Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Paris in December is its own kind of beautiful, you think to yourself as you glance out the window. The city lit up, tourists clustered together for warmth, all while the Seine splashes sluggishly against its banks. From the tall floors of the École des Beaux-Arts, it looks post-card perfect. It's really a shame you have to leave it behind at such a perfect time of year.

You push your pasta around your plate with the tip of your fork. Around you, your classmates chatter about exams, train tickets, flights home. Each and every one of them is eager to travel home to whatever version of family awaited them. You wish you could say the same. The closer Christmas comes, the more your stomach eats away at itself. You love home - love your father, love your Onkel, love the predictability that comes with being back. But the boyfriends? That’s another story.

They weren’t even the worst part, not really. The worst part was the cycle. The endless pattern you could set your calendar by. December always meant someone new. Your father trying, as earnest and awkward as it may be, to make room in your life for a relationship you never asked for. December meant the inevitable unraveling of whatever soul thought they could wedge themselves between you and your only parent.

The buzz of your phone against your thigh drags you out of your thoughts. Your Onkel Gilbert. You don’t even have to look to know. He never fails to check in right before holidays, his way of warning you about the circus you were coming home to. You almost ignore it - almost - but instead decide to give him the grace of an answer. He deserves that much, at least, for his troubles. You slide your phone out of your pocket, slip out of the dining hall, and answer.

“Onkel.” You greet, a fond smile playing on your lips.

'Fraulein,' He crows, far too loud for the quiet corridor. His voice is a jarring echo in the empty space. Most students had left for the holidays already. You stand alone in the fluorescent lighting of the hall. It’s easy to picture him sprawled out languidly on the couch, beer in hand, a grin stretched across his sharp features. 'You ready for Christmas? You packed? Trains still running? Don’t back out on us, now-'

“Spit it out.” You interrupt. He never calls just to chat.

A pause. Then, 'Your father is bringing someone to Christmas. It seems serious this time. Didn’t seem like West was going to call, so I made the executive decision to tell you.'

The words strike you like lightning to a bell, fill you with a nasty, vile feeling that bounces around your stomach, your head, your skin until every hair is on end and you feel abuzz with emotions. The bulbs overhead seem to hum louder and for a moment, it feels as if you’ve forgotten how to breathe. Your chest tightens painfully as you suck air in, hold for three seconds, release out, until your lungs gradually fill and resume their normal behavior.

Puh. Yeah, right. It seemed "serious" the last three times - four, if you count the fling from the cruise - too. It’s always serious, because your father is serious, and he can never date to have fun. His partners have to be a good role model for you. Someone who respects your relationship with him. A partner who steps up, but doesn’t overstep. A mother figure. The last three four have been duds in all regards, and you know this one won't be any different.

“Well, isn’t that nice?” Your words are tempered, cautious. You refuse to reveal your hand before you play it. “What’s his name?”

Feliciano, says Gilbert, Antonio introduced them.

Feliciano. So he’s Italian. You silently curse Antonio for projecting his taste in men onto your poor unsuspecting father. He didn’t deserve to be saddled with a man like Antonio’s boyfriend: gruff, bossy, full of spite. You had once accompanied Gilbert to dinner at their house and spent the evening listening to Antonio have orders and insults barked at him. The space itself was inviting, had smelt of home cooking and was stuffed full of trinkets from shared trips, but the atmosphere was ruined by the Italian’s clipped words. Don’t add that to the sauce, I hate when you tell that story, on and on. Not exactly what you pictured for your father’s future.

There’s a brief moment of silence before Gilbert speaks. 'I’ll be sure to tell the happy couple how excited you are to be home. With them. Y’know, together. One big family.' Sarcasm drips from his words. If your Onkel is anything, he’s an instigator, and he happily does it on your behalf while you’re away. He’s not going to tell them you’re happy to be coming home. He’s not even going to mention you talked! What he is going to tell Feliciano, though, is that you’re a brat, a cunt, an extremely spoiled little girl who wants her father all to herself. He’s going to spin tales about your startling behavior towards the last few boyfriends in hope it aids your mission of scaring him away. He’s a good Onkel in that regard.

You mutter an affirmative and thank him for the heads up, tell him to send your love to Francis and your looming sense of ill will to Antonio, then end the call. It takes a moment for your body to stop buzzing long enough for you to come back into it.

Your father is bringing someone to Christmas. It seems serious this time. And you, sweet you, will be expected to play nice. The problem is, you don’t know how many more Christmases of playing nice you can take.

You slip your phone into your pocket and head back to the dining hall table you’d been sharing with friends. One classmate from “ARC1212: Fundamentals of Architecture” perks up at your reappearance.

“All good?” She asks. You nod once.

“Sure, just my uncle. He likes to keep me up to date on all the family latest - you know how it is.”

A smile spreads across her pink lips. She leans forward on her forearms, offering a listening ear with the tilt of her head. “And the family latest is…?”

“My father has a new boyfriend,” You pause, tongue rolling over your next words, testing how they feel falling from your lips. “He’s bringing him to Christmas.”

A tense silence falls between you just as quick as the smile falls from her face. The two of you aren’t close - not exactly, anyways. You sit at the same table in class, share notes when one of you is out. Sometimes, you study or eat lunch together. She knows the bare essentials of your life and you, hers. You haven’t clued her into your distaste for your father’s boyfriends. It doesn’t take a genius to see you’re upset, though.

“Oh.” She sets her fork down with a faint clink against porcelain. “Are you nervous?”

“I mean, not really? My dad has had a few boyfriends over the years. If this one is anything like the others, he’ll be gone by New Years. Doesn’t leave me with much to be nervous about.”

Her pretty face furrows in confusion. Creases form between her blonde brows. “That’s not…what?”

“They always are,” You shrug, sliding back into your seat. “That’s how this works. My father starts seeing someone new two, three months before Christmas. I’m away, so my Onkel takes it as an opportunity to tell them how awful I am without my protest - and like, he’s not wrong, I am. The new boyfriend determines they’re going to be the one to win me over. They buy me something expensive for Christmas - never relate it to my hobbies, of course - and expect that’ll do the trick. It doesn’t. I’m grateful, but not enough. They call me a brat. I call them pathetic. Two weeks later they get sick of me or my father gets sick of them, they leave, and we spend New Years just the two of us. It’s just the way things are. This one will be no different from the others.”

She gapes like a fish out of water. Alarm is apparent in her eyes, disgust present in the way she scrunches her nose. The usual reactions you receive when telling this story. “I meant, are you nervous about meeting him? The boyfriend. Not…Look, I know we’re not, like, super close or anything, but does that sound healthy to you?”

It’s your turn to look confused. What a silly question! “Of course. I mean, it works. He doesn’t want to talk about the breakups? No skin off my back. I don’t like his exes, anyways.”

A thwuump! resounds as she leans back in her chair. Look, you know - you know - how bad this sounds. It’s unhealthy. It’s not how fathers and daughters should act. It’s the reality of your situation ever since your mom dumped you with Ludwig at six years old and fucked off to who knows where.

Sometimes, you hope that she’s out there somewhere. Alive. Keeping tabs on you through the internet and seeing how much more you love your father than you ever could her. You hope she regrets giving you up. You’ll make every boyfriend your father has regret trying to fill that roll without knowing what shoes they’re stepping into.

…Okay, maybe it's a little more unhealthy than you think. Whatever. You wave a hand dismissively and shove a bite of pasta into your mouth.

“Look,” You start, words muffled around the overdone noodles. “He knows I’m here if he wants to talk. I know he’s there if I want to express myself. What we have going works for us, okay? I promise it's okay.”

She hums a suspicious note that tells you she’s not entirely convinced. That’s not your issue, though. You cock your head to the side as your phone buzzes against the table, drawing you both out of the conversation. A text from Gilbert. The man never did know when a conversation was over.

The text notification runs off with an encouragement, open me, open me! Demands your attention like a needy child. You don’t open it. You stare in silence at it, and the next that comes through, (‘the dogs like him, it’s…’) and the next (‘he’s actually not so bad…’), trying to make sense of it all. Gilbert has always been on your side. Antonio, too, much as you dislike him. They’d play up that you were mourning, you were a nuisance, you were a hurt girl who wanted her dad all to herself, you were the world’s biggest pain in the ass. Whatever you asked. Fingers grasp at cracked plastic to flip your phone over, silencing Gilbert’s texts at last. Refusing to think about their too-kind implications right now. You glance up and catch your classmate’s eye.

“Family,” You mumble. The words taste like metal in your mouth. Then you shrug as if to say, What can you do? “Anyways, did you study for Professor Kemp’s exam? I’m really worried about those construction site management questions…”

Chapter Text

15:23

Hello. Just touching base.

We will be at the train station at 11 o’clock to pick you up tomorrow.

sounds good!

Ich freue mich sehr, dich gleich zu sehen.

me too! I’m excited to spend Christmas together, just the three of us…

…meaning you, me, and Onkel…

…of course :)

15:27

…It appears you and Gilbert have talked.

I promise, I intended to tell you eventually.

what, when I got to the house and it was unavoidable?

I’m in class rn

Call me back when you are out.

Wir müssen darüber reden.

15:31

the time to talk about it was before Gilbert called me

we can discuss it more when you pick me up tmrw

I didn’t want to upset you :’(

Bitte. I am sorry.

well, you failed spectacularly at that

so

comgratulations

*congratulations

15:33

I’m sorry.

Ich liebe dich.

We will talk about it tomorrow.

Read 15:34 PM

Chapter Text

‘Now you’ve done it, Fräulein!’ Gilbert’s whine breaks through the speaker. His nose is practically pressed against the screen, face filling the entirety of the image box. For a man whose entire personality is based around being hip, cool, and up with the times, your Onkel is surprisingly bad with technology.

You roll your eyes and prop your phone against your desk. There’s no need for him to specify what it is you’ve done - you’re clever enough to figure it out on your own. “‘s not my fault he chewed you out, Onkel,” By he, you of course mean your father. “You know he’s a private man. Maybe if you’d minded your own business…”

‘If I minded my own business, you would’ve had a tantrum straight off the train!’ He prattles on, accusing you of this and that, you didn’t have to tell him we talked, he didn’t have to know! Your thumb and forefingers press together in a mimicry of him. When you grow bored of his ramblings, you stand, puttering around your room in an attempt to be productive. There’s things to be done, after all. Packing. Cleaning. Feeding the monstrosity your roommate calls a cat. You’ve never been a cat person, but even you must admit that the thing is growing on you. Not that you’d ever say so aloud. The lid of your hard-cased suitcase thunks against the floor as you throw it open.

‘...and really, is it only his business when they’ve been so disgustingly PDA about it? I can’t get ten feet into his house without Feliciano hanging all over him!...’

You toss a few blouses into the bag with disregard. PDA? Now that was new. Your father has always been a stoic man, one who is easily embarrassed by such things. You can’t recall ever seeing him so much as holding hands with any of the previous partners. To let this one be so clingy is blasphemy against his character. A pair of dress pants joins the crumpled pile.

Gilbert starts again, but cuts himself off. His gaze is thrown to the left of his screen at an interruption you can’t see. You can certainly hear it, though. Spanish. Faint, teasing, but there. An aggravated huff makes its way from your lungs. You give Gilbert a hard stare.

“Is that Antonio?”

Silence. From Gilbert, anyways. The Spanish increases in speed, volume, calls your name and begs for your attention. The camera shakes as a game of keepaway begins. They tug the phone back and forth, bickering like children who want the same toy. You consider hanging up - really, you should - but let it play out. Watch as they push and pull and pry until the phone slips from Gilbert’s grasp and lands firmly in Antonio's. His face lights with a grin. You roll your eyes in response.

‘Hello, pretty lady!’ He coos through the screen. ‘How are you? How is the college?’

“Good. It’s good. So good - so great, even - that I’m tempted to stay and spend the holiday with Francis.” You pause, then add: “Thanks to you, I’m spending it with a stranger instead.”

That stupid dimpled grin widens. If you could reach through the screen and smack it off his face...A prickle of irritation crawls up your spine.

There was once a time where you and Antonio got along well. When you were younger, his visits felt like a reason to celebrate. He would show up with a smile and a promise of some grand adventure. At sixteen, you’d even thought - just for a heartbeat - that the attention he gave you might mean something more. That the way his hand lingered on your shoulder, all the teasing and the nicknames, might not be the same careless affection he gave everyone.

You let yourself believe it for a few weeks before reality smacked you down. He never followed through on those concert tickets he promised. He never called when he said he would. You realized, slowly but surely, that Antonio’s affection was like sunlight: warm while it lasted, but impossible to bask in forever. It burned a little, looking back, how foolish you’d felt. And it left you prickling every time he smiled at you now, because you know better than to mistake it for anything but habit.

Both men flinch at the clatter that resounds as you throw a belt a little too hard into your suitcase. The heart on your sleeve beats an S.O.S in morse code.

‘Bella, why must you play favorites like that? Francis hasn’t done anything for you-’ Francis wrote your recommendation letter for college, helped decorate your apartment, lets you stay in his guest room when you fight with your roommates, ‘-or your Papa, meanwhile-’ Francis was the one who convinced Gilbert to move out, single handedly bringing down your father’s blood pressure, ‘-I look out for both of you!’

He looks out for both of you? You can’t tell if it's the bitter trip down memory lane or his sheer audacity, but something about it rubs you the wrong way. He looks out for both of you. Yeah, right. He’s never looked out for you a day in his life. He only cares about himself. A sour spiteful taste fills your mouth.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” You spit. “I don’t have time for your games. I'm packing.”

‘Packing for us!’ Antonio chimes, as if it will dispel your poor attitude. ‘For Christmas! Your papa is so excited to see you. He and Feliciano have been busy making preparations for your homecoming, you know.’

Hearing the Italian's name makes your stomach roll. Vile words burn your throat as they come up, catching on your teeth despite your tongue trying to force them out. His conceited babbling is interrupted by a horrible grinding grating noise that you quickly realize has come from you.

"Do you ever stop inserting yourself into things that don't concern you? " You grit between unspoken insults. For the first time since this call started, Antonio frowns. It's more disapproving than it is upset, sure, but you'll take the win.

‘Ay, don't be like that,’ He says. A concerned wrinkle appears on his stupidly perfect face, overshadowed by the twinkle of mischief that persists in his green eyes. ‘Why do you wish your dad to be unhappy? Hm?’

“I never said-"

‘Is it because you hate gay people?’

“Excuse me? How dare-”

'Because I don't know if you know this, but I myself am a gay people. It would be a shame if you hated gay people and, by proxy, had to hate a handsome man such as myself.'

"I don't hate gay people!" You snap. Your breaths come out in huffs, heavy, angry. Daring him to say it again. The red that rises to your face is nothing short of rageful.

‘Of course not. I only tease,’ A shrill whistling note rings out as you suck in through your teeth. When is the man not ‘only teasing’? He can’t take anything seriously to save his life! ‘We all know the real reason is because you’re afraid Ludwig will no longer have time for you.’

The accusation is like a slap across the face and for a moment, you’re stunned into silence. There isn’t a need for you to make some witty comeback, though. Gilbert barks something unintelligible in German and swipes the phone from Antonio’s hands. The camera jolts as the two men pick up their wrestling match, Antonio cackling, Gilbert swearing, until finally, your Onkel’s face fills the screen once more.

‘Don’t listen to him,’ Gilbert huffs, hair tousled from the fight. ‘He lives to cause problems.’

“Obviously.” You mutter in response. Your chest still burns with the man’s words. Antonio starts to shout something about only causing the fun kind of problems but a palm to the forehead sends him stumbling back out of frame. Your Onkel throws a few aggravated words your way - An apology? A goodbye? - before letting loose on his friend. He’s ended the call before you can even return the sentiment.

The sudden silence closes in on you like a caving roof. You can’t take the pounding accusations of why do you want your father unhappy why do you hate him why why why against your skull. You contemplate your next move carefully.

You’ve more than proven Antonio can get under your skin. Do you really want to exacerbate that win for him? A look of distaste crosses your face. Despite the feeling, you reach for your phone and shoot off a thoughtless text.

get a hold of your friend, it reads.

A grey bubble appears. Unfortunately, I am not in the business of helping gay people haters. Désolé :), comes the response.

Chapter Text

The typical Eurostar trip, for you, is one of boredom. Any action of repetition is if you do it enough. Every six months or so, you pack your life into two bags, board the train, and brace yourself for three and a half hours in the same itchy seats. The houses blur past the window, and your thoughts drift inevitably toward the arrival that always waits on the other side. There are a handful of things that entertain you during the trip, of course - homework, landscape watching, listening to small American children babble on about the new experience of riding a train (Do Americans not commonly use trains as a mode of transport? Note to self: Ask Alfred). These things quickly lose their luster, though, and you’re left with little to do.

It’s always boredom that greets you on these rides. Never once have you felt the vice grip of fear or the anxious gnawing of nerves. Not until today, at least.

The digit in your mouth tastes metallic as your teeth tear a little too hard at the nail. You remove it with a wince, eyes falling to where the blood begins to pearl at the edges. For the past three hours, you’ve done nothing more than stare out the window and chew your fingers to hell. For once in your life, you’ve spent the train ride home wondering what’s wrong with yourself. When have you ever been nervous to see your father? Snap out of it!

You use your free hand to place pressure against the wound. What a mess you’ve made of yourself, body and mind. The idea of checking your phone leaves you in fear of making it worse. Mostly, you don't want to risk seeing a text from your father. He’s a pretty straightforward guy. Blunt, as it were. If he were angry about your blatant ignorance of his texts earlier this week, he’d be upfront. Yet all you’ve gotten thus far is a See you soon and a smiley face emoji that reads as passive aggressive, but was probably well meaning. The thought crosses your mind that perhaps he’s taken his anger out on Gil with nothing left for you. An empty tank. But then you remember all the laps he made you run in lieu of grounding as a child and realize he’s more likely waiting for your return.

You glance out the window again, watching the landscape roll by. The train has moved away from fields blotted with cattle and into the concrete jungle that is the outer city. Any minute, it will come to a complete stop, and you’ll be forced out into the station. Into the arms of your father. The same arms that apparently engage in PDA with the new boyfriend. Eugh. A gag, a sip, you down the last of your drink in hopes the bitter taste of cold brew will push those thoughts away - seriously, eugh.

When the train finally stops, you make no move to get off. You wait as others around you grab their luggage. Children hold close to the legs of their parents in the mad rush. A few lone travelers scramble to snatch their carry-ons from the overhead bins before the crowd can push them forward. You wait. The line begins to die as groups pile onto the platform. Conversations, celebrations of Welcome home Welcome back We missed you We’re glad you could come reach your ears, muffled by the thick windowpanes. Still, you wait. You wait and wait until you’re practically the last one in your seat, until the happy families have cleared out, until it’s just you and your thoughts deboarding the empty train.

It isn’t hard to pick your father out of the crowd now that the platform is mostly empty. Tall, blond, well-dressed. He’s wearing the scarf you got him last Christmas. His blue eyes scan the doors for signs of your familiar face. You break into a grin and start towards him, intent on greeting him before he can greet you, but your brisk pace gives you away. Those same blue eyes snap to yours. Fair skin around the edges crinkles in excitement. He raises a hand in greeting.

The sound of footfall against cement slows as you come to a halt, grin falling from your face. There - palms kissing, fingers intertwined, free hand on your father’s bicep - is the new boyfriend. Feliciano. Nausea rolls over you in waves. Crashes against your nervous system much like a tsunami would against a beach.

Ludwig had never brought the others. Not the Brit. Not the quiet Czech man from last winter. Certainly not the tall Swede with the cold eyes. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. You were supposed to talk, just you and him, on the car ride home. You were supposed to yell, maybe. Cry, probably. Anything it took for your father to understand your feelings. Instead, your every move is being observed by an unwelcome unknown guest.

Something inside you withers. Like paper curling in fire, corners lifting and turning black. You recognize you can’t stand here forever - Ludwig already seems concerned by your sudden lack of motion and ew, Feliciano is rubbing his arm in reassurance - but you can’t seem to make your legs go. They’re heavy. Numb. The smoke of frustration fills your lungs as you take the Italian in.

Feliciano is an attractive man, for what it’s worth. He’s short, shorter than you expected, and very, very tan. A mop of brown curls has been carefully pushed back to look presentable, but one stubborn strand sticks out. His eyes are brown. His lips are pink. His chest? Hairless. Yeah, he’s Italian, alright, and a twink to boot.

When your father decided he was ready to start dating again, he took all the right steps in preparing you. He dropped the bomb over your favorite home-cooked dinner and made sure you were two pints deep before he did. It came as a shock to you that he liked men, you suppose, but you were are supportive. An ally. So long as his dating life didn’t interfere with your relationship with him.

But time and time again, you’ve found you don’t like the men he dates. Not because they’re gay. You’re a bitch, sure, but you’re not homophobic. No, no. You don’t like them because they’re pushy. Aggressive. The men your father continually dates have an energy that clashes far too much with his own, a man who - while gentle at heart - also appreciates being in charge. These men try to force their way into your relationship rather than let it happen naturally, because everything they’ve ever done has probably been by force.

At your gaze, an almost too eager look crosses his face, despite his shifting feet betraying his nervousness. It was not his idea to be here. You squint at your father, who is nudging the man forward insistently, and know who thought to bring him to your homecoming. Feliciano seems like a man who makes himself small to stay out of the way. He probably apologizes just for existing, and he certainly is going to apologize for his presence here today. You know the kind. You were the kind, once. It doesn’t upset you any less.

Your legs buzz with the TV-static feeling of rushing blood returning. A signal to move. A dare to push on. You begrudgingly approach your awkward welcome committee with your suitcase in tow, wheels click click clacking against the station floor.

There’s more noise to be heard as you close the gap: hushed questions and whispered answers, reassuring words, mumbled I love you’s, and a loud, clearly rehearsed “Ciao, Bella!” blurted out a half-second too late, voice cracking on the uptick like a boy half his age. Feliciano steps forward, arms twitching like he’s unsure whether to wave or hug you.

You don’t give him the chance to decide. You shoulder past, dragging the overstuffed suitcase with the determination of a woman scorned. What handfuls of people are left on the platform scamper out of your destructive path.

“Kleine-“ Ludwig starts, but you’re already halfway up the platform ramp, refusing to look back. Tears sting your eyes. Your lip wobbles dangerously.

Of course he brought him. Of course he thought this would be an appropriate time. Your first trip home in six months, after exams, after the internship from hell, after stitching your sleep schedule back together like some Franken-form of a good habit. In fleeting moments of weakness, you’d imagined this moment. Thought of how good it would feel to embrace your father. To talk, just the two of you. Feliciano was never part of those imaginings - partially because you didn’t know he existed until last week. And on learning such a thing, your hopes of just one Christmas alone were shattered.

You can hear the pitter patter of Feliciano’s dress shoes as he hesitantly follows, then slows, then stops. Good, you think. At least he has the common sense to stay back. Not your father, though. He’s relentless with good intentions. He only knows how to push until something breaks. Right now, you are perilously close to being that something.

You reach the car first - his car, thank God, not that tiny piece of scrap metal Gilbert calls a BMW - and wrench open the trunk with more force than necessary. Toss your suitcase in. Try not to wince as you accidentally scrape the bumper while doing so. You turn just in time to see your father catch up, breath misting in the November air. Damn him that he’s not even winded!

You stare at him. Then at Feliciano, who lingers at a distance, pretending to look at pigeons like they’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. Then back at your father. He wilts under the hard stare you fix him with.

“You brought him?” It comes out as a hiss, an accusation. Ludwig isn’t dumb. He knew better. “Seriously? You thought this was the time?”

At least he has the decency to look guilty. His jaw clicks as it tightens. “Feliciano is important to me. I didn’t want to wait another six months for you to meet him.”

“You wanted to force it,” You step around the car so you can lean against the hood, arms crossed tightly against your chest. “Like always. It never seems to cross your mind that what I want is important, too.”

“That isn’t fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

Ludwig says nothing. Good - you’re not done. The silence is all the permission you need to let your heart pour out. Frustration makes itself known through sharp words.

“You always do this. You start dating someone and suddenly, they’re at every dinner, every holiday, and I’m supposed to what? Be thrilled? Act like we’re one big happy family? I don’t even know this guy!”

The two of you glance back at Feliciano, who is now conveniently staring at the passing clouds. He looks like he would melt into a puddle and disappear between the cracks in the cobblestone if he could. You have no doubt that he’s sweet. Different, even - that he didn’t push you at the first opportunity is a good sign. But it’s not so much about him as it is your father’s actions. You sigh, frustration dissipating into disappointment.

“Today was supposed to be about us. Our day, just you and me. I wanted…” And it dawns on you that what you want isn’t important, because he knew you wanted just him and still brought company anyways. You hate the way your voice catches as you trail off. You hate how your father’s eyes soften, that guilty gaze he gets when he realizes he’s overstepped. You really, really hate that Feliciano, this wide-eyed, trembling-lipped fawn of a man, has been by far the best of them, and yet, resentment has sunk its claws so far in you that you can’t find it in yourself to give him a chance.

Your father steps forward. “I did not mean to ruin today. It was selfish of me to put my own wants above yours - I see that, kleine, and I’m sorry.”

You look at him. This man who taught you how to ride a bike. Who burns every Thanksgiving turkey but always makes the best mashed potatoes. Who came out late, nervous and apologetic, because he thought you’d stop loving him. A sigh escapes your pursed lips.

“It’s…” Not okay Not fine Why do you always do this When will it fucking end- “It’s alright. I know you’re trying. Just try a little less hard next time, okay?”

A beat. Then, a small smile spreads across your father’s lips. “Ja, I can do that.”

You scrub a hand down your face and walk to the passenger side, yanking the door open. An accusatory finger points at him like a warning shot.

“And don’t even think about making me sit in the back just so your boytoy can ride shotgun.”

Ludwig rolls his eyes good-naturedly. Makes a motion to Feliciano to come, come. The Italian, still twenty paces away, glances between you. He takes in your stiff shoulders, Ludwig’s small smile, and inches forward as if you might bite. You don’t spare him a look as you slide into the front seat and slam the door shut.

Moments later, the car dips slightly as another door opens and Feliciano slips into the back seat.

“Salve.” He says quietly. The back of your head burns where he stares straight at it.

You don't turn around. You don’t even acknowledge the greeting, its formal nature, how little his voice sounds. You simply buckle your seatbelt and turn up the radio, letting Nirvana take over the conversation for you. It’s difficult to ignore your father reaching a hand back through the center console to hold Feliciano’s instead of placing it on your knee like he usually would. You turn your head towards the window and try not to think about it.

The car engine hums to life. The music swallows the silence, tense but bearable. Some silences, you decide, aren’t the end of the world. Just something you have to learn how to live with.