Idiots Do Catch Colds [3/5]
anonymous
August 30 2009, 16:42:26 UTC
He is just finishing when Feliciano rolls to face him and says that he needs to use the bathroom again. Ludwig sighs, carefully put his papers on the small table beside the bed, and helps Feliciano up and to the bathroom once more.
After about two minutes, during which Ludwig waits outside the door, keeping watch for anything that might find its way into the house, there’s a loud crash and Ludwig has the door open half a second later to find Feliciano sprawled on the ground in front of the sink and looking disoriented.
“Sorry Ludwig,” he mumbles, pushing himself up so he’s partially sitting. “I got a little dizzy and then I was down here.”
Ludwig says nothing, and kneels so he can pick Feliciano up and carry him back to his room, because he doesn’t want a repeat of the incident with a more serious injury.
Once back to the bed, Ludwig gently sets the Italian down and pulls the blanket back over him, then carefully and thoroughly checks him for injuries. There’s a small bump on the right side of his head, but otherwise Feliciano is thankfully injury free.
After the checkup, Feliciano smiles up at Ludwig, his cheeks the slightest bit more flushed. He gives a particularly pathetic sniffle, and asks, “Did Lovi leave any pasta? I’m starving.”
And that is how Ludwig finds himself in the kitchen shortly thereafter, waiting for a pot of water to boil. He has never cooked pasta himself before, but he could honestly say that he had seen Feliciano do it enough times at his house that he has the process memorized. Boil water, add pasta, stir occasionally, drain and serve. Feliciano did it all the time, so it couldn’t be that hard, right?
Ludwig’s complete underestimation of the complexity of Italian cooking turned out to be his downfall. His first pot of pasta congeals into a semisolid lump after he drains it. He dumps it into the trash and pulls out a bag of some tube shaped pasta that he would attempt next. They are only half cooked when Ludwig drains them, and he throws that batch away as well.
He is wondering if it is worth attempting a third batch when the muffled strains of Feliciano singing “Pastaaaa, pastaaaa, paaaaastaaaaaaa” magically picks that moment to filter into the kitchen. Ludwig turns back to the pot resolutely.
He is just starting the fourth and final attempt (he doesn’t even want to think about the third batch, because he can’t figure out what was wrong with it, other than that it just wasn’t right) when the door slams and Lovino walks into the kitchen. There is a moment of silence; then Ludwig is none too gently pushed away from the stovetop while an irate Lovino starts a monologue on goddamn pasta wasting potato bastards.
After about two minutes, during which Ludwig waits outside the door, keeping watch for anything that might find its way into the house, there’s a loud crash and Ludwig has the door open half a second later to find Feliciano sprawled on the ground in front of the sink and looking disoriented.
“Sorry Ludwig,” he mumbles, pushing himself up so he’s partially sitting. “I got a little dizzy and then I was down here.”
Ludwig says nothing, and kneels so he can pick Feliciano up and carry him back to his room, because he doesn’t want a repeat of the incident with a more serious injury.
Once back to the bed, Ludwig gently sets the Italian down and pulls the blanket back over him, then carefully and thoroughly checks him for injuries. There’s a small bump on the right side of his head, but otherwise Feliciano is thankfully injury free.
After the checkup, Feliciano smiles up at Ludwig, his cheeks the slightest bit more flushed. He gives a particularly pathetic sniffle, and asks, “Did Lovi leave any pasta? I’m starving.”
And that is how Ludwig finds himself in the kitchen shortly thereafter, waiting for a pot of water to boil. He has never cooked pasta himself before, but he could honestly say that he had seen Feliciano do it enough times at his house that he has the process memorized. Boil water, add pasta, stir occasionally, drain and serve. Feliciano did it all the time, so it couldn’t be that hard, right?
Ludwig’s complete underestimation of the complexity of Italian cooking turned out to be his downfall. His first pot of pasta congeals into a semisolid lump after he drains it. He dumps it into the trash and pulls out a bag of some tube shaped pasta that he would attempt next. They are only half cooked when Ludwig drains them, and he throws that batch away as well.
He is wondering if it is worth attempting a third batch when the muffled strains of Feliciano singing “Pastaaaa, pastaaaa, paaaaastaaaaaaa” magically picks that moment to filter into the kitchen. Ludwig turns back to the pot resolutely.
He is just starting the fourth and final attempt (he doesn’t even want to think about the third batch, because he can’t figure out what was wrong with it, other than that it just wasn’t right) when the door slams and Lovino walks into the kitchen. There is a moment of silence; then Ludwig is none too gently pushed away from the stovetop while an irate Lovino starts a monologue on goddamn pasta wasting potato bastards.
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