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"We've already talked blame, you potato eating bastard!"
Antonio sighed, poured the last of the wine into four very large cups, and headed with the whole tray to Ludwig's living room. "Why are we yelling, sweetheart?" He asked Lovino patiently.
"Ludwig and Romano are in an argument over who is to blame for this scar." It was Feliciano who answered his question, pulling down part of his sweater to reveal a pink bullet hole scar over his heart, long healed. "I remember that night," Antonio said quietly, "Lovi, you can't put all the blame on Ludwig, things were happening out of any of our control--"
Lovino cut him of with a wave of his hand, helping himself to the wine. "No, no," he explained, "it was all my fault, that scar." Ludwig shook his head insistently. "No," he responded, almost instantly, "it was my fault."
December 24th, 1944,
"Lovino, you told me you were being careful. From what I've heard you might have the the Cosa Nostra wrapped around your pinky finger, but you also have the 'Ndrangheta around your ring, the Camorra around your middle, the Sacra Corona Unita around your pointer and the goddamn allies all clinging to your thumb."
"I thought you weren't going to call anymore, bastard," Lovino deadpanned in response. He was facing the mirror of his vanity, so he could catch himself just in case he began to cry.
"I'm worried about you," Antonio persisted in that stupid, caring voice of his, "plus, it's Christmas Eve."
"Don't worry about me. I'm handling the situation. They might hate each other but they hate Mussolini more," Lovino lied, praying for some false sense of a plan to shine through to Antonio in his desperate last ditch sort of explanation, "I'm handling the situation."
"Is Feliciano still up north?" Antonio asked. "Yes. And the allies are working on the defence line...." There was silence on the line for a moment. "Don't worry," Romano finished, "I'll get to him, and we'll get out of here, whatever it takes."
Somewhere, in the winter of southern Italy, chimes began to ring, marking midnight. "Merry Christmas, Lovi."
"Enjoy your neutrality, bastard," Lovino responded quietly, hanging up the phone with a click.
**
April 27th, 1945
At first Ludwig had prayed for clarity. But with every flash of himself, his right state of mind, he saw, piled up, the horrible and unspeakable things his country had done, and he prayed only for it to be over. He wanted only enough control to kill himself, be damned reason and wether or not that was even possible.
The room spun. It had been too long since he'd had a clear mind. It was all shapes and sounds and screams and silence, and though it was his office, he couldn't tell which elements or his surroundings were real.
"Sir?" There was a man at the door. A soldier. Ludwig didn't know him, but he wore the uniform. Ludwig wanted to scream, he wanted to throw himself at the boy, who could be no older than eighteen.
"Th-- they're yelling, sir. I think.... I think something very bad is about to happen in Italy."
Ludwig is so, so mad. And he can't even figure out why. He doesn't want to be mad, he wants to be able to breath. He's so mad at this boy, this uniform. "WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT INTERRUPTING ME!!"
The boy stumbles into the doorframe, then halfway out of the room, and that's when Ludwig hears it.
Feliciano is crying out. There's no gunshot, no sound of a struggle, but Feliciano is sobbing somewhere, and it sounds somewhat like Ludwig's name.
He's running and stumbling before he can stop himself, breath rushing into his lungs and then out again and it's gone. He pushes past the boy in the doorframe and then he's throwing himself down the stairs, as fast as he can go.
Lovino and Feliciano are sprawled out on the living room carpet, Lovino staring blankly at the ceiling, every single muscle taunt, Feliciano gasping quietly and shaking, tears leaking out of his eyes and into his hair. Both are soaked in blood, shot directly through the heart and then again, at least 6 times. Both brothers appear to have been shot in the exact same places.
Ludwig falls to the floor beside Feliciano, hands pressing frantically at the bullet holes. Feliciano sobs louder at the pressure and over all the noise Lovino shouts "STOP!!"
Ludwig looks up at him in surprise, soaking in blood up his arms to his chest and trembling. "He. Can't. Die. You. Fucking. Idiot. It's. Mussolini." Ludwig freezes, stopping the pressure he's desperately trying to maintain. Mussolini's dead, he's been shot.
Instead Ludwig gathers up as much of Feliciano as he can into his arms and yells, screams really, for a soldier. The same boy from the doorway appears, or maybe it's a different one, they all look the same. He salutes Ludwig stiffly, but his eyes widen at all the blood.
"Send a telegram to Spain," Ludwig instructs calmly, his fingers running through Feliciano's hair and sticking it all upright with blood. The boy stutters out, "b-but sir, Mr. Spain has stated explicitly that he does to wish to be disturbed," at the same time Lovino grits out, "don't bother, the bastard won't come."
Lovino turns, coughs blood onto the carpet, whimpers, and returns to his tightly wound position, eyes shut tightly. "Give him a message then," Ludwig says to the boy, "tell him: It's Lovino."
Feliciano begins to sob again, burying his face into Ludwig's shirtfront. Ludwig tries to be soothing, running fingers through his hair, whispering things to him in both German and Italian. Nothing makes sense but Feliciano is in so much pain and looks so scared and for the first time Ludwig feels entirely focused, his heart pumping, his lungs drawing in shaky breaths.
""
They stay like that, Ludwig holding Feliciano as he shakes, a horrifying amount of blood emptying onto the floor, Lovino bleeding slowly, eyes staring dead ahead at the ceiling, practically immobile. Until the door is knocked down.
Ludwig is the only on to startle, one hand automatically reaching for his rifle, the other moving Feliciano behind himself. Then he begins to shuffle them both in front of Lovino, sheltering the older Italian.
Antonio bursts into the room. He's soaked from rain, and being trailed by a battalion's worth of nazi soldiers, and he looks fearsome, like a pirate that once fought half the world, like a force to be reckoned with, backlit by the hallway chandelier. His usual happy-go-lucky smile is gone. "Where is he?" It came out pleading, and Ludwig could only shuffle out of the way, nodding, and setting down his rifle.
Ludwig motions with one hand and the room cleared of soldiers.
"Didn't think you would come," Lovino says softly, into the suddenly quiet room. Antonio kneels beside him, placing a hand on his arm and suddenly Lovino's rigid act is gone. Lovino absolutely melts, crying and curling up into Antonio's arms. "I didn't think you'd come. I- I thought you didn't care. I-" "Of course, shhhh, of course I came, siempre, always," Antonio murmurs, settling down beside him, "tell me how to make it better, Lovi."
Lovino shakes his head, "you can't. We just have to wait. I did what I had to, Antonio. You weren't there and I..." He sobs, wrapping his arms around Antonio's waist, "I did what I had to."
"Who did this to you?" Antonio presses, holding the smaller boy tight and starting to rock. "I.... I...." Lovino hiccups, cutting himself off, then manages, "I did. I sold out Mussolini's location and I helped the allies and I spent so, so many hours with the stupid mafia and you know they never scare me but sometimes Toni...." He hiccuped again and breathed in, "I helped them kill Mussolini. It was the only way. I did what I had to do."
Lovino steals a glance at Ludwig before looking away just as quickly, scared. Antonio's arms tighten protectively around him. Ludwig doesn't even notice, he's too busy trying to keep Feliciano talking, the pair whispering back and forth in hushed tones.
They stay like that for a long time, on the blood soaked carpet. Antonio slowly drying from the rain, running fingers up and down Lovino's spine like he'd used to a long time ago, before Lovino had grown up and left and before there was a war being fought. Ludwig and Feliciano continued to whisper back and forth, talking nonsense and anything but the here and now.
Finally, as the storm began to break and the sun had finally set, Lovino stood, heavily supported by both Antonio and the couch. "We need to leave," Lovino stated flatly, "me and Feliciano. If Italy has gone to the Allies than the safest place for us is England. Ludwig, I packed our bags, they're on the porch. But we can't travel like this without attracting attention. Do you have spare clothes?"
Ludwig blinks twice, before looking down at Feliciano. The younger of the Italians is also finally breathing at a healthy rate, but still has his face buried in Ludwig's shirt. They.... Were leaving. Good. Wait, no.
He'll be safer far away from here. But if he's gone I can't protect him.
Ludwig stares down at his Feliciano, and his throat began to ache with the threat of tears. He hadn't been able to protect him up until now.
He fixes his face and looks up at Lovino, nodding to him. Carefully, he detaches himself from Feliciano. Silently, he rises and leaves the room.
Feliciano bursts into tears all over again, this time with his hands over his eyes, watching the German leave through his parted fingers. "L-Lo-Lovino we can't leave him alone we can't--"
Lovino shakes his head solidly, pushing off of both Antonio and the couch to stand on his own. "We have to leave, he can't come." He looks over at Feliciano regretfully. "I'm sorry."
Ludwig returns, his hands scrubbed clean of blood but stained pink and carrying clothes much too big for the average person, Ludwig sized clothes, and hands them to Lovino. He doesn't look at Feliciano, and Feliciano doesn't look at him.
"Come on," Lovino murmurs, taking his brother's hand and pulling him away. Antonio sits down on the ruined carpet as they leave, and Ludwig stands with him, both silent.
Feliciano's hands shake in the bathroom as he pulls off the red soaked clothing. His chest and arms are still slick with blood, his own blood, he supposes, or perhaps Mussolini's. His shirt falls to the floor with a wet plop, and he stumbles over to the sink, splashing water on himself, his chest, his hands, furiously washing at it.
Lovino places a steadying hand on his shoulder. His older brother picks up the bar of German soap, printed with the sigil of Ludwig's house, and begins to scrub at Feliciano's hands.
Feliciano just stands there, until the red is gone and he's pink pink pink, the pain swirling down the silver drain. Lovino moves him gently to the side, before washing himself methodically. Feliciano stands where Lovino placed him until the older boy hands him a shirt, a sweater and a pair of army pants, all too large.
He slips them on somehow and stares at Lovino's chest, where the bullet holes should be. They're scars now, white and taunt, and Feliciano touches his own heart through the shirt and the sweater and there's an identical scar, the pain fading.
Lovino reaches for his hand, an offering and a gesture that Feliciano hasn't seen since they were children. Feliciano would always wander off back then, and Grandpa Rome used to make Lovino hold his hand.
"Okay," Feliciano whispered, but no sound came out. "Okay," he tried again, this time audible, if scratchy.
The clothes smelled like Ludwig.
Feliciano burst into tears again and for the first time in many years Lovino didn't roll his eyes. He pulled his brother in for a hug, and waited patiently. "Ludwig," Feliciano gasped into his collarbone, "he's g-gonna be so mad. H-he's going to be on his own again with them and you know what they did to him last time. Oh god, Lovino, I don't even know if he remembers! He's not himself, his eyes are so--"
"Shhhhhhh I know. But we need to go."
Feliciano nodded, detached himself, and Lovino opened the door. They walked silently back to the living room, where Antonio stood ready and Ludwig stood far away from the exit, as though giving them a wide berth.
Lovino actually stares him down, clenching his fists as though waiting for Ludwig to come and stop the Italians from leaving. Ludwig nods at him, then says, "thank you, Lovino. Thank you so much. For getting him away from this. Away from me. Keep him safe."
Lovino seems satisfied and, ignoring his brother, he walked across the room to pick up their bags. Feliciano stood frozen in the centre of the room, hand fisting in the sleeves of Ludwig's sweater. It was a tent on him, coming down to his knees and it almost felt like a hug and-- Feliciano couldn't force himself to make eye contact with Ludwig.
Slowly, as though approaching a cornered animal, Ludwig shuffled across the room to where Feliciano stood.
Feliciano looked up in time to be wrapped in a loose hug. He bit his lip to keep from crying. He'd cried enough for one day.
"Feli-" Ludwig began gently. Too gentle. Ludwig was never gentle.
"I knew," Feliciano blurted out, then hid his face in Ludwig's shoulder, "I knew, I knew, Ludwig. Lovino told me we were going to leave and I didn't tell you."
There was a pause, and Feliciano waited for anger, betrayal, sadness, SOMETHING. Ludwig just hugged him tighter, and whispered, "that's okay. I'm sorry for all the ways this war has hurt you. Be careful,
Feliciano." Ludwig placed a delicate kiss on his forehead, and stepped back.
Feliciano leapt forward, snaking his arms around Ludwig's waist and squeezing the air out of him. He buried his face again and said unevenly, "I love you. I'll come back. I'll see you again."
Finally Feliciano stepped back, sighing sadly at the way Ludwig's fingers trailed through his hair as he did so. "I'll see you two across the border," Antonio said quietly. Lovino took Feliciano's hand, then Antonio's and led them out into the night.
**
Present day:
Ludwig pulled Feliciano down onto the couch and touched where he knew small scar was, through Feliciano's shirt. He pressed a kiss into the back of Feliciano's neck. "I think there is enough blame to go around, Lovino."
Then, only for Feliciano, he added, "besides, you came back to me."