Didn't See That One Coming 1/?
anonymous
August 3 2009, 07:04:19 UTC
Ludwig was a man of principle, a country of morals- at least, he liked to imagine that. It was hard enough dating the bouncy Italian he’d adopted as an eternal nuisance; but it was even harder letting go of every wall of propriety he still had intact, any sense of decency within him, to be able to just kiss the man when he walked him to his door after a night full of “Ve Ludwig~” and playful, one-sided, banter. And honestly, he probably would have never made a move it if hadn’t been for his brother prompting him through lecherous glances and suggestive movements of his hips whenever Feliciano’s back was turned.
“Ludwig,” Feliciano whined when the hands on the clock struck 11, “the night’s only beginning! Come to my house, we can have some wine Francis gave me at the summit!”
Behind the bouncing man, Gilbert cocked an eyebrow, and that ridiculous smirk spread a few more inches across his face. Ludwig shook his head, for both men’s benefit.
“Feliciano, it’s late. Maybe tomorrow at a more appropriate time,” he suggested. And then, in an afterthought, “and maybe we could drink something else. I don’t trust anything coming from Francis.”
The German watched as Feliciano’s shoulders slumped, defeat clear on his face, and for a moment, his resistance almost crumbled at the sight of that jutted lip. It was pitiful of him, even pathetic, but part of him raged against his will to collect the man in his arms, run a thumb over the perturbed lip, and calm his ally’s ease with a kiss. He looked to Gilbert, whose eyebrows were waggling, and hand motioning for him to go with him, and his will crushed those thoughts into dust.
“Ve, but Ludwig, we have a conference tomorrow,” Feliciano murmured.
“Yes, but it will only be until three, then we have the whole evening,” Ludwig reminded him.
Feliciano suddenly looked determined, crossing his arms and looking Ludwig in the eyes. Ludwig swallowed back against the sudden unease collecting in his throat and preventing air from flowing into his lungs. He knew this look; he’d seen it once when England mentioned fish and chips being a more delicious and well rounded dish than pasta. The hell that had ensued was astonishing, if not amazing.
“Ludwig! You know the meeting is going to run late! It always does! America is going to go on and on about how great he is and how his plan is awesome, and England is going to argue with him, as usual!” Feliciano threw in some hand gestures, for his benefit, imitating a bomb going off. “Then France is going to argue with England until it stops being about the economy, but how he’s going to get into his bed! Then Spain is going to start pestering Lovino, and he’s going to be in a horrible mood, and I’m going to have to sit through it and get no dinner and keep listening to that creepy ghost that’s haunting the room! And then you’ll freak out, and then we’ll end up staying till 8 to make up lost time, and you won’t be in the mood!”
Ludwig was wide eyed, and for a moment, the room was in complete silence. That is, until Gilbert broke down laughing.
“Whew, West, you’ve got a feisty one!” he barked in between laughing fits, “he’s fiery! I like it!”
“Grazie,” Feliciano muttered. “So will you come with me? Please?”
Any fire that had been in his voice and raging in his eyes had subsided to a low simmer, an irresistible warmth that Ludwig was having trouble resisting. It shone in the Italian’s eyes, soft and earthy like oak, and in his pleading face, and for a moment, Ludwig was practically consumed. How could he deny him anything? If all he wanted was to drink some wine, why not? It wouldn’t hurt him. But his pride got in the way, and his fear of what would follow crippled him from taking that next step, held him back from what would surely follow.
“Ludwig,” Feliciano whined when the hands on the clock struck 11, “the night’s only beginning! Come to my house, we can have some wine Francis gave me at the summit!”
Behind the bouncing man, Gilbert cocked an eyebrow, and that ridiculous smirk spread a few more inches across his face. Ludwig shook his head, for both men’s benefit.
“Feliciano, it’s late. Maybe tomorrow at a more appropriate time,” he suggested. And then, in an afterthought, “and maybe we could drink something else. I don’t trust anything coming from Francis.”
The German watched as Feliciano’s shoulders slumped, defeat clear on his face, and for a moment, his resistance almost crumbled at the sight of that jutted lip. It was pitiful of him, even pathetic, but part of him raged against his will to collect the man in his arms, run a thumb over the perturbed lip, and calm his ally’s ease with a kiss. He looked to Gilbert, whose eyebrows were waggling, and hand motioning for him to go with him, and his will crushed those thoughts into dust.
“Ve, but Ludwig, we have a conference tomorrow,” Feliciano murmured.
“Yes, but it will only be until three, then we have the whole evening,” Ludwig reminded him.
Feliciano suddenly looked determined, crossing his arms and looking Ludwig in the eyes. Ludwig swallowed back against the sudden unease collecting in his throat and preventing air from flowing into his lungs. He knew this look; he’d seen it once when England mentioned fish and chips being a more delicious and well rounded dish than pasta. The hell that had ensued was astonishing, if not amazing.
“Ludwig! You know the meeting is going to run late! It always does! America is going to go on and on about how great he is and how his plan is awesome, and England is going to argue with him, as usual!” Feliciano threw in some hand gestures, for his benefit, imitating a bomb going off. “Then France is going to argue with England until it stops being about the economy, but how he’s going to get into his bed! Then Spain is going to start pestering Lovino, and he’s going to be in a horrible mood, and I’m going to have to sit through it and get no dinner and keep listening to that creepy ghost that’s haunting the room! And then you’ll freak out, and then we’ll end up staying till 8 to make up lost time, and you won’t be in the mood!”
Ludwig was wide eyed, and for a moment, the room was in complete silence. That is, until Gilbert broke down laughing.
“Whew, West, you’ve got a feisty one!” he barked in between laughing fits, “he’s fiery! I like it!”
“Grazie,” Feliciano muttered. “So will you come with me? Please?”
Any fire that had been in his voice and raging in his eyes had subsided to a low simmer, an irresistible warmth that Ludwig was having trouble resisting. It shone in the Italian’s eyes, soft and earthy like oak, and in his pleading face, and for a moment, Ludwig was practically consumed. How could he deny him anything? If all he wanted was to drink some wine, why not? It wouldn’t hurt him. But his pride got in the way, and his fear of what would follow crippled him from taking that next step, held him back from what would surely follow.
“Tomorrow,” he sighed.
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