A/N: Oh my goodness, I'm sorry for the wait! School and work have been crazy busy. I've also been in a bit of a rut plotting out this story, but I think I'm back on track! Ah, Feliciano is such a little flirt, isn't he? Hopefully he can teach Ludwig how to flirt soon, haha!

When the two men finally arrived in Vernazza, the sun had finally tucked itself away. The last golden hues of the sun kissed the Western faces of the buildings furthest from the shore. Ludwig gasped softly as he rode along the crest of the hill overlooking the village. He stopped the bike so that he could have a better look at it. He had nearly forgotten that he still had a passenger riding with him.

"Ludwig?" Feliciano said. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing…" Ludwig breathed. "Vernazza, it's..."

Vernazza was truly like a village from the fairytales Ludwig grew up listening to. The buildings were small and crammed together—the varying colors were so bright he could almost hear them. Each apartment looked so alive and bustling with life. Just by looking for a few moments, he could tell that warm, friendly people lived in Vernazza: if nothing else, he knew they must have all known each other. The village was too small for them not to.

As Ludwig was about to continue speaking, a breeze blew in from the coastline. It smelled like salt, fish, and a scent he had never smelled before. The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. It was then that Ludwig realized he was free—free from his father, free from the war, and free from living a life he had never had any intention of leading.

This was his new home, for a time.

Feliciano must have seen his face.

"You like my village?" he laughed. Then he patted Ludwig on the shoulders. "I like it, too. Bella Vernazza!"

"It must be so… peaceful, living here."

"Yes, very different from the city!"

Ludwig didn't want to tear his eyes away from the view. He reluctantly pushed off from the ground and began pedaling the bike down the hill. As they sped through the winding paths of the inner village, they were met with curious stares and shy hand waves. One man rushed to the doorway and waved his arm to him.

"Mangiamo stanotte la cena, Feliciano? Portate il vostro amico!"

"Siamo occupati! A domani?" Feliciano called back to the man. Then he leaned forward and pointed to the last apartment on the block. "That is my place, there. The red one!"

Ludwig blushed—the other man's words fluttered against the back of his neck. He drove the bicycle in front of the apartment and let Feliciano jump off. He swung his leg over and opened his mouth to ask a question, but the other man answered it before he could say anything.

"I will take the bike," Feliciano said with a smile. "Take your things inside, to the second floor—it isn't locked!" Ludwig watched the other man walk the bicycle behind the apartment, and he took the opportunity to do as the man said. He picked up his suitcase and walked through the old, creaky door.

The stairs must have been carved from very nice, but old, wood. Each one creaked as Ludwig ascended—not unlike his own apartment in Munich. This apartment, however, looked like it was under construction. He smelled paint, and he saw a few stray hammers and nails on a table at the top of the stairs. Whoever was working on the apartment was an amateur. He shuffled past the carpenter's supplies and opened the door to Feliciano's apartment.

If he hadn't already known, he would have guessed that the man who lived there was an artist.

It was incredibly messy. He wasn't sure how the man could find anything in the apartment—it looked like everything was buried beneath something else. His eyes hastily scanned the floor and the tables: his first instinct was to organize everything. If Ludwig had lived in such a fashion back home, his father would have beaten him, for sure. Though he was initially shocked that Feliciano could live in such scattered chaos, he softened as he inspected everything further.

The small window was open, and the warm, evening breeze blew through the pane. A clothesline was strewn across the small balcony that was accessible via a door in the back. The old, wooden floor creaked underneath Ludwig's heavy boots as he moved around to inspect the place.

An array of papers was on the floor. He stepped between them so he didn't damage anything. Ludwig supposed that they were abandoned sketches. He bent down and lifted one, just to be sure.

His cheeks burned red—the sketch was of a naked, reclining woman.

Ludwig dropped the thing and was suddenly ashamed that he looked at it to begin with. He turned his attentions to the small kitchen in a corner of the studio. It was surprisingly organized, compared to the rest of the apartment. He thought he spotted dust on the countertop, and he wondered if it had been used recently.

It was then that he noticed the easel tucked away in the corner by the back window. The painting was unfinished, but Ludwig could see the facial features of a man—an attractive man, at that. Perhaps most noticeable, however, was the small knife handle sticking out of the canvas. There were traces of other knife punctures in the canvas. Ludwig frowned: what a shame, he thought.

At last, Feliciano appeared at the doorway and laughed nervously. Ludwig awkwardly shuffled on his feet and turned around.

"I said it wasn't much, right?" he chuckled. Then he waved his arms, gesturing toward the floor. "Sorry for the mess, I was going to clean this all up a week ago…"

"Oh, no, it's fine," Ludwig stammered. "Really."

When Feliciano quickly bent down to scoop up the papers off of the floor, Ludwig hesitated before reaching down to help him. He was met with a warm smile, and his cheeks tinged pink. Feliciano smiled so often. Perhaps too often.

"Is it true that all Germans are clean?" Feliciano asked playfully.

Ludwig scowled. "Perhaps not all," he said. "But I think I am."

The other man grinned in reply. Ludwig frowned—was everything he said so amusing?

"That's what I thought," said Feliciano. He gathered the papers in his arms and set them in a messy stack on top of one of the shelves of a nearby bookcase. Then he waved a hand toward the dining room table (if a corner of the studio could have been considered a "dining room") and shuffled to the stovetop. He took a quick look at it and muttered something under his breath—porca puttana—and he began to clean it hastily.

"You must be hungry, Ludwig! You sit there while I cook supper, all right? It will only take a minute," the Italian man sang. Then he added, "And before you ask—no, not all Italians are good cooks… But I like to think that I am."

Ludwig had never heard a man talk so much in his entire life.

Feliciano seemed to have an entertaining story for everything. Sometimes he would reply to one of his own stories with another one of his own, and he never told the same story twice. Ludwig only had to ask a question about the man, and he would reply with some colorful tale from his past. At first, Ludwig wondered if they were all true, but the animated fashion in which Feliciano regaled them suggested that he wasn't crafting any of them.

While Feliciano cooked, Ludwig asked all sorts of questions—about Italy, Vernazza, and about Feliciano himself. He learned that the man was originally from Florence, but he had been living apart from his family for a few years. Evidently, his family owned the apartment he was living in, but he was supposed to be fixing it up. ("Papa hired the wrong brother for this, let me tell you," Feliciano sighed as he dished up two plates of pasta.)

He also learned that Feliciano didn't like to be away from his family, which currently consisted of his father and his older brother. ("Lovino is really something else," Feliciano continuously insisted. "He swears more than he breathes!") His mother was dead, and the familiar pain that hit Ludwig in the chest like a brick compelled him to quickly divert the subject, but Feliciano was one step ahead of him.

"That's why I paint and draw, of course," he explained, taking a swig of wine. "Papa tells me that Mamma was very good at it."

Ludwig wanted to ask about the canvas in the corner that had been stabbed repeatedly, but since Feliciano didn't mention it, he decided it was not his place.

By the time they finished the meal, Ludwig felt like he knew more about Feliciano than he ought to have.

"But we've talked for so long about me," Feliciano began, smiling again. He poured himself another glass of wine. "I know little about you, Ludwig! Except that you are from Munich and you are a clean German."

Ludwig froze. Where was he supposed to start?

No one had asked him something like that before.

"Ach… But I am not interesting," he said in an attempt to deflect the attention. He felt his ears grow warm. Ludwig cleared his throat and met the eager amber eyes of the man sitting opposite of him. "I don't have so many stories to tell."

"So serious! Here, let me help you," Feliciano replied. He leaned back in his chair. "Do you have family?"

"My father and my older brother."

"Just like me!" the other man remarked joyously, like it was the best news he received all day. Ludwig was thankful that they didn't have to discuss his mother. "What are they like? What do they do?"

"They are army men."

"… And you don't want to be one."

Ludwig finally met the other man's eyes squarely. Feliciano said it like it was a well-known fact, but he didn't recall discussing the matter with him. He fished for the right words, but it all boiled down to a simple, embarrassed response.

"N-No," he said. "I don't."

He hadn't felt like a coward until then.

"That's not a bad thing, Ludwig. Many men don't wish to be soldiers," Feliciano reasoned.

"But the Fuhrer, he—" Ludwig stopped himself, trying to find the right words to explain himself with. In the following moment, he could have sworn that he became his father for a few moments. "All of the good Germans want to fight. My father… He always told me that."

Feliciano frowned upon hearing his answer. Then, without a word, he leaned down and rifled through his bag at his feet. Within seconds, he pulled out a large sheet of sketch paper and cleared off the table with his free hand before setting it down on top of the wood.

Ludwig nearly gasped out loud when he saw it.

The man in the sketch looked exhausted, with dark bags as large as half-coins underneath his tired eyes. His expression was blank—he looked like he had nothing to live for. He was at the end of the line. He was out of options. His eyebrows were knit in an expression of stress and worry. The man was young, but he looked at least five years older than he actually was.

It was Ludwig. It was the sketch that Feliciano had drawn after they met on the road.

"You want to know what I think?" Feliciano asked, finally breaking the silence.

Ludwig looked up. He still struggled with the fact that the picture was of him.

"I think this man looks like a good son," the other man went on. He smiled as he began pointing out all of the characteristics on the paper. He pointed to the forehead first, just above the eyebrows. "Look at these worry lines—this man wants to be the best that he can be for everyone. I think he stays up late thinking about it. And look here," he pointed to the eyes, "He looks like one of those philosophers, no? He looks like he's searching for something…"

Feliciano tilted his head and rested his chin on his fist.

"I don't know, soldier or not, he looks like a good German to me," he said with one of his warm smiles. "Maybe that's why I stopped him on the road." His glowing optimism made Ludwig look away in embarrassment.

"Maybe," he said quietly. Then, before he forgot, he added, "Thank you for the meal."

"That? Oh, that was nothing," the other man laughed as he stacked the dishes on the countertop. "You should see what Tonio can do! Maybe I'll introduce you in the morning. I need to buy more wood for the apartment, and his shop is on the way."

Ludwig nodded his head in gratitude. He had yet to think of a way to repay the man for all of his kindness. He wasn't sure what he would have done had he not met Feliciano on the road into Cinque Terre. His eyes wandered to the building supplies in the hallway, and he thought about the wood that Feliciano needed for the repairs.

He had an idea.

"Feliciano," he said. "Back home… I worked as a carpenter."

The other man's eyes lit up. He must have known where this was going. "Really?"

"If you would like, I could help you fix the apartment," Ludwig continued shyly. He had done enough work on his father's place in Munich to know that working on Feliciano's apartment would be easy. "It isn't much, but since you let me stay tonight…"

"Tonight?" Feliciano blurted. "You can stay as long as you like if you can help me fix this place! See, I work during the day, so I can only work on the apartment during the evenings. And to be honest, I get a little… lazy."

I never would have guessed, Ludwig thought.

"Grazie dio, of all the Germans I could have met, I met one who can build!" Feliciano looked absolutely ecstatic. "Then I will take you to buy the wood tomorrow, yes? And I'll try to find a way to pay you…"

"You don't have to pay me."

"Oh, good, because I don't have money!" the other man laughed. "But don't worry, I can feed you, and you can have a spot on the sofa."

Feliciano ran his hands through his hair and scurried to a dresser in the corner and retrieved a few blankets. He proffered them to Ludwig. "We can talk more in the morning—you must be very tired, amico."

He was. He didn't realize it until Feliciano had mentioned it.

"Is there anything else you need for tonight?"

"Ah, no," Ludwig said with a small smile. "This is fine. Grazie."

Feliciano beamed, and as he left for another room, he added, "Your Italian is better already!"

After the other man left, Ludwig realized how quiet the place was—not only the apartment, but Vernazza. The window was still open, but he couldn't hear much aside from the sounds of the ocean beating against the shore. There were lingering sounds of people finishing up supper, but their quiet chatter was easily drowned out by the ocean.

He shrugged out of his jacket and pants and folded them neatly on the seat of a nearby chair. The blankets that Feliciano found for him were thicker than they looked, but Ludwig guessed that he wouldn't need them. Vernazza was warm—much warmer than Munich. It would take a few days for him to get used to the change.

Ludwig wondered what Gilbert was doing. Was he worried? Surely not, he thought. He was probably pouring another round of liquor for their father. He closed his eyes and tried to think about something else.

The first image in his mind was the man on the canvas.

Feliciano was such a relaxed and easy-going guy—what on earth could have made him destroy a work of art like that? Ludwig was sure that the man had high standards of his own art, and he probably destroyed it in a fit of disappointment.

Perhaps it was the hidden romantic in him, but Ludwig couldn't help but think that Feliciano knew the man on the canvas. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but he thought that the man might have been a past lover.

For heaven's sake, be sensible, Ludwig, he thought angrily, before dozing off.

That night, he dreamt of Feliciano's curly-haired man on the canvas.