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The sheets in Romano’s guest room smell faintly of stale tobacco and laundry soap, heavy and suffocating against Italy’s skin. Rain taps a rhythmic, unrelenting code against the windowpane, matching the irregular thudding in Feliciano’s chest. He stares up at the water-stained ceiling, his eyes wide, dry, and aching from days of fitful, broken sleep. The silence of the house doesn't feel like peace; it feels like the antiseptic hush of a hospital waiting room. Every ticking second on the wall clock sounds like a doctor walking down the hall, preparing to deliver the final, crushing diagnosis: total, irrevocable banishment.
Beside him, Romano lies tangled in the blankets, propped on one elbow with a scowl that cuts deep into the dim light. "Know what that means?" Romano grunts, his voice thick with sleep and characteristic bitterness. "The potato-loving bastard hates you."
The words hit Feliciano like a slap, cold and stinging. "No," he whispers, the sound tearing out of his throat, frail and desperate. "No, Lovino, that’s not true. He doesn’t—he wouldn't."
"He made you pull down every single one of those stupid posters, Feli," Romano mutters, rolling onto his side and pulling the quilt over his shoulder. "He’s done with you. Give it up."
Feliciano sits up, wrapping his arms tightly around his knees. His head throbs from pure exhaustion. He has spent the last three days trying to fix the rift, trying so hard until his hands shook, but everything only seems to make Ludwig pull further away. Ludwig’s sharp rejection when he saw the brightly painted paper—the bold, proud lettering declaring *GERMANY LOVES ITALY* pasted along the cobblestone avenues—flashes behind Feliciano's eyelids. Ludwig's face had burned red, his jaw tightening into that hard, terrifying line before he demanded every single canvas be torn down immediately.
Why? Feliciano's mind churns, spiraling backward into memories he usually tries to bury. He remembers the early days, the terrifying weight of a gun barrel pointed directly at his forehead in the high grass. He remembers the harsh bite of a physical strike when his loud, frantic white-flag routines had pushed Ludwig past his breaking point. He remembers every cold, stoic rejection of his cooking, every exasperated sigh when Ludwig pushed away a plate of fresh tomatoes. What if Lovino is right? What if Ludwig has simply been enduring him this entire time?
The thought is an agony he cannot bear. Panic claws at his lungs, sharp and immediate. He can't stay in this bed. He can't wait for the diagnosis. Then, through the fog of his panic, a memory resurfaces—a strange, specific piece of lore Romano had offhandedly grumbled about months ago during a rant about Northern customs. When a German is truly, deeply offended, traditional protocol demands total humility: you strip away all vanity, kneel before them, and beg for forgiveness to prove your utmost sincerity.
Feliciano doesn't hesitate. The logic makes absolute, desperate sense in his sleep-deprived mind. He slips quietly out of the bed. With trembling fingers, he unties his nightshirt, lets his trousers pool at his ankles, and steps completely out of his clothes, leaving them in a forgotten heap beside the mattress. Pale skin chills instantly in the October night air, but he doesn't care. Naked, unburdened, and driven by a desperate heart, he unlatches the window, slides down the trellis, and takes off into the dark.
The cold autumn wind bites at his bare skin as his feet pound against the wet cobblestones. Rain slicks his dark hair into his eyes, but he doesn't slow down. He runs through the sleeping town, past the dark storefronts and quiet alleys, straight toward the heavy wooden doors of Ludwig's estate. Reaching the porch, his breath coming in ragged, white plumes, he kneels by the heavy stone planter near the entryway. His numb fingers fumble in the damp soil until they catch on the cold iron of the spare key. He shoves it into the lock, turns it with a sharp click, and bursts through the front door.
"Ludwig!" he calls out, though it barely comes out higher than a squeak.
He charges straight into the formal parlor, his bare feet slapping loudly against the polished hardwood. He halts for a fraction of a second, his wide eyes catching a sudden movement by the tea table. Sitting impeccably upright in an armchair, holding a steaming porcelain teacup halfway to his lips, is Japan. Kiku freezes mid-sip, his dark eyes widening in absolute, paralyzing shock as he takes in the sight of a completely naked, soaking-wet Italy standing in the parlor threshold. Kiku's face instantly turns a deep, alarming shade of crimson, his entire body locking up like a statue.
Feliciano barely registers him. "Sorry, Japan!" he gasps out, already turning on his heel and sprinting down the central hallway toward the back of the house.
From upstairs, above the low hum of the house, comes the unmistakable sound of rushing water. The shower. Feliciano bounds up the stairs two at a time, throws open the bathroom door, and bursts inside without hitting the brakes. Steam rolls out in thick, warm clouds, smelling of pine soap and hot iron. Through the frosted glass of the shower enclosure, the silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man instantly stills.
The glass door slides open with a sharp rattle. Ludwig stands there, dripping wet, water slicking his blonde hair flat against his forehead. He is completely naked, holding a bar of soap, looking ready to confront an intruder.
Instead, he finds Feliciano. Who is also completely, entirely naked.
"F-Feli—?!" Ludwig’s voice cracks, a rare and violent break in his usual stern composure. His eyes widen to the size of saucers, a furious, deep red flush rushing up his neck and flooding his entire face right to the tips of his ears. "What in God's name are you doing—why aren't you wearing—!"
Before Ludwig can finish the sentence, Feliciano drops straight to his knees onto the hard bathroom tile, the loud impact echoing in the small room. Ludwig’s brain short-circuits. He freezes, the soap nearly slipping from his hand, his mouth hanging open in complete, stunned silence. Feliciano looks up from the floor, his bottom lip trembling violently. Tears spring to his eyes, cutting hot paths through the rainwater on his cheeks. He looks small, shattered, and profoundly heartbroken.
"I'm sorry!" Feliciano cries out, his hands trembling as he grips his own knees. "I'm so sorry about the posters! I didn't mean to make you mad, I just—I wanted everyone to know! But if you hate them, I'll never draw them again, I promise! Just... please don't banish me, Ludwig!"
His voice drops, cracking under the weight of pure angst. He peers up through his lashes, his brown eyes wide with absolute vulnerability. "Please... just tell me the truth. Do you hate me? Do you... do you love me at all?"
The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the steady hiss of the showerhead behind them. Ludwig stands frozen under the stream of warm water, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The embarrassment of their shared nudeness fades into the background, overtaken completely by the sharp, aching pang in his chest at the sight of Feliciano looking so thoroughly broken. He sees the dark circles under Feliciano's eyes, the shivering frame, the genuine fear of abandonment lingering in every line of his posture.
Ludwig lets out a long, ragged breath. He steps out from under the water, leaning down slightly, his expression softening into something raw and fiercely protective. The blush on his cheeks remains, but his eyes are steady.
"You idiot," Ludwig says softly, his tone stripped of all harshness. "Of course I don't hate you. And... of course I love you."
In an instant, the dark clouds hanging over Feliciano vanish as if swept away by a hurricane. The heartbreak shatters, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated joy. His entire face brightens, his eyes snapping open wide and brilliant.
"Yahoo!" Feliciano screams at the top of his lungs. "I love you too!"
Before Ludwig can brace himself, Feliciano bounces off his knees like a coiled spring and launches himself forward in a full-bodied glomp. "Wha—Wait!" Ludwig yelps.
The force of the sudden impact catches Ludwig entirely off balance on the slick, soapy tiles. With a loud splash and a sharp gasp, both of them go crashing down together onto the shower floor. Water cascades over them as they land in a heap. Thankfully, the thick bathmat cushions the brunt of the fall, leaving them completely unhurt, but the layout is absurd: Feliciano is sprawled comfortably on top of Ludwig's chest, laughing hysterically, soaking wet, and thoroughly satisfied, while Ludwig lies flat on his back beneath him.
Ludwig stares up at the tiled ceiling, feeling precisely like a tortoise that has been flipped onto its shell—completely incapacitated, entirely exposed, and entirely unable to regain his footing. The warm water drips onto his nose. He blinks, processing the absurdity of the last five minutes, before turning his head slightly to look at the ecstatic Italian resting against his collarbone.
Ludwig clears his throat, his face burning a fresh, bright scarlet as he stammers out awkwardly: "Do ve... do ve kiss now?"
Feliciano, unbothered, chirps back, "If you want to!"
Feliciano beams down at him, water droplets tumbling from his dark, plastered bangs and splashing directly onto Ludwig’s cheek. His whole face is illuminated with that effortless, sunny warmth that somehow makes the damp, soapy floor of a German bathroom feel like a sunlit piazza in July. He wraps his arms a little tighter around Ludwig’s broad shoulders, wiggling into a more comfortable position right on top of him without a single trace of self-consciousness.
Ludwig, on the other hand, remains completely petrified. Every muscle in his body is locked tight. His face is burning so hot that he is reasonably sure the falling shower spray is evaporating the instant it touches his skin.
"I—Feli, you're..." Ludwig stammers, his voice dropping an octave as he desperately tries to keep his eyes fixed strictly on the ceiling tiles directly above them. "You're getting cold water all over the floor, and ve are... ve are both entirely..."
"Naked!" Feliciano finishes brightly, bursting into a light, melodic laugh that echoes off the wet porcelain. He pushes himself up slightly, resting his chin on his hands right over Ludwig’s collarbone. "Just like the tradition! Romano said you have to be totally honest when you're like this, so it worked! You aren't mad anymore!"
Ludwig blinks, his mind slowly connecting the bizarre sequence of events. Romano. Of course. The elder brother’s practical jokes were usually spiteful, but leave it to Feliciano’s sheer, unfiltered innocence to turn a ridiculous lie into a midnight sprint across town in the pouring rain.
A heavy sigh escapes Ludwig’s chest, the tension finally bleeding out of his frame. The sheer absurdity of the situation wins over his embarrassment. He reaches up with one broad, slick hand and gently wipes a stray lock of wet hair out of Feliciano’s eyes. His thumb lingers for just a second against Feliciano's cheek, feeling the soft, warm skin. "Romano made that up, you absolute idiot," Ludwig murmurs softly, though there isn't a drop of bite left in his tone. "There is no such tradition."
Feliciano’s eyes widen in brief surprise before he simply giggles, leaning into Ludwig’s touch. "Well, it worked anyway! Because you said it."
He sits up slightly, framing Ludwig's flushed face with his hands. The lingering exhaustion from days of worrying seems to melt away entirely, replaced by a soft, tender quiet. Feliciano leans down, closing the small distance between them, and presses his lips against Ludwig’s in a warm, sweet, completely unhurried kiss. It's soft, steady, and tastes faintly of rain and pine soap.
When Feliciano pulls back just a fraction, a bright, triumphant grin stretches across his face. Ludwig lies there under the spray, his heart thumping heavily against his ribs, his blue eyes soft as he looks up at the boy sprawled over his chest. From down the hallway, the faint, polite clink of a porcelain teacup hitting a saucer echoes from the parlor, followed by the silent, agonizing awkwardness of Japan still waiting patiently downstairs.
Ludwig swallows hard, his flush returning in full force. "Feli..." he croaks out softly. "We... we really need to get clothes on and explain this to Kiku."
"Five more minutes," Feliciano hums happily, nestling his head right into the crook of Ludwig’s neck, completely unbothered by the world. "The shower is warm."