Work Text:
Bologna, 21 April 1945
Gunfire chewed the street apart. Smoke, dust, shouting. Feliciano saw Ludwig on the other end of the square. He called out to him and tried to get up, take a step towards him. If he just got a little closer…
A hand clamped over his mouth from behind.
He was yanked back hard, boots scraping stone, dragged behind a shattered wall just as bullets tore through the space where he’d been standing. His breath hitched, a sharp, panicked sound swallowed by the hand keeping him quiet. He struggled once, instinctive, useless.
“Don’t,” someone hissed near his ear.
They stayed there, pressed to cold masonry, the world on the other side tearing itself apart. Feliciano’s heart pounded so hard it felt audible. Slowly, unwillingly, the gunfire thinned. Not gone. Just distant enough to breathe.
The hand eased away.
Feliciano sucked in air and twisted around, wide-eyed. England. Soot-streaked, tense, very much not looking at him like this was a normal day.
“You must be Italy,” Arthur said, quick and low. “Your brother is very worried about you. I’ll bring you to him.”
Feliciano blinked. His brain lagged several seconds behind reality.
“My brother?” he echoed.
“Yes,” Arthur said without missing a beat. “Sicily, right?”
A pause. Too long. Feliciano swallowed.
“Right,” he said faintly.
Arthur was already moving, one hand firm at Feliciano’s back, steering him away from the wall and into whatever came next.
~
They were tucked into a side room off the corridor, some abandoned office with a crooked table and papers left exactly where someone had dropped them and never come back.
Feliciano rounded on him the second they were alone.
“You told them I’m Italy?” he said, low and quick, like he was afraid someone might overhear. Then, softer still, almost breaking, “Why would you do that?”
The disbelief crept in at the end, thin and helpless. “Do you not realise how bad this is going to look for us?”
Lovino stood there, hands shoved into his sleeves, shoulders drawn up like he was bracing for a hit. He didn’t answer right away.
“I…” He stopped, swallowed. “I panicked.”
The word came out small. He glanced up, then away again, as if checking whether Feliciano was angry yet.
“You’re the one they’ll listen to,” The words came out almost pleading. “I’m not going to beg for forgiveness.” Lovino snapped. “You’ve always known how to ask for things.”
Feliciano stared at him. For a second he looked tired in a way he almost never let himself be.
He exhaled.
“Fine,” he snapped, already resigning himself to it. “I’ll fix it.”
Lovino didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to.