowing where to turn, he burst out the front door and sat on the first step of the porch, not caring that the wood groaned under his weight. He curled up into a ball, putting his head between his knees as he cried silently. Why was he so stupid, so irritating to the older man? Ludwig obviously hated him, had probably hated him from the moment he set eyes on him. He didn't care that Feliciano was just trying to help him, just trying to be useful to him in some small way…

The young Italian squeezed his eyes shut, wishing desperately that somehow he could be magically transported home—not just back to Mr. Edelstein's mansion Austria, but truly home, to Lovino, wherever he was now—to sunshine, to family.

Ludwig picked up the letter the young Italian had been reading, his hands automatically smoothing out the creases in the page even as his eyes refused to read the words. Instead, his mind's eye saw the naked fear that had been stark on the boy's face just moments ago, and he shuddered in revulsion at his own behavior. God, he had never wanted to see that too-familiar look directed at him ever again.

A bone-deep weariness was all that remained in the wake of Ludwig's earlier anger. It's soft ache came in contrast to the never-ending pains that pierced his bad leg like darts of fire. Months in the hospital, years of so-called recuperation, but it seemed that the injuries he'd sustained would never stop haunting him. So be it, he thought grimly. Perhaps the pain was meant to be a reminder, or a punishment. He took a drink from the bottle he'd left open on his desk, relishing the liquid's familiar burn. Doctor's salves, exercises, tinctures—nothing they gave him had ever helped. Only drink could dull his pain to a manageable ache.

Ludwig turned toward the door. He should find the Italian, he knew, and—what? Offer an explanation? An apology? Tell the boy he was free to put in his papers and run back into his sister-in-law's arms whenever he chose?

Supported by his cane, Ludwig managed his way down the long hall. The front door was open and beyond it, he could see the boy as he sat curled into a miserable ball on the front porch. Ludwig stood silently in the shadow of the doorway, watching the thin shoulders shaking with the force of the boy's silent sobs. The sunlight caught the copper in his brownish hair, highlighted the fragile lines of his neck, his back. The sight made Ludwig ache in ways that had nothing to do with his old wounds.

He opened his mouth to call out to the boy, to apologize, but the words didn't come. Instead, he retreated back into the house, his mouth set in a grim line. The years came and went, but Ludwig hadn't changed. He was still a damn coward.

He went to his study and closed the door. The meal that the boy had cooked was still there, cooling on the desk. He turned his eyes away from it, staring at the shaft of light from the window as it crept across the floor. When the light was gone entirely, Ludwig finally mustered the strength to leave the room again. He walked the long dark hall, past the closed front door, and stopped when he reached the stairs. He didn't bother to turn on the lights. From his point of the view, the steps seemed stretch on infinitely, ascending into an inky darkness.

For a long time, he just stood there, head tilted upward, staring at nothing. He had no idea what he was waiting for or what he intended to do. From where he stood, he could hear the sound of the boy's movements coming from upstairs. First, the sound of running water as he drew himself a bath. Later, the creaking of floorboards as he moved across his room.

Eventually, it became completely quiet. The boy was abed now, likely drifting off to pleasant dreams.

Ludwig remained at the foot of the stairs. He couldn't climb them on his own.

~tbc~

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