the gray division

They were now on escape plan K, and things were still not looking up.

"Here he comes!" hissed Francis as the sound of feet on concrete neared. "Everyone act natural!"

Francis immediately slumped over in his chains, miming a peaceful sleep. Gilbert sneezed, and then coughed, and them sneezed again. Antonio sat up straight. When Lovino entered, Antonio grinned and chirped out a "Hi."

"Stop looking at me like that with your dirty wet whore face," Lovino advised, folding his arms and coming to a stop in front of him.

Francis "woke up" and fluttered his eyelashes. He had spotted the key that bounced against Lovino's hip. "Oh, what is happening?"

"We're going on a frickin' road trip," he supplied, not taking his eyes off of Antonio. "Which means I will have to take off the chains. Try anything and I'll cut you."

Antonio gulped. "I'm—I'm not scared."

Lovino asserted his dominance by T-posing, Chris Pratt-style. "I think you are."

"My God, I am," Antonio breathed.

It happened in a flash. Lovino lunged forward, pulling some sort of cloth out of nowhere and covering Antonio's nose and mouth with it. Antonio struggled, eyes widening, chest lifting up—but it only took a few seconds before he was out cold. A siesta: hardcore version.

Gilbert and Francis squeaked in perfect harmony. Lovino assessed his work, nodding in satisfaction. Then he advanced toward them.

"This is how you got us the first time!" Gilbert shrieked. "Oh, I can still feel the bowling ball return around my poor, poor arm…"

"Ah, and I had such a mal de tête when I woke up!" Francis was panicking. "What if I do not breathe?"

Lovino closed in. "Trust me—you would be doing us all a favor."

Signore Feliciano Vargas was a mafioso for all the wrong reasons: his university grades were dismal, he was insecure, he owned no cats, and he had been in love far too many times. He just knew he was the one that would defeat the FBI and save Grandpa and Lovino but most importantly Lovino—he had to be. However, the journey to do as such would put all of Feliciano and all of his reasonings to the test.

The morning Agent Ludwig Beilschmidt was brought in to monitor his life was slightly chilly. There were definite hopes of it heating up, however. It was Sunday, the day after the interview at the police station, and Feliciano was taking himself to church. Ludwig met him there, wearing a dress shirt—no FBI jacket—and slacks and...were those glasses? Those were glasses! Feliciano grinned. Ludwig looked good in glasses. Why hadn't he worn them before? Feliciano wondered if Ludwig went to church, and how ironic it was that the government was getting involved in religion for this, and if Ludwig would ask him weird questions about it, and if Ludwig planned on holding his hand during the ceremony, and if the priest would scorn them if he knew the real reason Ludwig was there. Feliciano had to catch himself before voicing any of these concerns, remembering how he had been strictly warned by a certain someone not to talk too much and say something condemning.

In the end, Feliciano spent most of mass thinking about that certain someone and their empty seat next to him—the empty seat Ludwig filled. Ludwig didn't sing, but he did hold Feliciano's hand and say peace. That was something.

Afterwards, they took the metro to Feliciano's apartment. While Ludwig had visited Feliciano at his produce market, Ludwig had never been here, at least in person. Ludwig's FBI partner, however, had. Feliciano had watched the pretty lady interviewing Feliciano's neighbor through the peephole in his door shortly after Feliciano's interrogation at the police station. The scene in the hallway had not lasted long, and Elizabeta Héderváry hadn't returned, so Feliciano assumed he was safe and that his "alibi checked out." Feliciano had been told not to interact with too many outsiders for fear of creating a memorable impression, but it was just against Feliciano's nature not to be friendly with the neighbors! And now it had paid off, so ha.

"We're here!" he announced, beckoning Ludwig inside his small home with a dramatic flourish. "I know it is not much, but it is ours. Mine, I mean. It is mine."

Ludwig seemed lost in thought as he surveyed. "It is much, though." His voice was flat. "It's a mess."

Feliciano laughed nervously as he shut the door behind them and dead-bolted it. (Rent was cheaper on the seedier side of town.) "I was moving things around last night; sorry. Would you like lunch, Ludwig? I'm going to make lunch."

"Why were you moving things around?" Ludwig asked in the most careful of tones, stepping over a pile of old magazines to follow Feliciano into the kitchen. His blue eyes behind those glasses kept darting around, not missing a single detail. Feliciano's stomach rolled.

"To get ready for you, of course!" He dragged the attention back to himself. At least he could do that. "As you see, I didn't finish putting things back, because I got tired and hungry, but I figured that if we are going to be all domestic and everything" —he winked at Ludwig, and there it was again, that blush— "we may as well have a clean space for it."

"This is your attempt at cleaning," Ludwig stated, his voice remaining devoid of emotion, to his credit.

Feliciano had already turned away and was inspecting the equally-unclean contents of his cabinets. "So, for lunch, do you like better: spaghetti or linguine?"

In the beginning, Feliciano had just liked the way Ludwig looked at him. First Ludwig's ears would turn pink, then his cheeks, and by the time he glanced away his whole face would be endearingly rosy. Embarrassing him made Feliciano feel bad, but it was so easy he would do it even when he tried not to! And then, Ludwig was tall and smart and a good listener and...swole and everything. In the end, Feliciano decided he just liked Ludwig, no matter what terrifying game of cops-and-robbers and pretend they were being forced to play.

"Are you...going to eat?" Ludwig asked, breaking the silence. They were sitting at the tiny, tiny kitchen table in front of a heaping plate of pasta. (Spaghetti.)

Feliciano had been staring. "Oh. Yes, yes!" He shoveled a piping hot forkful into his mouth, then hissed at the burn. He gave Ludwig two thumbs-up and said over a full mouth, "Is not poisoned, I swear!"

Ludwig sighed. "I'll take your word for it." He dug in.

And the best part was that the food really wasn't poisoned, either! Ludwig's reaction was just that great as Feliciano waited for it. "This is good," the FBI agent marveled quietly. His eyes flickered quickly up to Feliciano's grin, then back down. "Um. Thank you."

"Your new glasses make you look even more cute," Feliciano told him, grinning wider.

Ludwig didn't look up from the food. His shoulders squeezed together a little. "They are...not new," he said, quieter.

"Oh, well, new to me." Feliciano now studied them more. Next to the lens on Ludwig's right side, the thickness of the frame reflected double the light from the weak kitchen incandescents, almost as if there was...another lens there. A different type of lens. One would easily miss it. The most miniscule chord of fear struck Feliciano's heart, and he leaned in further to see better—

Ludwig sat up abruptly and put his fork down. "Let's talk about you now. I noticed you have no landline phone at this house. Do you carry a cell?"

The fear in Feliciano's heart curdled. "No," he responded promptly. "I dropped it in a pot of boiling water and the rice trick did not work. Every part is broken, hah. Oops. Did I not tell you?"

For a second, Ludwig looked startled by the fact that he might already have known something Feliciano was just now telling him, but masked it with another calm face and carried on. "Isn't it unsafe to not have a phone? What if you get hurt?"

Feliciano wished he had broken out the wine for this. "If the FBI is with me, why would I be getting hurt?" He gave a small, sharp smile. "Also I have my friends and neighbors."

Ludwig simply nodded. "That is fair. You must be good at making friends and neighbors. Do you keep weapons?"

Feliciano folded his arms evenly, but under the table, he swung his feet back and forth. "We can protect each other without weapons."

Ludwig gave him a level stare in return. "I am sure you do."

The conversation continued until Monday, when Agent Beilschmidt returned. He carried with him a box of latex gloves and a trash bag. "Do you have a broom?" He asked by way of greeting, standing in the dirty doorway. "I would like to help you clean."

Feliciano was slightly taken aback, as he wore only a house T-shirt and boxer shorts. He munched a cookie. "Oh, hello, Ludwig, ciao! I was just getting ready for naptime…"

"Then I can clean by myself while you sleep," Ludwig decided, meeting him in the eyes. "May I enter?"

"Yes, please, you sexy blond vampire," Feliciano yawned, tossing the door carelessly into its stop. Get his house cleaned for him and get a nap? It sounded glorious. He ate two more cookies, trotted off to his bedroom, tossed his shirt to the floor where he kept most of his clothing, put on a sleeping mask left behind by a certain someone that said in pink stitching The Diva Is Out, and slid under the covers.

He only realized his mistake after he rose from heavenly slumber two hours later.

Ludwig was sitting on the old sofa, sorting through the mess of Feliciano's coffee table. Half the living room had been organized already, and the kitchen was spotless. Feliciano stalked over, sat down on the coffee table, crossed his legs, and put his hands on his hips. "Don't you need a warrant for this?"

Ludwig looked up at him all innocent-like. "No, I don't see why I would need one to clean." Emphasis on clean.

But Feliciano only rolled his eyes. Tilted his head. "Okay, then." He looked closer at the items Ludwig was examining. "Did you find anything, um, interesting, while you were cleaning?"

Ludwig leaned back slowly, setting down a colorfully covered DVD. "Just some...bad...films."

He grinned. "Bad as in you do not like them or bad as in they are just not good films?"

"I will decline to answer that question," the agent said, smartly.

Feliciano laughed. "You should see my sketchbook." He moved to the couch, bouncing.

Ludwig let out the faintest of snorts. (Feliciano's heart beat with glee at having made him almost laugh!) "Oh, I have already looked through that." He ruffled through old copies of Vogue with his bright blue latex gloves, then moved on to the stack of travel guides and sun-faded notebooks. Studious and dangerous.

Feliciano couldn't stop himself. He reached down and set his own hands on top of Ludwig's, stopping the action. Ludwig didn't say anything at first, just looked at him quizzically, those special glasses capturing everything in the room.

"Who is Gilbert?" Feliciano blurted out.

Ludwig tensed. "Where did you hear that name?" He carefully began to pull his hands away, but Feliciano held on.

"Is he your brother?" he insisted, venturing into the dark cloud of secrets.

"No. I've never heard that name in my life."

"Oh, surely, it is not that uncommon a name!" Feliciano scooted closer. "Many people have brothers."

Ludwig yanked himself away, hands and all. "You have a brother. In—In Italy."

"In Italy," he echoed, fiercely nodding. "Like you made me say in the interview. You also said a name Gilbert in the interview! That is why I was just wondering—"

"What does your brother do in Italy, exactly?" Ludwig asked. His voice was lower, though he didn't sound angry like he had that day at the police station, just startled.

After a beat, Feliciano responded, "He is a farmer. He sells produce in Italy. Like me here."

Ludwig shifted a little on the sofa, his gaze distant and stormy. He looked hot when he was thinking. Too bad Feliciano was too terrified to touch him again. "The family business," Ludwig concluded.

"Yes," Feliciano breathed out. No! "Wait, no, not like tha—"

"You know," Ludwig thought aloud, reaching forward and taking Feliciano's hand, "I think I would like to visit this produce farmer's market you work at, again. Tomorrow."

And so, on Tuesday, that was where Feliciano found them. Under the sweltering heat of the afternoon sun, dressed in aprons and more latex blue gloves, surrounded by fruit, vegetables, and customers alike.

Ludwig was a good worker—maybe even better than Feliciano. He got the hang of things quickly, and could lift more boxes of produce at a time. He worked alongside Feliciano like a shadow, and even took orders of his own, but Feliciano felt his eyes on his back whenever he made small talk with the visitors. They were mostly old ladies that called Feliciano "sweetheart" and euphorically described how these blueberries would taste in their famous, generations-old cobbler recipe, which Feliciano didn't think sounded like suspicious Mafia talk to anyone, but he could never guess how Ludwig read it.

He was like a big, soft pretzel—lightly salted.

"We are running low on boxes," he informed quietly, brushing past Feliciano to hand someone their change.

"There are probably more in the cellar," Feliciano answered, absentmindedly checking his hair in the reflection of the windows.

"...Shall I get them?" Ludwig asked, nodding towards the big metal doors that marked the darkest corner of the inside part of the small building.

Feliciano perked to attention. "No, no, no!" He took a breath and stretched out his hands. "No, it's okay! I will get boxes. You stay here." He added in a smile to smooth things over.

Ludwig gave him a quizzical look, but offered up no further comments. At least he seemed more relaxed today. Feliciano had almost messed up big time. At least they had prepared for today.

So he left the FBI agent to his duties and carefully descended into the musk of the basement. Feliciano hadn't been down in weeks, even though he worked here. No one used it—not even the real owner of the place. The cellar had been forgotten. Years ago someone had had the bright idea to put up tacky linoleum that clashed with the rows of old, broken refrigerators, and it smelled like someone was aging cheese in the rows of antique, spider web-covered jars that lined one wall. Feliciano didn't venture off the stone steps down until he had secured a hand on the string that turned on the singular overhead light bulb. It coughed, sputtered, and with a whine, finally flickered on.

Lovino had forgotten to move the three chairs.

Feliciano wasted no time doing it himself, stacking the chairs and shoving them into the back of the room so it looked like they had been there a long time. Then he grabbed an armful of unused cardboard produce boxes, turned off the light, and dashed back up into the heat of the day.

"Here you go, Ludwig!" Feliciano gracefully tipped them into his hands.

"Ah, thank you." Ludwig took the stack easily. "Another delivery of tomatoes just came in." As if they were actual colleagues, actual partners. "Can you help me unload?" He looked so professional in those glasses.

"Of course." Feliciano smiled a real smile this time. It felt good to forget they were part of an ongoing investigation and to do normal things that weren't hacking or kidnapping or chasing false leads and suspicious speculations across the city. He and Ludwig created an assembly line from the back of the delivery truck, passing boxes of fruits down a line to the market. He made sure their hands touched every time.

"What is it like to work for the FBI?" Feliciano asked Ludwig on Wednesday. They sat in a booth at a somewhat high-end restaurant, empty plates and half-full glasses in front of them. Feliciano had used his entire Tuesday paycheck to pay for this, though Ludwig still insisted on picking up his own portion. It was getting late, and some local music act was setting up in the courtyard outside.

Agent Beilschmidt had retained his tranquil demeanor from yesterday. The drinks helped, undoubtedly; he was more open to talk than to interrogate. "It can be...a lot, sometimes. There is a lot of stress. Especially now. I—I haven't been sleeping good." He said this down at his silverware.

Feliciano had to remember to stop biting his tongue. Careful, careful. "I'm sorry. That must be so terrible. Is it my fault? I hope it is not my fault."

Ludwig sighed. "No, it's just… Ever since we moved, I have been working towards this. But lately I have been wondering…" He glanced around them, as if fearful a wild Elizabeta Héderváry was going to pop up from behind the bar. "I have been wondering if what I am doing is really right."

Feliciano stared. "Me too."

"Of course, it doesn't matter. It is not my position to question… Well, it doesn't matter. What is done is done." He reached for his jacket, pulling it into his lap. "Are you ready to go?"

He nodded fiercely. "Thank you for the date tonight!"

Ludwig, as expected, was appalled. "Date? This is not a—a date."

Feliciano held the door open, simpering. "Then what is it?"

Ludwig stepped carefully into the night. "A semi-formal business dinner."

"You sound like you had that answer prepared," teased Feliciano, following him down the street. "And that tie looks pretty formal to me!"

Ludwig was red, red, red. "You are under investigation!" he laughed out incredulously.

"So?" Feliciano snuck an arm around his waist. (A real laugh this time!)

"So," Ludwig warned, gently brushing his arm away, "there would be trouble. I could get… You would…" He thought for a second. "Actually, I do not know what would happen." He focused on something ahead, the street lights reflecting off of those damned glasses. "But I don't want to wait to find out." He straightened his posture and started to walk faster.

Feliciano jogged forward to keep up. "Hey, has it ever happened before? 'Cuz if you guys really do all this to follow a case…"

Ludwig picked up the pace even more. The street was empty ahead of them; the metro station was near. "The consequences would be grave, I am sure."

Feliciano ran ahead, throwing a grin over his shoulder. "I could really get us into trouble?"

"You're already in trouble!" Ludwig shouted up as Feliciano gained ground. "Hey, what are you doing? Come back!"

"Catch me!" He burst into a sprint.

If Ludwig said anything next, it was lost to the wind, to the pounding of Feliciano's heart. He already knew Ludwig couldn't catch him. He wondered what would happen if he just kept running, forever, away from all his problems and duties, away from his brother, away from the men with the jackets, away from the man with the guns, away from the men with the computers. For the first time since he had stepped onto American soil, he felt truly free.

He sped into the metro station, inane giggles spilling over. Ludwig was sputtering somewhere behind him. Feliciano slowed to swipe his card, allowing Ludwig to catch up a little. The few locals that were out gave them confused glares as they tramped down the escalators. Feliciano spotted no trains in the station yet. Good.

He skipped right along the edge of the platform, slower, slower, allowing Ludwig to gain ground. He heard him puffing directly behind him. "Feliciano, what are you—"

Feliciano came to a dead halt and turned around. They smacked into each other. Due to a completely random, errant fling of Feliciano's arm, the glasses on Ludwig's face went flying, off the platform, magnificently through the air, and down, down, down onto the train tracks below.

Feliciano grabbed hold of Ludwig to keep his balance. "Oh!" He laughed loudly. "You caught me, wow!"

Ludwig completely ignored him, staring into the black abyss of the tracks. "My...glasses."

"What?" Feliciano confusedly leaned over the side, past the yellow tape. He spotted them, cracked into two pieces, but resting neatly in the middle of the concrete floor. In two minutes they would be crushed to oblivion. "Oh my gosh! Your glasses! Oh my gosh, Ludwig, I am so sorry!"

Ludwig's eyes were so wide. He looked to his glasses, looked to Feliciano, looked to the arrival and departure boards, the witnesses, and the sign that said in bold, commanding authority DO NOT VENTURE ONTO TRACKS along with a helpful image that described his fate if he should do so. Helpless. "I needed those," he stated simply.

"I am so sorry!" Feliciano repeated. "I should not have run. It is all my fault! Please forgive me, Ludwig! You can still see, right?"

He nodded slowly, still in a sort of shock. Feliciano was truly worried if he would be angry. "I can still see."

Feliciano touched his arm softly. "I'm sorry."

Ludwig kept nodding. "It's okay."

Feliciano curled his toes down in his shoes, shifting his weight back and forth. A rumble sounded from deep within the tunnels. "Do you still like me?"

Ludwig clenched his hand into a white-knuckled fist, but didn't look mad. In fact, he didn't look anything. He didn't say anything, either. He just turned and faced the tunnel as the train rushed in, shattering his discarded glasses to smithereens.

"This is me," Feliciano announced, quieter. "Goodbye, Ludwig. See you soon." His heart was beginning to hurt, and he had sudden-onset regrets as he waited to step into the car.

"Goodbye, Feliciano," Ludwig responded, just as quiet. Thoughtful.

And that was what gave it away. Feliciano plopped into an empty, smelly, hard-plastic seat. Had he messed up, somehow? Did Ludwig know something? They had been having so much fun! What a way to ruin the moment.

He could already hear himself being scolded. After all, he wasn't supposed to be clever. Ludwig had watched him work, listened to his story, searched his house. It was a given that countless mistakes had been made, by both parties. So maybe this was a different type of mistake.

Feliciano pulled his legs up and hugged his knees to his chest. His heart ached. He put his legs down and spread out his hands. He could not get comfortable. His heart throbbed. He turned around and watched Ludwig through the window as the doors closed and they began to move. His heart cried.

The consequences would be grave, indeed.

The new room wasn't dark, smelly, or covered in spiders. It was carpeted, drywalled, trimmed, and completely empty except for them, their chains, and the new plastic folding chairs they sat in. It seemed like they had been shoved into the tiny closet of somebody's new house. And it was bright. Much brighter than the cellar.

"¡Ay! My eyes!" was the first thing Antonio said upon achieving consciousness. Francis had been right; he had a killer migraine.

"It is like the hangover without the pleasure of being drunk first," Francis was describing. "The friends without the benefits."

Antonio blinked twice. "I can't decide if I should take that as an insult or not, considering the quality of your benefits."

"Aaaaand, I'm going to stop you right there," interjected an even paler-looking Gilbert. His chair was tilted so his face pressed against the wall, as if Lovino hadn't even bothered with keeping him upright. "Because I think I finally figured something out. I know what day it is."

"But, Gilbert, we just woke up!" Francis pointed out. "Any amount of time could have passed!"

Antonio didn't care. Any information, at this point, would be useful to their sad, sorry situation. "What is it?"

Gilbert paused for dramatic effect, his scrunched-up face forming a smirk. "It is Wednesday, my dudes."

"How do you know?" Francis questioned.

"Because I just heard that loud Italian complain through the wall that crappy hackers ruin everything and the three of us are shitting stupid and this is the worst Wednesday of his life."

"You can hear him!" Antonio declared. "Anything else? Is he talking with someone else? What are they saying?"

Gilbert listened more, and it was quiet for a moment. "No, but I do hear police sirens somewhere."

"Coming for us?" gasped Francis. "Is that bastard Arthur Kirkland finally going to stage a rescue attempt?"

They waited.

"No, they must be for someone else…"

phonography - britney

;)(;

Hey, guys. Been sick. Better now. What's up. Long chapter. The story is officially halfway through. From here on out, we've entered the Wild, Wild West!

Which is sad because I have somewhat bad news: I'm taking a short break from writing this to focus on other summer obligations I have so far neglected. HAVE NO FEAR though because I've also officially finished the outline for the rest of this story, and—of course, you know me—I won't stay away for long. The updates will just probably be less frequent. Also I'm damn excited to finish this and to show y'all what's coming and I feel nasty leaving it at a cliffhanger like this.

Since posting the first chapter in the beginning of March, I've written 42k+ words in the span of 12 chapters, gotten 80+ comments/reviews (AO3 and FF combined) and thousands of views/hits, which may not sound like a lot compared to other stories, but it's more than I ever thought I would get when I started, and I'm nowhere near quitting. fbi: don't move even has a cringey pop playlist and a portfolio of wonderful art to its name (and by the way if you want to see some art I myself did, then hop on over to my tumblr as always)!

Anyway basically this could have never been done without you guys and I check every morning for reviews in excitement and I read them all curled in a tight little ball of love and joy and all you nice people out there supporting weird crap like this story mean the world to me and it's real late here so I'm keeping this short:

Watch your cameras for real this time. I shall return.