Like always, Ludwig was sitting by his desk with his nose stuck in the pile of papers. He was calculating and writing something very important, it seemed. And to make it even worse, he had to listen to that idiot Feliciano. Fortunately for him, the Italian always talked about the same, so even not listening, he could answer him.

The Italian sat on the other side of the desk, watching Ludwig work. He was smiling and tilting his head right and left. And kept talking about the delicious pasta, of course.

Suddenly he just stopped. The big brown eyes thoroughly scanned the concentrated and frowned face of Germany. The visible cheekbones, the sideburns... heck, even the way Ludwig kept his hair combed was fascinating.

“...Ludwig?”

A moment of silence. The other man only grunted in answer, not even raising his eyes.

“What is your favorite color?”, the Italian asked.

Ludwig didn’t think too long as he spotted the black leather gloves he always wore as he pulled the knob of the drawer and grunted quickly: “Black.”.

Feliciano only smiled widely. He started to hum some melody to himself and it started to bother the German. But before he could finally raise his eyes – Italy was gone.

However, he had no time to bother himself with that idiot, so he returned to his calculations and writings.

It was past three already. The time of siesta. But what’s important – it was quiet all this time. For sure the Italian already went to bed, but before that he usually would bother Ludwig with something stupid, just as stupid as was that question. What was that for, anyway?

Oh well, it wasn’t like such silence was bad, no. But knowing Feliciano, such silence is just impossible, so Ludwig started to feel a little worried.

And then, before he noticed, it became dark. He checked what time was it on the clock. And still – silence. Only the said clock’s tick-tacking was heard. He sighed, but pretented not to care. After a while he realised he couldn’t work anymore, this silence was just killing him. He stood up and left the room. He locked the door behind, so nobody could see what was he working on.

He entered the living room. Feliciano was there – sitting on the sofa, covered with the blanket. He had a book on his lap, a piece of paper and a pencil. It was the first time... ever? that Ludwig saw him work on anything. But what was that, anyway?

“Hungry?” the German asked and Feliciano’s head perked, as he didn’t hear Ludwig come in.

As the shorter man raised his head, he found his friend standing right above him, so he quickly shoved the piece of paper under the blanket.

“I’ll make some pasta!”

“No.”

Italy won’t decide what was going to be for dinner! Seriously, it was Ludwig’s house, not Feliciano’s, anyway. So the pasta-hungry ‘idiot’ only looked at the German with puppy eyes. But no, Ludwig’s words were sacred. Nobody could oppose him.

Well, whatever. The dinner won’t make itself on its own, so he headed to the kitchen. But here’s the problem... Germany could make only wurst. And, although Feliciano was like a vacuum for food, the wurst was horrible in his opinion. Ludwig sighed again and only opened the fridge.

When the wurst was done, he took the dish for the Italian and went into the living room to give it to him. But... Feliciano fell asleep. With the book and blanket on the floor, only with the pencil and paper resting in his hands... Again Germany only sighed and placed the dish on the table.

But he was curious. Curious what was that thing Italy worked on. So he bent down and carefully caught the edge of the paper. He gently pulled it back. His eyes widened. It was a portrait.

But not a normal portrait. A portrait of him.