Chapter Text
Germany looked over his kitchen again, with grim dissatisfaction. He had cleaned the counters no less than five times and mopped the floors, and wiped grease from the oven. But it was not enough to leave him content.
It’d been weeks now, since the accord had been signed. He still wakes at the same hour he used to, before sunrise, when his inbox used to be full. Now he brews his coffee in silence and stands in the doorway of his office, not sure whether to sit down or turn away.
His body hasn’t adjusted to the absence of structure. His hands twitch for something to organise. His brain searches automatically for tasks that no longer belong to him. Every morning feels like the same blank page he doesn't know how to fill. Every night feels like he’s wasted another day. He was not made for sitting still. Not when it leaves him with no company but his thoughts, his regrets, and his past actions.
He chose to shift his focus to cleaning his house. And when he was done, he did it again. And again. And again.
He cleaned until his knuckles ached, until the cloth frayed, and until even the dog bowls gleamed like polished steel. Sometimes he cleaned without thinking, wiping the same surface three times before realising he had already done it. He knows it’s pointless; the house isn’t dirty. It hasn’t been for weeks. But movement is better than sitting still long enough for memory to catch up with him.
He’d also spent some time behind his computer. Waiting for an email. An ask. Or something to do. When he’d finally cracked and emailed his now old workplace asking if there was anything he could do, his only response back was nothing.
And the days went by painfully slow. Time pools in corners of the house. Minutes stretch out unnaturally, hours sag under their own weight. Germany starts measuring his day not by tasks, but by how often the sun shifts across the wall.
Even the dogs seem restless, pacing with him, confused by the sudden change in rhythm. He owes them a walk, but the last time he’d gone out, he’d been recognised since the sudden publicity of the accords had pushed him and the many other nations into the limelight. It was an uncomfortable interaction. One he doesn’t want to occur again.
The chemical smell of cleaner lingers in the air. He’s already done enough here. He moves into the living room, past the perfectly reorganised bookshelf, in alphabetical order. He hesitates over the shelf. He considers rearranging them again by genre or publication date this time. Anything to pass the next ten minutes. But even he knows that would be overdoing it. Even if his fingers hover over the spines. He had been teased once for arranging them so strictly, by his brother— “Germany, nobody cares if Dante is before Dickens!” He jerks his hand back. He will organise it another time. Maybe in an hour.
He moves on. Sitting on the couch that he had spent much too long vacuuming the other day. Sitting stiffly on the edge, not to give him another reason to clean it all up again.
His phone lies unassuming on the coffee table. He waits for a buzz he knows will never arrive. He picks up the phone and stares, as if that will manifest something, anything, to come through. An email from his old boss, a request from his brother, a text from Italy–
His phone’s screen reflects his face back at him. Tired eyes, a pinched line between his brows. A man waiting for orders. An obedient soldier with no commander left.
He checks his signal strength, even though it’s perfect. He toggles the Wi-Fi on and off. He refreshes his inbox twice. It doesn’t matter. His notifications bar remains empty.
He opens Italy’s contact. He hasn’t talked to him since the meeting. And Germany is not usually one for reaching out. Not without purpose. And he doesn’t.
He doesn’t have any purpose in texting Italy. What would he even say? That he misses the noise? The warmth?
It’s senseless. He’s a nation, not a sentimental fool.
The typing bar blinks at him mockingly.
Hello.
Wie geht–
Are you–
He deletes every start before it even forms.
Italy is probably fine. Italy is always fine. Germany repeats this like a mantra, though it does little to settle anything in his chest. Not when he knows how untrue those statements are.
He puts the phone down and stares ahead blankly. The silence presses in from every wall. He rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to dispel the tight ache creeping behind his eyes. The TV is off. And it will stay that way. There are still too many news anchors talking about the accord. Each headline he’s glimpsed in passing feels like a blow. He doesn’t want to hear strangers debate his existence like a policy decision more than he already has in the past two years.
He shifts gaze. Willing to think about literally anything else. He shifts the small house plant on the coffee table a millimetre to the left, so that the cube-shaped pot is straight facing him. This is getting ridiculous. He should call someone. He should do something. Yet he stays perfectly still, unable to commit to either action.
He can hear his brother’s voice ringing in his ear. “You need to get a hobby.” Germany ignores this because he does have hobbies, contrary to popular belief. “Having dogs is not a hobby.” The imaginary Prussia responds. Germany internally argues that cleaning up after them is.
He remembers faintly, a time when he enjoyed reading history, repairing old radios, and baking, but it all feels different if he did them now, as if he’d be further proving his humanity, with such mundane activities. Being similar to humans was what forced the accord to happen in the first place. He is not human. After everything he has done, how can he consider himself to be?
He imagines telling Prussia he’s spent the week cleaning and waiting for an email. He can already hear the mocking laughter.
He doesn’t move until he hears banging on the door.
He freezes. Nobody knocks like that unless they want something. Nobody has wanted something from him in weeks. He stands, heart thudding far harder than a knock should justify.
Another knock. And a voice. Bright and unmistakable.
“Germany! It’s me! Open Up!”
Germany closes his eyes. Of all the people he couldn’t handle seeing yet. Italy is at the very top.
He opens the door slowly, he gets a second to comprehend Italy’s smiling face before he is tackled into a crushing hug. Before Germany can make a move, either to return the hug or push him away, Italy releases him and launches straight into motion, voice spilling out as he nudges his way inside.
“Ah—sorry! I know, I know, you weren’t expecting me, but guess what? My house is completely and totally dark.”
Germany blinks owlishly. His body hadn’t caught up with the idea that Italy is physically here. His limbs feel locked in place, as if movement might make the moment real.
“Honestly, it’s not even my fault this time, well, okay, maybe a little, I might’ve forgotten to pay the bill, but in my defence, the envelope looked really boring, and I thought it was another ad, you know how they send ads that look like bills now? It’s so rude, who does that? And then everything in my house just fwoosh–totally dark!—”
Germany should tell him to slow down. Or stop. Or something. But his throat refuses to participate. Italy’s pushed in further, and all Germany can do is hover by the doorway stiffly.
“—Even my fridge stopped humming, which is terrible because that means all my leftovers are probably warm by now, and it was really cold, and really lonely—” Italy’s voice fills the room easily, automatically. It pushes out the silence Germany has been sitting with all week, and for a second, he almost resents how effortless it is for him.
“—And then I thought, ‘Well! Before all this accord stuff, you’d always let me stay over when things went wrong– like that time with the pipes, remember?”
He remembers. He remembers every time. The words land in his stomach like stones.
“You grumbled a lot, but you still made space for me. I figured you wouldn’t mind because you always take care of everyone, even when you say you don’t want to, and I-um–I just didn’t want to sit alone in the dark. So I packed a few things– actually a lot of things, in my bags–these ones, see?– and I think I panicked and came here!”
One of the bags rolls into Germany’s shin. Instinctively, he steps back, making extra room without meaning to. Italy just waltzes right in.
“I was going to call but then I thought ‘he’s probably busy!’ and then I remembered you’re not busy anymore—” Germany resents that he’s been very busy–
“—which is sad, but also good, because now you can help me! But also I can help you! We can both help each other! Oh– can I come inside?” He’s already inside. Germany can’t bring himself to point that out. “I hope you don’t mind if I crash here until the electricity people stop being mad at me.”
Italy’s presence fills the house like sunlight forcing itself into a closed room. Germany can’t decide if he feels relieved or cornered.
“Wow, your entryway is so clean.” Italy marvels, Germany realises he’s also stopped speaking.
“Ja… I have had a bit more free time to… clean up” He’s a little dazed. He always is when he sees Italy again after a long while. It takes him a bit of time to recalibrate. To get used to Italy’s quick and long-winding rambles. He always needs to adjust.
Italy drops his bags right in the middle of the hallway, already toeing off his shoes. Before Germany can reclaim a single thought, Italy is wandering further in, humming, peeking into rooms like he’s already moved in. He disappears into the living room, and Germany is forced to walk after him.
“Your house smells like lemons! But the fake scented ones in the cleaning products… Did you just mop the floors? You always clean when you’re stressed, don’t you?”
Germany stiffens. “I– that is not…” But Italy has already moved on, drifting toward the kitchen before Germany can catch up to him. He follows him automatically; he always has. Always ready to clean up after him before his mind has registered it at all. The old habit of cleaning up after Italy is a reflex he cannot unlearn.
Germany exhales, slow and controlled, because if he doesn’t regulate his breathing, he will snap at him. And he does not want to snap at Italy. Not when this is the first living sound in his house that isn’t fridge hum since the accord.
“I’m hungry. Are you hungry? You look hungry”
Germany notices how Italy fills the silence instantly. Like he can’t bear to let it settle. Germany can bear silence. Too well. Silence is all he’s had for days. He sighs. “I am not–”
“We should make lunch!” Italy announces, already opening cupboards. Germany can’t even get a word in. “Do you have basil? No, wait, of course you don’t. I’ll make do. Do you have tomatoes? Wait, don’t tell me–”
Italy opens the fridge. His voice stops. Germany awkwardly hovers to his side. Inside the fridge, every item is symmetrically lined up, labels facing perfectly forward. Nothing looks touched. Nothing looks eaten.
“Why is your fridge organised like a psychopath?” Italy picks up a jar, looking at the expiry date. “Have you even eaten any of this stuff?”
Germany almost snaps out a defensive explanation. He swallows it, covering his mouth with his fist as he avoids eye contact. “I have not… been very hungry.”
Heat prickles at the back of his neck. He hates this. Being observed, being read so openly. Italy isn’t trying to shame him. But Germany feels flayed open anyway. He didn’t even realise how clinical the fridge looked until he saw it through Italy’s eyes. Rows and Rows of order masking the fact he hasn’t cooked a proper meal in weeks.
Italy’s expression flickers, concern, guilt, recognition, all in a second. He masks it with a bright smile. Too bright. Too rounded at the edges. A shield, not a gesture. Germany has seen him use it after battles, funerals, treaties gone wrong. This one lands in his chest with a dull ache.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m here! Sit, I’ll cook.” He says, waving Germany away as he unloads the fridge with more confidence than he had any right to have.
Germany does not sit. But he doesn’t argue either. Germany is grateful but uncomfortable. It’s been years since Italy just… took over his kitchen like this. The familiarity hurts and soothes all at once. He stays on his feet out of instinct. Obedience to routine more than defiance. If he sits, he’ll have nothing to do but watch. A loss of control over his kitchen, and he’s never done well without control.
Italy simply walks around him, like water around a stone, unbothered while bustling around the kitchen, pulling out a pot, chopping tomatoes, humming something half in tune. As though the kitchen has always been his. Germany doesn’t know whether that familiarity warms him or twists a knife. Italy’s rambling picks again naturally, like it never left him, as he slides pasta into the pot of boiling water.
“So! How’ve you been since the accord? You look like you haven’t slept in two weeks. I’ve been alright, I think? It’s weird, right? Being free? But also not free? Free from governments, but it was not like I was doing much for them anyway, you know?”
Germany knows, to an extent, that he took on more roles for the government that other nations did, voluntarily, he might add. He understands what Italy says, but his situation feels… different. Germany wipes a water droplet off the counter. He wipes again, and again. Italy doesn’t notice. He keeps stirring the pasta while talking, hands moving fast, his thoughts faster.
Germany inhales. “I have been… fine.” He hears how stiff that sounds. “Just restless.”
“Restless?” Italy repeats, surprised, pureeing the tomatoes into sauce now. “Why? We’re basically on vacation forever! You don’t like vacations?”
Germany falters. Vacation. The word alone makes something cold settle in his stomach. Germany doesn’t know how to rest. Rest feels like abandonment, like failure, like temptation. Italy says it like it’s a gift. Germany feels it like a life sentence. The idea of “vacation forever” is horrifying. But he doesn’t know how to articulate that without sounding pathetic.
His jaw works silently for a moment before he manages, “I do not have much to do outside of work.”
Italy tilts his head, thinking idly. “You should get a hobby.”
“I have hobbies,” Germany mutters.
“No, no, real hobbies,” Italy insists. “Not ones that involve freakishly reorganising your fridge like a serial killer.”
Germany pretends he didn’t hear that.
Italy brightens suddenly. “You could be like Japan! Have you seen what he’s been posting lately? It’s on that secret art account on.. Er… something..”
Germany freezes. “I am ignoring everything Japan posts lately.”
Italy nods. “I think it’s pretty cool, if not a bit out there, there’s this one drawing I saw with these two guys–”
“—I think I can see it for myself later.” Germany cuts in, before he can move the subject away Italy speaks again.
“Oh! Did you see what Spain posted?” Italy slides right back into his long-winded thought train. “He visited France a few days after the accord, Romano joined him a bit after and they took a picture with this dog they found and people online thought the dog was theirs so now they have like six different dog brands trying to sponser them– which is weird because we don’t even need the money since we’re still getting compensation for being us, but we’re pretty popular now after all that, so I guess we could be one of those internet influencers pretty easily… d’you think that’s the next step?”
Germany was a second into washing the knife that Italy had just set before he realised Italy had stopped to let him answer. “Influencing? I’m pretty sure America was already doing those sorts of things before… I don’t think I’d be any good at it, but it might be a good way to pass the time”
He’s trying to humour him. But the whole idea of influencers feels absurd to him. Something far too modern to really be considered. He tries to picture himself pointing at a camera and saying, ‘Hallo Leute, welcome back to my channel.’ He decides that it’s better left as a passing thought.
Italy nods, one hand on his chin as he looks deep in thought, or as deep in thought as he could be. “I could maybe have one of those channels where they cook things. I could show people how to make really good pasta!”
“Italy, I have watched you cook pasta too many times, and I still can’t follow your method,” Germany admits quietly.
Italy hums in response. “Maybe I can just teach people art instead.”
Germany doesn’t have the heart to tell him he can follow Italy’s art process even less.
“Anyway,” Italy continues, momentum returning instantly. “I’ve been thinking a lot, you know, about the conference. And how strange it was. Well, not strange, but well, weird to see everyone so serious.” He stirs harder. His gaze focused solely on the pot, yet he doesn’t seem to realise his quickening pace.
“I never saw you serious until the accord. Or well, I’ve never seen you milder, in a way,” Germany adds on, murmuring. Italy pauses the stirring. For half a heartbeat, he’s completely still. The silence thins between them, like something soon to tear. Germany regrets the comment immediately, he hadn’t meant it as anything bad. He never intends to harm when it comes to Italy. He just always lands heavy without noticing.
“Guess everyone else’s seriousness rubbed off on me, too,” Italy chuckles. But Germany can tell it’s not genuine at all.
Italy drains the pasta and plates it up. Germany dries the sink. He doesn’t get to finish before Italy takes his hand, warm and gentle, and all too familiar, and guides him to the table. Warm. Italy’s hand is warm. Always warmer than his. Always pulling, never pushing. His reflex is to pull back. His instinct is to follow. The confusion between the two makes his breath hitch, just barely. Italy doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to. Germany realises, with a sharp, unwelcome twist, how starved he has been for simple human contact.
Germany sits silently, his gaze to the plate in front of him. Perfectly made, like he expected anything different. Even while distracted, Italy had never made a failing dish. Italy eats with enthusiasm. Germany pushes pasta around his plate, pretending.
The smell is inviting and familiar. Comforting. Not because he’s hungry. But because it’s what Italy always makes. A meal they have shared together one too many times. Italy eats so simply. Unthinking, joyful, alive. Every scrape of Italy’s fork against the plate sounds almost unbearably loud in the quiet of the kitchen. He fills the silence without even talking.
Italy launches into another tangent without breathing.
“You know I was really worried about the accord thing when it happened, mostly because I was scared that since I wouldn’t be connected to the government anymore, my old bosses would stop handling all my other stuff like utilities and paying me money, since we’re technically ‘private civilians’ now.. But nothing changed at all, I still don’t really do any work for them, and they still handle most of all that stuff, it’s just that the paperwork from the government—”
The actual meaning of Italy’s rapid-fire monologue washes over him like static. Germany only catches pieces, worried, private civilians, utilities, but mostly, he hears the cadence of Italy’s voice. Familiar. Steadying. He hadn’t realised how much he missed being talked at until this exact moment. He missed the noise. The distraction… Wait.
Germany pauses. He deliberately sets down his fork. “...Italy”
Italy freezes, mid-ramble. Germany studies him. “The government handles your utilities.”
There’s a beat. Italy blinks. His brows furrowed. As always, Germany has to spell it out for him.
“You said you forgot to pay your electricity bill. But your government handles your utilities.”
For half a second, neither of them responds. Staring blankly at each other, before Italy gives Germany the guiltiest little smile in all of Europe. He’s seen it centuries over. The smile that means I am definitely lying to you, but I do have a silly reason. His stomach sinks, not out of anger, but out of a weary, inevitable fondness he refuses to name.
“Oh! Wow, the pasta’s getting cold, you should eat it, it’s really—”
“Italy,” Germany repeats. His voice exasperated. Italy winces.
He wilts in his chair, shoulders curling in, like a child caught stealing biscuits. Germany closes his eyes for a slow inhale. He doesn’t want to be annoyed. Not when this– when Italy is in his kitchen, talking too fast, smelling like nutmeg and warmth. Like the first real grounding presence he’s needed for weeks.
Still. He opens his again. “You lied,” Germany restates seriously. His frustration rises, then fizzles. Hollow, before it can spark.
Italy fidgets with his fork. “A little bit.”
Germany stares. “Italy.”
“A medium bit.”
A beat.
“A lot,” Italy finally sighs, deflating.
The frustration should come easily. It usually does. Italy has been a master of testing his patience for over a century. But instead, Germany feels tired. Not the bone-deep exhaustion of war, but the hollow quiet that’s been echoing his house for days.
He rubs a hand over his face. “Then why are you here?”
Italy’s posture softens, his voice lowering in a way Germany rarely hears outside truly sincere moments.
“Well… you didn’t write. Or call. Or message. Not even a little text.” He swallows. “And I know things are different now, and you’re probably busy trying to figure yourself out and all that serious stuff you’re always doing, but I just… I missed you.”
Germany stiffens. Something in his chest gives a single heavy thud, like a warning. The words hit him like glass shattering. Unexpected and loud. Impossible to ignore. Something inside recoils on instinct. He is not built for softness delivered so plainly. He remembers all the times Italy had said similar things in the past, breezy and careless. But this one is earth-bound. Real and genuine. He straightens his spine, trying to force every emotion back into its proper, controlled compartment. They don’t fit.
Italy continues before he can answer. “And I know we don’t really have to see each other anymore because we don’t work for the government, but now there’s also nothing stopping me from staying with you either. And Romano said he didn’t care, and my bosses said they didn’t care, and my house kind of… wasn’t that great to begin with, I just thought… well.” Italy pauses. “I figured I’d come stay with you for a bit! Like old times! Just… less working”
Germany processes this. Very slowly. “You came here,” he says, “because you missed me.”
Italy nods, small and earnest. His hands twist the fork like he’s tying knots just to keep from fidgeting. Germany didn’t expect to be someone anyone would go out of their way for. Especially not now, when he can barely manage himself.
“And because I didn’t message.”
Another nod.
“And because your house—” he pauses. “Italy, your lights are working, aren’t they?”
Italy hesitates.
Germany glares. “They are working.”
“They… were working,” Italy corrects, smiling sheepishly.
Germany’s voice drops. “Italy.”
“Okay, okay!” Italy blurts. “No, they’re not. But not because of the bill! I actually… I sold the house.”
Germany’s hand meets his face before he even thinks about it. “Italy–”
“It wasn’t very good!” Italy insists quickly. “Romano said it was a ‘death trap built by an idiot landlord’ and I didn’t even like the neighbourhood, and you have a spare room, and I’ve basically lived here before, and we shared a bed—”
“You sold your house,” Germany interrupts, “To move into mine.”
“Yes?” Italy offers, like he’s guessing the right answer for a quiz.
Germany wants to scream. Or laugh. Or put his head on the table. Instead, he just… lets out a long exhale. Only Italy would treat selling a house like misplacing socks.He should say no. He knows he should say no.
But the house is quiet. Too quiet. Every footstep an echo. Now the silence is gone, and he can breathe again. He hates how grateful he feels. And Italy just looks at him like he never left, like nothing in the world has actually changed.
Germany gives up. He knows he is going to say yes before he even opens his mouth. Italy probably knew too. Manipulative bastard.
“Fine,” he mutters. “You can stay.”
Italy brightens instantly, like the sun poking through the clouds. “Really!?”
“Yes. But if you make a mess of anything in my kitchen–”
“I won’t!” Italy beams. “I promise.”
Germany looks away, because if he meets that smile right now, he’ll start feeling things he absolutely does not have the emotional infrastructure to deal with. The brightness of the smile feels like someone throwing open a window he didn’t realise had been shut. Too much light, too suddenly.
Italy fiddles with his fork again, suddenly shy. “Oh, um… You know, since we’re not really countries anymore, you can stop calling me Italy.” Italy meets his gaze, and Germany feels his throat go tight. “My name on everything is Feliciano… You can call me Feli, though…”
Germany pauses. Human names? Most of the countries had one, since it was easier on documents. But none of them had ever really used them at all. He’d personally never been called by his. He doesn’t exactly enjoy the implication of further distancing himself from his country. But the look in Feli’s eyes. The easy way he’s already adjusted…
Feli. His name rolls through his mind with a strange weight. Human names meant vulnerability. Mortality. A life outside statehood. A life he does not know how to have. But Feli is looking at him with a hand extended. Not a closed door.
“...You may call me Ludwig.” He says, after a beat. Feli grins in a way that blinds him like sunlight.
The name feels foreign on his mouth, like a coat that doesn’t quite fit yet. But Feli’s smile makes the discomfort soften, it doesn’t fit because it’s large, like a warm protective blanket. His name is a small thing. Insignificant on paper. It feels enormous to wear now.
Feli tests the name, “Ludwig…” He rolls it around in his mouth like he’s tasting it, then brightening up all over again. “It suits you! Strong, but also gentle… Like a big dog who looks really scary but actually just wants hugs!”
Ludwig chokes on air. “I do not— need hugs.”
“Everyone needs hugs,” Feli says with sage seriousness. “Even big dogs,” He taps Ludwig’s shoulder with the handle of his fork. “Especially big dogs, if you know what I mean.”
And Ludwig… lets out a helpless exhale that might actually be a laugh. Despite not really understanding what he means at all. It’s a familiar conversation. One he usually tries to brush off, but Feli beams at his reaction like he’s just been encouraged. He leans forward and offers his hand across the table, like this is a proper introduction and not two people sitting in a cramped kitchen.
“Nice to meet you, Ludwig.”
Ludwig hesitates, then takes the hand. It’s soft, missing all the hard edges and rough callousness his own have. He intends to shake it, but Feli squeezes once before letting go, the friendly pressure lingering like an aftertaste, and Ludwig is left staring at his empty palm as if it’s holding something delicate he’s afraid to crush.
“See? Not so scary,” Feli says lightly, Germany just stares blankly, uncomprehending.
“I… I didn’t think my name was scary,” He murmurs.
Feli simply laughs. “You weren’t scared of the name. You were scared of using it, but it’s not so bad, right? You’ve been acting all stiff and awkward since the accord. You sit like you’re struggling to take a number two”
Ludwig blinks before muttering, “Old habits.”
“Maybe you don’t need them anymore,” Feli says in response, suddenly firm, it takes Ludwig by surprise. The suggestion settles like a weight and a buoy all at once. It’s heavy, but it is lifting, somehow. He looks down at his hands to ground himself. Feli watches him for a moment. “Oh, Ludwig, you’re not clenching your jaw,”
Ludwig startles. “I… was I supposed to be?”
Feli tilts his head, “No, it’s just that normally your face looks like this–” He scrunches up his face dramatically, with an expression that made him look constipated.
Ludwig sputters, “I do NOT– look like that.”
“You do! But right now you look…” Feli tilts his head, studying him with startling softness. “Happier. Maybe ‘Ludwig’ fits you better than you think.”
Ludwig looks away, ears red. He has no idea what to do with Feli’s words, so he settles for adjusting his plat unnecessarily. Feli reaches for the salt, absent-mindedly as he returns to eating lunch. His fingers brush Ludwig’s knuckles.
Ludwig jolts like he’s been struck, but Feli just smiles and murmurs, “Scusa.”
The room feels hotter. Ludwig supposes it’s just the awkward atmosphere. Feli goes back to eating, humming contentedly as if the silence between them was anything but uncomfortable. Then he glances back up again, new conversation already sparked in his head.
“Do you remember that picnic we had after the energy summit? When you yelled at me for lying in the grass?”
“I did not yell,” Ludwig insists. The new subject washing away his previous embarrassment.
“You used your stern voice!” Feli persists.
Ludwig pauses. “I… spoke firmly.”
Feli shakes his head. “You yelled, ‘It’s damp! You shouldn’t be rolling around in the dirt and mud! You will ruin your trousers, dummkopf!’”
“That is a perfectly reasonable concern!” Ludwig retorts, gritting his teeth.
“Well,” Feli leans his cheek into his palm, smiling at him over the table, “you haven’t used your stern voice today.”
Ludwig falters, caught mid-breath. “What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t told me off, the whole time I’ve been here. Even after I lied to you about my house.” Feli explains. Ludwig knows he’s been uncharacteristically amiable over the whole ordeal. But that was only because of the crippling loneliness. And his tolerance for Feli’s antics growing after so much time.
Obviously, Feli doesn’t think so, because his next words are. “You don’t feel like you need to be Germany right now. The accord took that stick out of your butt.”
Ludwig stares blankly. He doesn’t know how to reply to that. He only knows it settles somewhere in his chest. The words are offensive to him. Yet he doesn’t rise to the bait. As Feli aptly said, he feels no need to react the way he usually would. He doesn’t get it yet, but he knows the change has been executed irreverisbly. Feli keeps watching him, waiting for him to deny or argue or bark an order.
The things he used to do.
But Ludwig can’t muster anything to say in return. For a moment, there’s a strange quiet equilibrium between them. Feli’s foot swings under the table. Ludwig’s fingers idle against the rim of his plate. The conversation is stagnant. But it is unsettlingly peaceful.
Ludwig searches for something appropriate to say, to defend himself, or to admit that Feli may be right, or to change the subject entirely. When a sudden buzz on the table cuts the moment cleanly in half.
Ludwig blinks, pulled abruptly back into the real world, and reaches for his phone. A message from his brother.
‘Hey Broseph, I won’t be home for a while more, I’m going to Hungary’s place, so.. Don’t wait up or whatever’
Germany sighs. Out loud, he says, “It appears we will have the house to ourselves.”
Feli grins. “Oh, Perfect! That means we can—”
The knock isn’t really a knock so much as a warningly loud bang. But it startles the both of them. The door shifts violently, as if someone has decided that knocking was ineffective and brute force was the superior language. Three sharp concussive kicks ram into the frame, followed by an unmistakable voice shouting something muffled and furious in Italian through the wood.
Ludwig shoots to his feet on instinct just as the handle jerks, rattles, and then flings open with enough force to hit the wall. Romano barrels inside with winded force. Cheeks windburnt, hair tousled from the cold, eyebrows permanently set in a frown, and jacket half-buttoned as if he dressed himself angrily while walking.
Romano doesn’t even make it two steps down the hallway before his foot collides with a suitcase. He stumbles, arms flailing, catching himself on the wall with a grunt.
“Feli,” he snaps. “Did you seriously leave all your crap all over the hallway?” Is yelled through the hallway before he storms forward to the living room. He stops dead in his tracks.
His eyes land on the dinner table. The pasta. Feli’s smile, Ludwig's exasperated expression. The neat little domestic scene. And his face curls with disgust. Glaring at Ludwig with a scowl that could curdle milk. Like having to be here is all his fault.
“Romano,” Ludwig says, eyes narrowing.
“Romano,” Feli echoes, much more cheerfully from his seat.
“Oh, fantastico,” Romano says flatly. His eyes flicked between them. “So I leave you alone for one day, and you crawl back to your emotional support German.” His glare sharpens, landing squarely on Ludwig with so much focused repugnance that Ludwig feels more uncomfortable than he has this entire day.
Romano throws his hands up. “I knew it. I KNEW you’d be in here with all that–” he gestures vaguely between them, “–homoeroticness. I could smell your stupid codependency from down the damn road.”
Ludwig opens his mouth to retaliate, but Feli beats him, beaming sweetly as if he didn’t catch a single insult. “Lovi! You came to join me!”
“I came,” Lovino interrupts, “to make sure you didn’t do anything STUPID.” he gestures around wildly. “And look where we are now! Homeless and living with this stupid sausage-fest because you sold our house to live your stupid will-they-won’t-they situationship hallmark movie.”
Ludwig’s jaw tightens. Speaking with an air of finality as he pushes his chair back with deliberate weight. “You broke my door. You can’t expect me to just allow you to live here–”
“Oh shut up,” Lovino cuts in immediately. “We talked to your brother and he was fine with it, and you have room. So don’t get all bossy with me, wurst sucker.”
Ludwig blinks. “My brother said what?” As if on cue, He feels his phone buzz a second time. He glances at the notification bar, and his expression darkens.
‘btw the italys kinda want to crash at our place for a bit so dont be shocked when they show up k’
Slowly, Ludwig lifts his gaze to Feli, who smiles back at him with the fragile, trembling innocence of a man who knows exactly what he’s done. Ludwig inhales dangerously.
“Oh yeah!” comes another voice from the hallway. Seborga wanders in like he’s on a house tour, hands in pockets and grin easy. “Sweet place,”
There’s a blanketed pause, silent, taut, and electric, that none of the three Italians seemed to have caught. Unaware of the way Ludwig’s blood pressure spikes. Where any new movement might cause him to combust.
“No, this is not– I only agreed for Feliciano to stay, the two of you will need to find someplace else.” He says steely with weaponised politeness. His arms crossed.
Lovino sneers, throwing an arm around Seborga like claiming territory. “We don’t answer to you, asshole.”
Before Ludwig can snap back, Feli rises abruptly, sliding between them like a barrier of anxious peacekeeping. He places his hands gently into both their chests, pushing them a step apart.
“Alright! Enough!” His eyes turned to Ludwig, guilt already gathering like mist, teeth catching his bottom lip.
Ludwig stares back. His face carefully blank, and then he glances back towards the other two Italians. Both loudly lodged in his living room. His eye twitches. He remembers the quiet of this same room just this morning. The predictable scene, without the smell of lingering pasta in the air. He inhales the death of his peace like smoke.
His thoughts have careened in several directions at once. A storm behind his usually disciplined expression. His door is broken. Two extra uninvited houseguests have materialised in his house like pests. His brother has apparently been making unilateral housing decisions again. Feliciano… Feliciano is looking up at him with those soft, guilty eyes that Ludwig had never, not once, had the willpower to resist.
He feels frustration simmering through his ribs, but underneath it sits something older. Relief that Feli is here at all, shame that he’s relieved, and a sharp sting of betrayed routine. It’s all terribly distracting, messy, and uncoordinated, and not at all his preferred environment.
Lovino is still muttering profanities under his breath in two dialects. Feli’s grim expression still lingers. It makes Ludwig feel uneasy.
“Luddy,” he starts, his tone softening into that disarming syrup that Ludwig is biologically powerless against. “I know I didn’t exactly do this in the best way. I mean… suddenly selling my house, and lying… and kind of forcing you to take me in…” He pauses. “Was a bit… much.”
Lovino snorts quietly, but Ludwig drew his eyebrows together as his focus shifts, as Feli himself shoves Lovi back further with one arm. “Not helping, Lovi.”
Lovino rolls his eyes, arms crossed now as Seborga has wandered to the edges of the living room, looking in every direction except the unfolding scene.
Ludwig redirects his attention to Feliciano. His jaw flexing. “Feli. When I agreed you could live here, I did not mean for them to come along too. And to go to my brother without telling me first?” His voice tightens. The one thing he seems to have control of right now.
Feli winces “I know,” he starts. “I didn’t think any of this through… I just wanted to see you, and I made a couple of stupid decisions, and then made more stupid decisions to cover up the other stupid decisions.”
“That’s nothing new,” is grumbled behind them. Feli pointedly steps hard on Lovino’s shoe without turning. Lovino yelps, before he simpers away like an injured cat.
“I know I handled it badly,” Feli continues, quieter now. Earnest in a way that doesn’t ask to be forgiven so much as understood. “I just put my house up for sale so I would have an excuse to see you. It was an impulsive decision, but it was one I could have backed out on at any time. But I didn’t.”
He looks around the room, the corners of his eyes crinkling with familiarity. “I came because I was worried, about you.” Feli takes a step forward, and reactively, Ludwig takes a step back. Feli’s face faltered slightly, but he was not deterred.
“You don’t do well with change,” Feli states, not accusing. He takes Ludwig’s hand, which Ludwig himself hadn’t noticed was stiffly clenched at his side. “And this was one that I knew you would struggle with. You work too hard, you live on being led and leading others, that structure. It’s what you thrive on.”
Ludwig feels a lump in his throat. Feli, for all his care-free obliviousness, had always read Ludwig better than he could himself. Whether purposefully or accidentally, Feli has been behind many of Ludwig’s revelations about who he was. Feli forced him to acknowledge his feelings. And to acknowledge who he was as a person, which now, more than ever, is exactly what Ludwig needs.
Lovino, who had moved onto the couch, opened his mouth to speak, but Feli turned and shot him a sharp look to shut him up. It was sharper than Ludwig had ever seen from him. In fact, on this day and the accord, Ludwig has seen more to Feli than he had in the decades they have known each other.
Before Ludwig can speak, Feli beats him to it. “I didn’t want to wait until you were worse until I could check in. And I didn’t want to just visit quickly and be told you were fine and sent away. I know you, Luddy.” Feli said steadily. “So, I panicked. And sold my house… and lied. And I made it messy. But I wasn’t trying to trap you… I just didn’t want you to be alone, pretending you had everything under control.”
Softer and almost embarrassed, he adds. “You always take care of everyone else. I thought maybe I could do that for you, just this once.” Feli awkwardly pulls away. “I know it didn’t end up that way.”
Ludwig stares at him for a moment, quietly contemplating. Was this really the Feli he’d always known? When had he changed? Was he always this way? Feli seems to recognise Ludwig’s expression of thought, and curtly begins again.
“They won’t be here long,” He continues, his hands twisting as he steps back from Ludwig. “Lovi doesn’t technically need to live with me anymore, because of the accord, and Seborga is… his own thing entirely.”
He gestures vaguely to Seborga, who is now testing the couch cushions for bounce, settling and throwing his arms behind his head comfortably. Lovino sits on the end of the couch beside him, his gaze not leaving the two standing.
“So really it’ll just be a temporary thing until they find a place together,” Seborga beams. Lovino blanches.
“Hey— HEY– wait a second!” Lovino snaps, shoving Seborga aside. “Don’t lump me in with him. I can find my own place, on my own. I don’t need any of you idiots’ help.”
Seborga rubs his arm like a kicked puppy. “Bro… harsh…”
Ludwig can’t bring himself to answer immediately. He watches them both, feeling a headache blooming behind his eyes. He presses his thumb to the bridge of his nose. The room has descended into complete disorder, and he is just a man who values order so sharply that he’s just spent weeks grasping for it. He’s already catalogued the damage. He always does. His plans are derailed, and his control is compromised. He’s already reached this conclusion. But, unwillingly, he catalogues something else.
The way Feli stood between him and Lovino without hesitation. The way he’d noticed Ludwig in things he didn’t think were visible. The fact that, for the first time in weeks, the silence that had plagued his home was gone. And he could not bring himself to hate it.
Control has always kept him functional, organised, and safe. But it has also kept him alone. He realises, with a jolt of something dangerously close to clarity, that this isn’t Feli taking control away from him. This is Feli asking him to share it. And the thought terrifies him more than chaos ever has. He exhales a long, doomed breath.
“Fine,” Ludwig says, defeated. The word lands like a gavel. The Italians freeze. Feli’s head snaps up, Lovino’s scowl only deepens with suspicion. And Seborga nods enthusiastically at nothing with his hand holding his chin.
“Temporarily,” Ludwig clarifies. “Get them out of here by the end of the month.”
Feli’s expression flickers. “Ah, well… you know how hard it is to find a place that quickly in this economy…”
“Yeah, the housing market is a hellscape.” Lovino agrees, chiming in.
“You don’t pay rent.” Ludwig deadpans.
“That is beside the point.” Lovino scowls.
Ludwig clenches his fists. “Fine. Two months.”
Feli grabs Ludwig’s arm, staring up at him whilst chewing his bottom lip, a weaponised cherub. Ludwig looks away.
“...Six months…” He offers. Feli leans slightly closer, the final blow. The coup de grâce.
Ludwig groans into his palms. Deflating like a punctured tyre “Fine! A year.”
Feli’s lips curve up into a smile. And Ludwig can’t force himself to return it. The decision settles into his stomach with unfamiliar weight. He expects regret to follow, or anger. The sharp itch of self-reproach. Instead, what follows is an easing hollow ache.
His home will be louder now—Messier, and unpredictable. But it will also be occupied. He looks at Feli, and understands, perhaps for the first time, that this isn’t about indulgence or weakness... It’s about choosing presence over precision.
Control has shaped his entire existence. Letting go of it, even slightly, is standing over unfamiliar ground. But Feli is there. Watching him not with triumph, but relief. Ludwig’s life has been a never-ending fight for order. And yet.
Ludwig straightens his spine. If he is going to lose control, it will be on his own terms.
Seborga swings an arm over Lovino’s shoulders. “Man… the chicks are gonna love this place!”
Lovino shoves him so hard that he hits the armrest. This time, Seborga bounces back like a spring toy.
Ludwig snaps his face toward them, lips pressed into a stern line. “Now wait just a second. We are going to need to establish house rules–”
Three heads turn to him in varying degrees of innocence and confusion, and Ludwig realises with quiet resignation that he has really lost all control. Absolutely and utterly.