[fic] neighbours (1/1)
Title: neighbours
Author: sherry_doll
Characters/Pairings: GerIta, slightly hinted but not really Spamano
Rating: T
Summary: ...should be there for one another when they lock themselves out and need to get themselves back in really quickly or else the pasta will burn, ve! Poor Ludwig never saw it coming.
A/N: Written for the NeoWorld Academy Forum's Secret Santa. One down, one to go. :)
The pasta is boiling over.
Feliciano whimpers as he watches the water slap over the edges of the pot in abject despair. Oh, Santo dio, if only he'd remembered that the sliding door had an automatic lock before going out to get some herbs…he moans slightly, hitting his forehead against the smooth glass.
His natural, immediate instinct - sans moping - propels his hands into loose denim pockets to rummage for the battered cell phone hiding inside. Fingers skip nimbly past weathered coins, tissues and what feels like a tube of toothpaste (he really needs to take a good look at his pants some time, but hey, at least he remembered to pull them on before stepping out onto the balcony…!) before they land on smoothed plastic, sliding over a case that's much too old for his liking. He allows a congratulatory smile as he unsticks his forehead from the glass and pulls the phone out, although as his eyes graze the bubbling disaster on his stove he can't help the flailing whine that forces itself out of his mouth before managing to tear his gaze away. No! Focus, Feliciano! Don't let the pasta break you! Shaking his head, the Italian flips the cell open and calls the only number on his speed dial.
It takes him all of three seconds to hang up.
Ve, what am I thinking? Fratello is in Spain right now. And he doesn't want to think about how much an international call would cost, especially now that it's that time of the month when he tends to treat every letter with an official-looking title like it'll burst into flame at any moment ("So I should just throw them away, si? Or, or bury them in the rosemary patch so I never ever have to see them again! Hahahahaha…"), so he shuts his phone (no contacts…not even that cute blond doctor that had treated his burnt finger last week, ve, which is too bad - he'd really liked him! And now he needs to find some other excuse to go see him…) and stares freely at the stove, teetering on the edge of dejection.
The temptation to hurl himself at the glass is growing stronger with every trembling rivulet of water that streaks down the edge of the pot.
Thinkthinkthinkthink…ah, the neighbours! Feliciano perks up, stuffing the phone back into his pocket and glancing at the wall separating his balcony from the one next door. It doesn't look that high, and if he drags over some milk crates to stand on, he might be able to get himself over and ask the (hopefully) nice neighbour to let him into the hallway so he can use the key under his placemat to get back inside his apartment! Oh, thank heavens, such a good idea! Feliciano would take a moment to marvel at his own ingenuity if not for the pressing situation at hand - every second that pasta stays in that bubbling pot is a second nearer to his own mental demise; imagining the slow, torturous over-cooking is something he feels as an almost tangible pain in his heart, a betrayal of the worst kind. He stifles a melodramatic whimper.
And so he drags three milk cartons to the wall and stacks them on top of one another, clambering on top and wobbling carefully as he peers over the edge and into the balcony next to his.
Oh my God, it's so neat. So neat! He gapes, running his gaze over the sleek chrome pots and polished, bare tiles. Feliciano doesn't even have to look back at his own, shamefully messy yard to wince at how utterly clean this one is in comparison. It's quite embarrassing, actually. He used to be such a good maid…but looking at this makes even Mr Edelstein's rare-gotten praise seem unworthy.
But now, the more pressing matter.
Feliciano heaves himself over the wall, panting with the exertion. It's been so long since his last bout of exercise, he wonders if he needs to attempt getting into shape again. His weakness is something he finds trivial, second-hand to his beautiful pasta and paintings of the rain; and he's really too entrenched in the art of being a slob to bring himself to care, but in cases like these he considers taking up the long forsaken morning jog again just to make himself feel a bit better.
Oh well, it's not as if he'll be jumping walls on a daily basis. And even if he was, that would just mean he'd get in shape from that, no jogging and waking up early needed!
In any case, he clambers over the edge easily enough, focusing on wriggling his legs onto the flat concrete and letting them dangle precariously as he tries lowering himself down.
THUMP
Keyword being, "tries".
"…owwww, that hurts." Wincing, he lays on the smooth tile for a second to nurse a throbbing ankle mournfully before sitting up, glancing around at the balcony. Focus, focus! His eyes latch onto the dark glass of the sliding door with curious, sinking despair. "No! Please be home, ve!" Dragging himself forward is an almost monumental task - the floor is too slippery for him to really get enough traction to pull himself along, so he ends up just sort of sliding over the tiles towards the door. "Be home, be home!" And he raises a hand and knocks, trying to peer in through the blinds as his mind races with images of his poor pasta, which must be thoroughly ruined by now.
Silence. Feliciano can feel his heart pump anxiously as he knocks again, willing some sort of noise to reach his ears -
- and a second later, he wishes he hadn't gone anywhere near the damn door.
"WOOF! WOOF!"
"AAAAAAAAAH!"
The explosion of angry, thunderous barking erupts somewhere to his left and definitely from inside the apartment, although it doesn't stop him from screaming and skidding back, ruined pasta and throbbing ankle be damned. Santo dio, t-there are dogs in there! Scary sounding dogs, no doubt owned by a doubly scary owner who would almost be as bad as that violent Swiss he used to live next to (no, not even dogs and dog owners could be scarier or more effectively sobering than the crack of a gun at two am and the resulting whoosh as it zipped past his alcohol-reddened nose) and nonono he's scared, but he really needs to get back in his house!
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he figures out that if someone is in there, the noise would have already gotten their attention and they could be making their way over right now. He gets to his feet, uncertain and unbalanced on his one leg, waiting for the owner to come and save him (or throw him off the balcony for trespassing. Or throw him to the dogs. Or throw him into jail. Or…).
Sure enough, a sharp voice cuts over the barking and the dogs fall silent as Feliciano trembles and tries to see through the covered glass. The blinds are pulled up and he blinks at the blond figure inside, something inside him faltering as he gapes.
The man inside is equally as surprised. He rubs his eyes incredulously, leaning against the glass. "…Feliciano? How did you get on my balcony?"
That's really bad soundproofing, the Italian thinks reproachfully before lunging forward and pressing against the glass tearfully. "L-Ludwig? I didn't - ve, I didn't know you were allowed to have dogs!"
"I don't - I - Gott." The German stares before sighing, unlocking the sliding door and pushing it open. "Why don't you just…come inside first."
He nods, stepping in gingerly and glancing around for those big scary dogs, who seem to have disappeared. Once he's established that no, they definitely aren't in the room, he looks up at Ludwig, who is in the act of closing the door and hugs him tightly around the middle, relief washing over him. "Ve, Ludwig I was so scared! My pasta was boiling and I got locked out, and so I climbed over the big wall because I thought you might be one of those nice neighbours and I was wrong - not that you aren't nice, no, that's not it at all, ve! - but then there were those scary dogs and I was wrong because I thought I didn't know you, because I just moved in here and I haven't met the neighbours yet but it's you and I do know you see, I had an appointment with you just last Saturday and, and I didn't know you were allowed to keep dogs?"
The hands that settle extremely hesitantly on his head are encouragement enough for him to cuddle closer, pushing them onto the couch stubbornly. "Um. Feliciano."
"Si?"
"…nevermind." It's best not to question him in situations like this, and Feliciano is glad Ludwig has adapted quickly enough with him to know this. He settles on snuggling further into him, discreetly tangling his legs with the strong, buff man's with a sigh of contentment as the strong, buff man coughs uncomfortably. "My brother. He's the um. Landlord."
"Really?" He lifts his head, pinning him with a curious gaze.
"Ja. He lets me keep them. They're nice," he adds at the flash of fear that crosses his patient's face, "but they don't like strangers."
Feliciano tilts his head, resting his chin on the doctor's chest. "I don't believe that! But you don't have to prove anything, ve, I'm fine with you protecting me!"
It's so unprofessional of Dr. Beilschmidt to blush and stutter and try to push him off as he realises their position, but the Italian doesn't mind. He grins, letting himself slide off and onto the couch as the other man sits up, rubbing his sleek hair (yes, Feli might be comparing it to the tiles, which isweirder than he'd like things to be…but they really are kind of similar in that really neat way) and shaking his head. "This is strange, Feliciano. What are you…you want to get back into your apartment?"
"Mmhmm! I really need to get back right away, it's urgent!" With that, he tumbles off the sofa to try to make his way to the door but staggers before he can take his first step as he steps with that damn ankle. "Ah, ow…"
"What's the matter?" Ludwig is up in a flash and keeping him steady, much to Feliciano's pleasure. He beams up through the pain. It's so useful having a cute doctor as your next door neighbour! Oh. In fact…
Something sparks in his mind. "It's my ankle, ve…I landed weirdly when I climbed over the wall and now it huuuuuuurts."
Grave blue eyes sharpen with professional concern, and Feliciano takes a moment to swoon over them before he realises he's being gently pushed back onto the couch - ooh, role reversal, he definitely approves - and the German is kneeling, running long fingers over his bare foot, lingering on the reddened area around his ankle. Oh, that feels really nice, Luddy. He lets himself blush, squeaking a little. "W-what are you doing?"
"Shh. Does it hurt when I press here?"
That no-nonsense tone is really sexy, he wants to tell him. Instead, "Ow! Yes!"
A quick "Verzeihung," is the answer, and Feliciano almost wants to berate him for being so formal but he's far too enamoured with this seriousness to really care. "It looks like it's sprained. Let me just get something to wrap it up, then I'll take you back to your apartment. Um."
Judging by the sudden redness of Ludwig's ears and his hasty retreat, he's realised just what exactly his words imply, so the Italian decides not to do him the favour of pointing it out and instead hums to himself, warm happiness spreading in his chest. His foot aches, his pasta is beyond ruined, and his balcony looks like a whirlwind compared to his doctor's, but things are working out just fine in his opinion. What seemed like a coincidence at first is fast becoming an opportunity, and he plans to take full advantage of it now that the shock has worn off.
He smiles. "Ve! Ludwig!"
"I have it - what is it?" The taller man stops in his tracks at the sight of his patient, who is waving around a battered-looking cell phone and grinning as if he's just been hit by one of those infamous Cheer Up Trucks. Which would be awkward, because then he'd have to ask Gilbert why he let Antonio into his apartment and scheiße, he needs to start walking just about now.
"What's your number, ve? It's silly that I don't know it, since you're my doctor and everything." Feliciano giggles, sheepishly scratching the back of his head.
"I'll have my receptionist give it to you the next time you come in." Because it'd be embarrassing to admit that he doesn't have it memorised, and that his little box of business cards is still sitting on his desk at work.
The brunet pouts, waggling the phone more insistently in his face as Ludwig kneels again, setting the roll of gauze on the floor next to the bruised foot. "That's even sillier, you're right here so you can give it to me now! What if I need to call you really soon? I fall down a lot, ve."
… scheiße. "You can come over if you need me. Any time is fine." Scheiße, no, he hadn't meant to say that -
"Really? Really really really? That's so nice of you!" Feliciano decides it is appropriate to appropriate a hug at this moment, and does so as well as he can without jostling his foot or accidentally kicking Ludwig with it. "But ve, what about when you're working?"
"…" And now he's given an open invitation to his affectionate, excitable and very much inappropriate patient to come into his house whenever he wants without even managing to avoid the number question.
"Luuuuuuddy?"
…and now he has a nickname.
"I'll give it to you later." He needs to get this man out of his apartment now, before he gets way too confused with these strange feelings and gives out even more personal information (not much left to reveal, really). So the wrapping is done very quickly, a little too quickly for Feliciano to finish telling him about how delicious his pasta usually is when he doesn't accidentally lock himself out while it's cooking, ve - but he's finished in record time and quite proud of himself for it.
So. "Grazie, that feels much better!" He squeezes the hand that helps him to his feet, taking in the light flush that crosses Ludwig's face with a pleased grin. "Can you help me get back to my door now?"
"I think that would be best." Composure is important when dealing with better-looking-than-most, highly inappropriate patients. The German doesn't let his expression change as they make their way to the door, even as his heartbeat quickens when Feliciano stumbles here and there, falling against his chest with a small squeak that he can't help but think is cute. It's a mortifying experience that somehow still feels very, very pleasant, and by the time they reach the Italian's placemat he is struggling to keep himself coherent. "Are you alright on your own from here?"
"Si! I can handle it myself now." He bends to pick up his key, and Ludwig has the urge to tell warn how dangerous it is to let strangers see where the spare key is, but is too preoccupied with having to physically force his eyes away from the overly nice-looking - yeah.
Feliciano frowns when his doctor mumbles a goodbye and turns to leave, unsatisfied with the stoic expression he still sports. It's sexy and all, but if he doesn't get a smile soon, even Feliciano will feel discouraged, you know? So he taps the blond on the shoulder, mustering up his most coyly innocent smile as he peeks up through brown lashes, biting his lip. "V-ve, I haven't given you any payment yet!"
"…no, that's not necessary." So close. He can see his open apartment just a few steps away, but his hasty retreat has hit a roadblock.
An extremely persistent roadblock with an extremely sweet smile and the longest lashes he's ever seen on a man. Scheiße. "It is! I feel bad about trespassing, ve, and bothering you with my ankle! It was really nice of you to do that." Smile widening, he drags the German towards him and reaches up to wind a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down and planting a bold kiss on those serious lips. "I'm very thankful," he murmurs, nipping at his bottom lip playfully before drawing back, bouncing on his one good foot with a giggle.
The look, that look on his face is just priceless! Feliciano brings his hand up to touch his lips, laughter tumbling out as Ludwig turns beet red and splutters and stumbles back and it's really sexy seeing his cute doctor like this! The warm flush spreading over his own cheeks is something he happily allows as he winks, unlocking the doorknob behind him and tilting his head with a pout. "But I don't think that's enough to thank you! So you're coming over tomorrow night to have some pasta, si? Because I make really delicious pasta, and if I lock myself out again," with this he hops forward, pressing the spare key into the dumbfounded doctor's hands, "I know I'll have you to let me back in."
All in all, Feliciano considers as he shuts the door on the frozen blond statue in the hallway with a content hum, he's taken a fair amount of advantage, and so it's been a good day. Except now he can smell something weird, and it's coming from the kitchen and - "CAZZO, THE PASTA!"
The resounding shriek wakes Ludwig from his stupor, and as he trudges faintly back into his apartment, all he can think about apart from the tingling of his lips and the key digging into his palm and oh Gott where are Gilbert's "How To…Relationship!" manuals when he needs them is how if Feliciano does lock himself out again, how will he get over the wall on a sprained ankle?
.
End Note: SHIT HOW DID IT GET SO LONG
Verzeihung is a formal way of apologising in German. I imagine Feliciano knows this because his high school German teacher was a bitch whose lessons stayed with him and Lovino forever (one of the reasons why Lovi hates Germans so much. Um. WHERE IS THIS HEADCANON COMING FROM I HAVE NO IDEA).
Also, the original doc (and the one I posted on the forum) did not have a single 've' in it as a prompter's request. But I added some in here because I love Feli in all his 've'ing glory ;A; Sorry about that!
Annnnnnd also, sorry about the changing povs towards the end; I wanted to bring Ludwig into it, but I didn't want to split it into separate pov parts so close to the end. :'D
(I also made a Pasta in the Rain reference OMG /eons of love for counterheist <3)
AND ALSO
Merry Christmas everyone!
one last also:
I want a Cheer Up Truck. :C
Author: sherry_doll
Characters/Pairings: GerIta, slightly hinted but not really Spamano
Rating: T
Summary: ...should be there for one another when they lock themselves out and need to get themselves back in really quickly or else the pasta will burn, ve! Poor Ludwig never saw it coming.
A/N: Written for the NeoWorld Academy Forum's Secret Santa. One down, one to go. :)
The pasta is boiling over.
Feliciano whimpers as he watches the water slap over the edges of the pot in abject despair. Oh, Santo dio, if only he'd remembered that the sliding door had an automatic lock before going out to get some herbs…he moans slightly, hitting his forehead against the smooth glass.
His natural, immediate instinct - sans moping - propels his hands into loose denim pockets to rummage for the battered cell phone hiding inside. Fingers skip nimbly past weathered coins, tissues and what feels like a tube of toothpaste (he really needs to take a good look at his pants some time, but hey, at least he remembered to pull them on before stepping out onto the balcony…!) before they land on smoothed plastic, sliding over a case that's much too old for his liking. He allows a congratulatory smile as he unsticks his forehead from the glass and pulls the phone out, although as his eyes graze the bubbling disaster on his stove he can't help the flailing whine that forces itself out of his mouth before managing to tear his gaze away. No! Focus, Feliciano! Don't let the pasta break you! Shaking his head, the Italian flips the cell open and calls the only number on his speed dial.
It takes him all of three seconds to hang up.
Ve, what am I thinking? Fratello is in Spain right now. And he doesn't want to think about how much an international call would cost, especially now that it's that time of the month when he tends to treat every letter with an official-looking title like it'll burst into flame at any moment ("So I should just throw them away, si? Or, or bury them in the rosemary patch so I never ever have to see them again! Hahahahaha…"), so he shuts his phone (no contacts…not even that cute blond doctor that had treated his burnt finger last week, ve, which is too bad - he'd really liked him! And now he needs to find some other excuse to go see him…) and stares freely at the stove, teetering on the edge of dejection.
The temptation to hurl himself at the glass is growing stronger with every trembling rivulet of water that streaks down the edge of the pot.
Thinkthinkthinkthink…ah, the neighbours! Feliciano perks up, stuffing the phone back into his pocket and glancing at the wall separating his balcony from the one next door. It doesn't look that high, and if he drags over some milk crates to stand on, he might be able to get himself over and ask the (hopefully) nice neighbour to let him into the hallway so he can use the key under his placemat to get back inside his apartment! Oh, thank heavens, such a good idea! Feliciano would take a moment to marvel at his own ingenuity if not for the pressing situation at hand - every second that pasta stays in that bubbling pot is a second nearer to his own mental demise; imagining the slow, torturous over-cooking is something he feels as an almost tangible pain in his heart, a betrayal of the worst kind. He stifles a melodramatic whimper.
And so he drags three milk cartons to the wall and stacks them on top of one another, clambering on top and wobbling carefully as he peers over the edge and into the balcony next to his.
Oh my God, it's so neat. So neat! He gapes, running his gaze over the sleek chrome pots and polished, bare tiles. Feliciano doesn't even have to look back at his own, shamefully messy yard to wince at how utterly clean this one is in comparison. It's quite embarrassing, actually. He used to be such a good maid…but looking at this makes even Mr Edelstein's rare-gotten praise seem unworthy.
But now, the more pressing matter.
Feliciano heaves himself over the wall, panting with the exertion. It's been so long since his last bout of exercise, he wonders if he needs to attempt getting into shape again. His weakness is something he finds trivial, second-hand to his beautiful pasta and paintings of the rain; and he's really too entrenched in the art of being a slob to bring himself to care, but in cases like these he considers taking up the long forsaken morning jog again just to make himself feel a bit better.
Oh well, it's not as if he'll be jumping walls on a daily basis. And even if he was, that would just mean he'd get in shape from that, no jogging and waking up early needed!
In any case, he clambers over the edge easily enough, focusing on wriggling his legs onto the flat concrete and letting them dangle precariously as he tries lowering himself down.
THUMP
Keyword being, "tries".
"…owwww, that hurts." Wincing, he lays on the smooth tile for a second to nurse a throbbing ankle mournfully before sitting up, glancing around at the balcony. Focus, focus! His eyes latch onto the dark glass of the sliding door with curious, sinking despair. "No! Please be home, ve!" Dragging himself forward is an almost monumental task - the floor is too slippery for him to really get enough traction to pull himself along, so he ends up just sort of sliding over the tiles towards the door. "Be home, be home!" And he raises a hand and knocks, trying to peer in through the blinds as his mind races with images of his poor pasta, which must be thoroughly ruined by now.
Silence. Feliciano can feel his heart pump anxiously as he knocks again, willing some sort of noise to reach his ears -
- and a second later, he wishes he hadn't gone anywhere near the damn door.
"WOOF! WOOF!"
"AAAAAAAAAH!"
The explosion of angry, thunderous barking erupts somewhere to his left and definitely from inside the apartment, although it doesn't stop him from screaming and skidding back, ruined pasta and throbbing ankle be damned. Santo dio, t-there are dogs in there! Scary sounding dogs, no doubt owned by a doubly scary owner who would almost be as bad as that violent Swiss he used to live next to (no, not even dogs and dog owners could be scarier or more effectively sobering than the crack of a gun at two am and the resulting whoosh as it zipped past his alcohol-reddened nose) and nonono he's scared, but he really needs to get back in his house!
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he figures out that if someone is in there, the noise would have already gotten their attention and they could be making their way over right now. He gets to his feet, uncertain and unbalanced on his one leg, waiting for the owner to come and save him (or throw him off the balcony for trespassing. Or throw him to the dogs. Or throw him into jail. Or…).
Sure enough, a sharp voice cuts over the barking and the dogs fall silent as Feliciano trembles and tries to see through the covered glass. The blinds are pulled up and he blinks at the blond figure inside, something inside him faltering as he gapes.
The man inside is equally as surprised. He rubs his eyes incredulously, leaning against the glass. "…Feliciano? How did you get on my balcony?"
That's really bad soundproofing, the Italian thinks reproachfully before lunging forward and pressing against the glass tearfully. "L-Ludwig? I didn't - ve, I didn't know you were allowed to have dogs!"
"I don't - I - Gott." The German stares before sighing, unlocking the sliding door and pushing it open. "Why don't you just…come inside first."
He nods, stepping in gingerly and glancing around for those big scary dogs, who seem to have disappeared. Once he's established that no, they definitely aren't in the room, he looks up at Ludwig, who is in the act of closing the door and hugs him tightly around the middle, relief washing over him. "Ve, Ludwig I was so scared! My pasta was boiling and I got locked out, and so I climbed over the big wall because I thought you might be one of those nice neighbours and I was wrong - not that you aren't nice, no, that's not it at all, ve! - but then there were those scary dogs and I was wrong because I thought I didn't know you, because I just moved in here and I haven't met the neighbours yet but it's you and I do know you see, I had an appointment with you just last Saturday and, and I didn't know you were allowed to keep dogs?"
The hands that settle extremely hesitantly on his head are encouragement enough for him to cuddle closer, pushing them onto the couch stubbornly. "Um. Feliciano."
"Si?"
"…nevermind." It's best not to question him in situations like this, and Feliciano is glad Ludwig has adapted quickly enough with him to know this. He settles on snuggling further into him, discreetly tangling his legs with the strong, buff man's with a sigh of contentment as the strong, buff man coughs uncomfortably. "My brother. He's the um. Landlord."
"Really?" He lifts his head, pinning him with a curious gaze.
"Ja. He lets me keep them. They're nice," he adds at the flash of fear that crosses his patient's face, "but they don't like strangers."
Feliciano tilts his head, resting his chin on the doctor's chest. "I don't believe that! But you don't have to prove anything, ve, I'm fine with you protecting me!"
It's so unprofessional of Dr. Beilschmidt to blush and stutter and try to push him off as he realises their position, but the Italian doesn't mind. He grins, letting himself slide off and onto the couch as the other man sits up, rubbing his sleek hair (yes, Feli might be comparing it to the tiles, which isweirder than he'd like things to be…but they really are kind of similar in that really neat way) and shaking his head. "This is strange, Feliciano. What are you…you want to get back into your apartment?"
"Mmhmm! I really need to get back right away, it's urgent!" With that, he tumbles off the sofa to try to make his way to the door but staggers before he can take his first step as he steps with that damn ankle. "Ah, ow…"
"What's the matter?" Ludwig is up in a flash and keeping him steady, much to Feliciano's pleasure. He beams up through the pain. It's so useful having a cute doctor as your next door neighbour! Oh. In fact…
Something sparks in his mind. "It's my ankle, ve…I landed weirdly when I climbed over the wall and now it huuuuuuurts."
Grave blue eyes sharpen with professional concern, and Feliciano takes a moment to swoon over them before he realises he's being gently pushed back onto the couch - ooh, role reversal, he definitely approves - and the German is kneeling, running long fingers over his bare foot, lingering on the reddened area around his ankle. Oh, that feels really nice, Luddy. He lets himself blush, squeaking a little. "W-what are you doing?"
"Shh. Does it hurt when I press here?"
That no-nonsense tone is really sexy, he wants to tell him. Instead, "Ow! Yes!"
A quick "Verzeihung," is the answer, and Feliciano almost wants to berate him for being so formal but he's far too enamoured with this seriousness to really care. "It looks like it's sprained. Let me just get something to wrap it up, then I'll take you back to your apartment. Um."
Judging by the sudden redness of Ludwig's ears and his hasty retreat, he's realised just what exactly his words imply, so the Italian decides not to do him the favour of pointing it out and instead hums to himself, warm happiness spreading in his chest. His foot aches, his pasta is beyond ruined, and his balcony looks like a whirlwind compared to his doctor's, but things are working out just fine in his opinion. What seemed like a coincidence at first is fast becoming an opportunity, and he plans to take full advantage of it now that the shock has worn off.
He smiles. "Ve! Ludwig!"
"I have it - what is it?" The taller man stops in his tracks at the sight of his patient, who is waving around a battered-looking cell phone and grinning as if he's just been hit by one of those infamous Cheer Up Trucks. Which would be awkward, because then he'd have to ask Gilbert why he let Antonio into his apartment and scheiße, he needs to start walking just about now.
"What's your number, ve? It's silly that I don't know it, since you're my doctor and everything." Feliciano giggles, sheepishly scratching the back of his head.
"I'll have my receptionist give it to you the next time you come in." Because it'd be embarrassing to admit that he doesn't have it memorised, and that his little box of business cards is still sitting on his desk at work.
The brunet pouts, waggling the phone more insistently in his face as Ludwig kneels again, setting the roll of gauze on the floor next to the bruised foot. "That's even sillier, you're right here so you can give it to me now! What if I need to call you really soon? I fall down a lot, ve."
… scheiße. "You can come over if you need me. Any time is fine." Scheiße, no, he hadn't meant to say that -
"Really? Really really really? That's so nice of you!" Feliciano decides it is appropriate to appropriate a hug at this moment, and does so as well as he can without jostling his foot or accidentally kicking Ludwig with it. "But ve, what about when you're working?"
"…" And now he's given an open invitation to his affectionate, excitable and very much inappropriate patient to come into his house whenever he wants without even managing to avoid the number question.
"Luuuuuuddy?"
…and now he has a nickname.
"I'll give it to you later." He needs to get this man out of his apartment now, before he gets way too confused with these strange feelings and gives out even more personal information (not much left to reveal, really). So the wrapping is done very quickly, a little too quickly for Feliciano to finish telling him about how delicious his pasta usually is when he doesn't accidentally lock himself out while it's cooking, ve - but he's finished in record time and quite proud of himself for it.
So. "Grazie, that feels much better!" He squeezes the hand that helps him to his feet, taking in the light flush that crosses Ludwig's face with a pleased grin. "Can you help me get back to my door now?"
"I think that would be best." Composure is important when dealing with better-looking-than-most, highly inappropriate patients. The German doesn't let his expression change as they make their way to the door, even as his heartbeat quickens when Feliciano stumbles here and there, falling against his chest with a small squeak that he can't help but think is cute. It's a mortifying experience that somehow still feels very, very pleasant, and by the time they reach the Italian's placemat he is struggling to keep himself coherent. "Are you alright on your own from here?"
"Si! I can handle it myself now." He bends to pick up his key, and Ludwig has the urge to tell warn how dangerous it is to let strangers see where the spare key is, but is too preoccupied with having to physically force his eyes away from the overly nice-looking - yeah.
Feliciano frowns when his doctor mumbles a goodbye and turns to leave, unsatisfied with the stoic expression he still sports. It's sexy and all, but if he doesn't get a smile soon, even Feliciano will feel discouraged, you know? So he taps the blond on the shoulder, mustering up his most coyly innocent smile as he peeks up through brown lashes, biting his lip. "V-ve, I haven't given you any payment yet!"
"…no, that's not necessary." So close. He can see his open apartment just a few steps away, but his hasty retreat has hit a roadblock.
An extremely persistent roadblock with an extremely sweet smile and the longest lashes he's ever seen on a man. Scheiße. "It is! I feel bad about trespassing, ve, and bothering you with my ankle! It was really nice of you to do that." Smile widening, he drags the German towards him and reaches up to wind a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down and planting a bold kiss on those serious lips. "I'm very thankful," he murmurs, nipping at his bottom lip playfully before drawing back, bouncing on his one good foot with a giggle.
The look, that look on his face is just priceless! Feliciano brings his hand up to touch his lips, laughter tumbling out as Ludwig turns beet red and splutters and stumbles back and it's really sexy seeing his cute doctor like this! The warm flush spreading over his own cheeks is something he happily allows as he winks, unlocking the doorknob behind him and tilting his head with a pout. "But I don't think that's enough to thank you! So you're coming over tomorrow night to have some pasta, si? Because I make really delicious pasta, and if I lock myself out again," with this he hops forward, pressing the spare key into the dumbfounded doctor's hands, "I know I'll have you to let me back in."
All in all, Feliciano considers as he shuts the door on the frozen blond statue in the hallway with a content hum, he's taken a fair amount of advantage, and so it's been a good day. Except now he can smell something weird, and it's coming from the kitchen and - "CAZZO, THE PASTA!"
The resounding shriek wakes Ludwig from his stupor, and as he trudges faintly back into his apartment, all he can think about apart from the tingling of his lips and the key digging into his palm and oh Gott where are Gilbert's "How To…Relationship!" manuals when he needs them is how if Feliciano does lock himself out again, how will he get over the wall on a sprained ankle?
.
End Note: SHIT HOW DID IT GET SO LONG
Verzeihung is a formal way of apologising in German. I imagine Feliciano knows this because his high school German teacher was a bitch whose lessons stayed with him and Lovino forever (one of the reasons why Lovi hates Germans so much. Um. WHERE IS THIS HEADCANON COMING FROM I HAVE NO IDEA).
Also, the original doc (and the one I posted on the forum) did not have a single 've' in it as a prompter's request. But I added some in here because I love Feli in all his 've'ing glory ;A; Sorry about that!
Annnnnnd also, sorry about the changing povs towards the end; I wanted to bring Ludwig into it, but I didn't want to split it into separate pov parts so close to the end. :'D
(I also made a Pasta in the Rain reference OMG /eons of love for counterheist <3)
AND ALSO
Merry Christmas everyone!
one last also:
I want a Cheer Up Truck. :C