Title: Between Books and Bullets, Part 1: Books, Chapter 2

Short Summary: Ludwig Beilschmidt has lived a quiet life, for the most part, working at a library in a bustling city. But then he meets Feliciano Vargas, a man with an optimistic attitude that just might help cure his pessimism. But what with his fast-talking, gun-toting brother and an Austrian that follows him around like a guard dog, is Ludwig biting off more than he can chew?

Author's Note: TO EVERYONE THAT POSTED REVIEWS: I LOVE YOU. I hope you keep reading and enjoying and… And all that good stuff! I also hope you keep giving me feedback (good or bad!) in the future! THANK YOU SO MUCH.

We get a taste of another role in this chapter, not so much a starring one, but definitely one that is more interesting. Also a cameo that might end up being a little bit MORE than a cameo. This is getting more and more fun to write as I go on. I hope the quality is maintained as I get a little looser with my style! :D

Warning: A certain someone's inability to keep their bad language to themselves, in future chapters, violence and certain touchy subjects will be a concern.

It isn't until he's about 10 steps into the rain that Ludwig realizes he has forgotten his umbrella.

He curses a bit, but he realizes he can't go back into the bookshop for it until that Italian is gone. There is no way in frozen Hell that he is going to risk another awkward conversation; another situation where his social skills stand at attention and then just seem to fall flat.

Even thinking about it, embarrassment starts to gnaw at his stomach. He thinks about everything he could have said as he runs underneath the nearest awning, taking his cell phone out of his pocket and dialing the first number on his 'recent calls' list. He thinks that maybe he should have been a little nicer, maybe he could've said 'That sounds like a great idea, I'd like to know more about you', maybe he should have at least fucking smiled-

"Ah, hallo? Bruder?" For a moment, it is silent. But then comes a string of mumbled phrases, some in German, some in English. Ludwig tries again, this time speaking a little louder. "Gilbert?..."

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT, LUD." He almost drops his phone at the sound of his brother's harsh tone, holding it a little further from his ear this time. He can never get used to the… volume of Gilbert's voice.

"Are you driving anyone right now?..."

And there goes his hissing laugh, that strange chuckle that no one can mimic just right. But then, with Gilbert, there are many things that can't, or perhaps shouldn't, be imitated.

"Yes, Lud, I talk like that in front of allll my customers. Let me just add in a couple 'dicks', maybe something a little risqué to spice it up, and then I'll have met my hourly quota." Laughing at his own joke. Typical. "Now what is it you want? Need me to come get you?"

He clears his throat, looking over at the bookstore to see Feliciano leaving with a brown-haired man sporting glasses and a stern expression. The man is holding an umbrella over the two and seems to be speaking rapidly and severely, as though questioning the Italian. He wonders who it could be, if it's a friend of his, maybe they're in some sort of romantic entanglement-

"HEY, PAY ATTENTION WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU. I don't have all damn day."

"J-ja, Bruder, es tut mir leid. I do need you to pick me up. I'm…." He trails off, watching the Italian walk towards a car pulled up next to the curb. Feliciano waits for the other man to open the door for him and he steps inside, taking heed to give the man a nod of thanks as he shuts the door for him. The action itself is not shocking. But the vehicle involved…

It is black, sleek; a gorgeous piece of machinery. It exudes both passion and elegance, and nearly screams of its Italian heritage in every curve of its structure. It is beautiful. It is architecture.

It is a Maserati.

A Quattroporte Maserati.

One of the most beautiful, most well made, most expensive vehicles in the world.

And that… that kid that he has just spoken to… He is being toted around in one. As though he were some kind of inner-city royalty.

Ludwig swears. Loudly.

"Hey. HEY! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? What are you cussing at? I'm the one waiting for you to answer my fucking question! I swear to God, I'll hang up on you—"

"Mein Gott, es tut mir leid, I'm sorry!" He is snapping at his brother now. It is not usual that he reaches the end of his patience so quickly. He takes a deep breath. "If you would wait for one moment. I'm at a bookshop on Walker Street."

Gilbert groans. "Walker Street? That's in the fucking boondocks, Lud! That's a goddamn hike!"

"I would walk home, but I don't have an umbrella and it's raining pretty badly…"

All he can hear for several seconds is a long, dramatic sigh, followed by grumbling and the sounds of the phone shifting. "ALRIGHT, FINE, I'm on my way to get you. Just keep your pants on. See you soon."

"Nn. Bis bald."

"Tschüss, kleinen Bruder."

He hangs up the phone and watches the Maserati make its way down the road, snaking its way through traffic. It doesn't take long for the rain to blur it from his vision.

"What could you have possibly been thinking?"

Feliciano knew this was coming, as soon as he had gotten That Look in the bookshop. That Look always tells him that he is in for it; it always has. Roderich has only been his bodyguard for a few years, but it seems that Feliciano is always getting into some sort of trouble, at least, in the Austrian's eyes. That Look is as familiar to him as a smile would be on the face of his brother's guard. He averts his gaze and shuffles his feet.

"You should know that it is dangerous to put yourself in that kind of situation," Roderich removes his glasses and begins to clean them with his handkerchief, replacing it in his pocket after he's finished. "Speaking to some random man, and such a large one at that—"

"I was just trying to be nice! And- And he wasn't exactly random. I've met him before." He crosses his arms and stares at his bodyguard, challenging him.

Roderich raises an eyebrow in return, crossing his own arms. "Oh really. And where was this, exactly?"

"At the beach!" The words tumble from his mouth as though objects affected by double gravity, sounding like something he'd planned. But for all of the times he has used an excuse (his back hurt, he was busy, he had simply forgotten), this is certainly not one of them. He tries to keep the pleading edge out of his voice, but he only halfway succeeds. "I met him when I went to the beach with Romano and Mr. Antonio!"

For a moment, their eyes remain locked. Roderich weighs the Italian's words to his own logic, comparing the two on an invisible scale, and for a moment it appears that he will drop the subject.

But of course, Feliciano cannot be quite so lucky.

The Maserati pulls up to a gate, the driver waiting for the guard to open it and let him through. As it opens, Roderich gathers himself up, pulling his umbrella from the floor of the car. The garage door is just ahead and the car pulls through with ease. "Well, I suppose I shall just have to ask Romano. Perhaps he will be able to tell me more about this man that you three met."

Oh, God. There is no way that Romano will have a good thing to say about the man that he hadn't even spoken to. Roderich opens the door and begins to get out, shifting the umbrella in front of him to avoid the rain. He grabs for the man's arm, but misses by an inch. His face crumples as he scrambles across the seats, his shoes scuffing across the leather interior.

"Oi, careful, kid! S'expensive stuff." The tall Dutchman shifts his driver's hat on his forehead, scratching at a scar near his temple. Feliciano turns his head as he runs, waving the hand holding his bag behind him.

"Sorry, Lars! I'll help you clean it later!"

That is, if later ever comes. Feliciano knows that there is a potential that Romano will kill him. He hopes that won't happen. His luck with relationships seems to only just be looking up.

It takes Gilbert 20 minutes to get there, and by the time he does, the rain has begun to let up. Even so, when he sees his taxi roll by, Ludwig dashes out from his shelter as if the rain were torrential. The taxi pulls up and he opens the door to the back seat to climb in, immediately leaning forward to pat his brother on the shoulder.

"Danke, Bruder; I know you're busy at this time of the day…" Gilbert takes off his cap and runs a hand through his stark white hair, turning to Ludwig. His eyes seem to glow, even in the dim light of the rainy afternoon. Red. No other colour could produce such an unsettling stare.

He sneers and leans back in his seat. "Eh, don't worry about it. There was some chick earlier that needed a ride to the airport from the other end of town and the fare ended up being crazy. But you still owe me," he nods, enthused, holding up two fingers directly in front of his brother's face, "Two. Two cold ones. At least. And they have to be good. Not any of that sissy American shit. Stuff from back home."

Ludwig nods in return and can't help but smile. 'Back home'. It is always interesting to hear Gilbert speak that way about Germany, as though he had lived there for long. Ludwig lived there most of his life, from birth to age 19, but Gilbert—Gilbert grew up in America, in New York City. He'd moved away from their hometown when he was 7 years old and has never been back. It is easy to see that he misses it.

"I'll make sure to keep that in mind."

They are silent a moment as they wait at a red light. Gilbert taps his fingers along to the rock music that plays quietly from the speakers. "You know, Lud," He begins again, never one to keep a silence for long, "You could pay me back tonight. We could head over to Francis' bar and hang out for a bit." "He tries to nudge his brother with his elbow. "Maybe you could meet a cute girl!"

Immediately his face is flushed and Gilbert is staring in the rearview mirror, trying to keep an eye on the road while catching a look at his brother's red cheeks. "Wait wait wait. Bro. Why are you making that face?"

Ludwig cups his chin in one hand, allowing his elbow to balance on his knee. He stares at the floor. "Face? I am not making a face."

"Yeah, you are. You are making one of those nervous faces. One of those 'I-Am-Trying-To-Hide-Something-From-My-Awesome-Brother' faces. What is it. Spit is out."

"I am making no such face."

Gilbert stares at Ludwig in the rearview. He lifts his face and stares back, his eyes flicking to the traffic light in front of them.

"The light's green."

"Don't change the subject!" But his brother swears and slams the accelerator, catching up to the traffic to the intonations of horns behind him. He rolls down the window and flips the bird, still talking as he maneuvers with one hand. He points to himself for emphasis. "You can't lie to me. I know when you lie." His thumb jabs at Ludwig this time. He is beginning to be confused by his brother's roundabout gesturing. "You know I know when you lie. So tell me…"

That tone. He is not confused by that. That is his cue. That is his indication. Finally Gilbert has come to the conclusion as to why he was not interested in going to a strip club for his 23rd birthday, why he has never given the same appraising glances to women as most men do. For all the gay jokes and jibes, Gilbert has never made any sign that he knew of his brother's sexuality. But this. This is it.

Ludwig feels as though a weight is crushing him, and there is no alternative. He will tell him. He will tell him right now, before he gets the chance to say it himself. His brother has always been one for dramatics, anyway.

"Yes, Gilbert, I-"

"YOU MET A GIRL."

And as quickly as the colour entered his cheeks, so did it exit. "I… what."

His brother reached into the back seat and attempted to clap him on the back, almost swerving into oncoming traffic in the process. For a moment, Ludwig believes he is going to vomit. "Oh my god, you DOG! You didn't want me to know because you thought I'd steal her away! Rightly so, I mean, look at me. Just look. The women can't keep their hands to themselves!"

"I… I."

"Ah…" He makes motions as though wiping away fake tears. "Look at you. Finally taking steps towards a normal relationship."

The blonde rolls his eyes and shoves away Gilbert's arm. "Bruder. You're being dramatic."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm just so—so happy." His voice becomes strained, choked with false emotion. He holds a hand to his chest, sighing loudly. "Mein kleinen Bruder… Finally going to get some!"

Ludwig pulls back and punches him in the arm. Then he does it again. And again.

But he is relieved.

For all his obliviousness, Gilbert is an easy brother to love.