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Ludwig jerks awake, sweat-soaked with a rolling stomach. He does not need a moment to recall his dream, it has stayed with him, seeping into every corner of his mind, making him ill even to think—
—bruised and bleeding and trapped between him and the cold cold wall Feliciano shivers eyes wide and frightened and mouth pleading no please don’t do this please don’t Ludwig please please and he snaps quiet and thinks goddamn traitor and forces him around and his trousers down forces his own fingers in and then himself and Feliciano trembles and sobs and Ludwig hisses hateful things into his ear and when he’s done Feliciano bleeds and slumps to the floor and curls up in tears eyes huge and horrified and dying—
—Ludwig sits up, gripping his head in his hands and nearly clawing at his own skull to remove those images, anything to take away those pictures, and he feels diseased and—and wrong for even being capable of thinking of them.
He can’t stay here. He can’t stay in this bed with Feliciano sleeping next to him, warm and unafraid and innocent, unaware of the things Ludwig has dreamt about him—
—Feliciano screams when Ludwig pushes in begs him sorry I’m sorry please stop and Ludwig grabs Feliciano’s hair twists his head around so cold blue eyes meet once-joyful brown and spits this is what you deserve this is what you get for whoring yourself to the Allies for betraying me and Feliciano cries harder and tries to struggle—
—Ludwig slips out of bed, careful not to disturb Feliciano, and pads to the couch in his sweatpants, stopping on the way to get a blanket from the small linen closet. He lies down and tries to shut his eyes and drive the dream away, but every time his eyes close, it’s back, making him sick and shaky.
How can he dream such things? How can Ludwig even conceive of imagining himself doing such things to Feliciano, Feliciano who he loves and always has and will, Feliciano who trusts him, Feliciano who he has sworn so many times to protect (and how many of those times did you fail, whispers the small dark voice at the back of his head)- how can he do this?
What is wrong with him?
Ludwig rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. He knows the dream was that- a dream- but even so, even with the knowledge that it was no more and no less than a dream, it is so, so much more. It is a betrayal of Feliciano’s faith, it’s wrong, it’s sick and disgusting and that dark voice says aren’t dreams supposed to be manifestations of subconscious desires and that makes him feel so small and disgusting and completely, utterly worthless that it’s all he can do not to yell.
He doesn’t notice the quiet creak of the bedroom door, wrapped up as he is in thoughts and words chasing their own tails diseased wrong disgusting how could you how could you sick twisted, and doesn’t notice the soft footsteps either until Feliciano stands at the back of the couch, looking over at him with confusion in his sleepy eyes.
Ludwig turns away, unable even to look at Feliciano without seeing tears tracking and drying on his face and blood tracking and drying on his thighs. Slipping around to the front of the couch, Feliciano places a hand on Ludwig’s shoulder, and Ludwig hears the small intake of breath when he turns away again, unable to face the sight of Feliciano wearing one of Ludwig’s dress shirts, rumpled and with the sleeves covering his hands and looking so trusting that Ludwig can’t bear it.
Feliciano clambers onto the arm of the couch and touches his shoulder again. “What’s wrong?”
Ludwig doesn’t answer.
"Did you have a bad dream?"
So, so hesitantly, he nods, sure that Feliciano will read into his thoughts and see what he dreamt and be so horrified and angry that he will leave, and it’s no more than you deserve, adds the voice.
"Ah." Ludwig can imagine the sad sort of patience on Feliciano’s face, and he suddenly slides down onto the couch and pulls Ludwig’s head into his lap, stroking his hair. "It’s okay to be sad, you know, and nobody blames you for that—"
—but when Feliciano finds out what Ludwig dreamt, he will—
"—and nobody hates you, either—"
—but oh, Feliciano will—
"—and do you want to talk about it?"
Better sooner than later, Ludwig thinks, and swallows down the lump in his throat. “Remember the armistice? In nineteen forty-three?”
Feliciano nods, warm hands aimlessly wandering, trying to provide undeserved comfort.
"I dreamt I… hurt you. Badly. And—" —it’s nearly impossible to force the words out past the knot in his throat and the churning in his stomach, even saying it will make it too real— "—and I—I r-raped you."
There. He’s said it, and now Feliciano, dear sweet bright Feliciano, will be repulsed and horrified and leave, as would be right, and Ludwig hides his shameful face beneath his hands (hands that he dreamt left bruises on Feliciano’s wrists and arms and hips and throat).
He barely dares to look up, scared of what expression could be on Feliciano’s face, but when he does there’s no anger, just deep, exhausted sadness. Feliciano sighs and pulls Ludwig into a sitting position, thin arms cradling him. “But you didn’t.”
"But I dreamt I did, and that’s just as bad," Ludwig says hoarsely. "Aren’t people supposed t-to dream about what—what they w-want to do?" Almost on reflex, his arms come up to return the hug, seeking comfort he still doesn’t deserve.
”No. People dream about anything, and sometimes it’s things they’re scared of happening, it’s okay to have nightmares.” Feliciano’s hands come up to cradle Ludwig’s face, strong and slender and warm and so incredibly, unnecessarily gentle, the way Feliciano always is, and it makes Ludwig choke a little because how has he ever been so lucky as to have someone like Feliciano? “It doesn’t mean you want to hurt me. If you had wanted to hurt me or anything, you would have already—”
"And I did—”
"—Ludwig, you have never hurt me in my whole life, and if you say anything about the armistice you didn’t hurt me then either. You helped me and Lovino escape, and what happened after wasn’t your fault." Feliciano’s eyes are serious. "And don’t you dare say anything about the time you left, because you came back. You have never hurt me.” He manages to shift the both of them around so that he’s leaning up into Ludwig’s bare chest. “Do you want to talk more about it?”
"Only if you want to hear." Ludwig avoids Feliciano’s eyes.
"Ludwig, we had that talk about how if something’s bothering either of us we should say it as soon as possible because otherwise we fight or get sad and I can tell this is really bothering you and talking about my dreams always makes me less afraid so of course I’ll listen to you."
"I-if you’re sure." Ludwig takes a deep breath, tells himself just a dream Feliciano won’t hate you and begins to talk.
By the time he’s done, his voice is thick and breaking and Feliciano looks shaken but keeps repeating “it’s okay, it didn’t really happen, it’s okay, I love you” into Ludwig’s shoulder, and how shocked he looks and how tense his back is and how sincere his words are despite this all collect inside Ludwig’s head and he begins to sob, broad shoulders shaking, and all he can think is how completely ashamed he is.
Feliciano looks up at him, and there are tears in his eyes as well, and Ludwig could hit himself for causing that, but Feliciano just pulls him close and lets him apologize and shushes him when he chokes out God I’m disgusting, whispers no, no you’re not, don’t say that and strokes his back and goes shhh, shh until Ludwig lets out a shaky breath and the tears subside.
"It really was bad, wasn’t it," Feliciano says with a watery smile.
"Sorry."
"Don’t be, you can’t help your dreams. Was it stress, do you think?"
Ludwig gives him a questioning look.
"A lot of times if I’m stressed out I have nightmares so maybe that’s why your dream was so bad and oh wow it’s four maybe we should call off work tomorrow and then we could have a day to catch up and maybe go to a museum or something, does that sound good?" Feliciano grins up at him hopefully, and it’s so confusing how he can just move on like that when Ludwig is still astounded he didn’t leave and-
"That sounds—good." Ludwig clears his throat a little, and Feliciano snuggles as close as he can, and then a little closer.
They end up staying on the couch and watching some horrible romantic comedy, and the warmth of Feliciano’s arms and smile chase away the little voice and the remnants of the dream from the corners of his mind, and he thinks again how am I this lucky.