Ludwig sighed, and shifted slightly. He wanted to stand, he had work to finish, things to do. But, he also did not want to risk waking Feliciano. The small Italian was curled up on his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around the German's neck. He sighed again, and stroked the other's hair, running his finger gently along the inside of the protruding curl, a smile tugging at the corner of his eyes.
His dearest friend really was the most amazing creature. He was petty and childish, quick to blame, faster to cry, slow to learn or catch a hint, the worst possible ally to have in a battle. He would sooner die then to go without his comforts in life: his disgusting (In the German's opinion) food, and his often, less then modest artwork. The blame of anything he would place on those who had been foolish enough to respond to his faults.
He was also improbably, impossibly, beautiful. Sweet and i
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