Laugh It Up, Fuzz Ball [Ludwig Beilschmidt]

[Feliciano Vargas]

After the third promising lead ending in disappointing failure in the span of an hour, Feliciano knew he needed to take a break. The cold air and swarms of scents were clogging up his nose. Plus, he might be drawing some attention now; Feliciano came to the park at a slow time of day, but with the blind way he keeps wandering around, poking through bushes, he's bound to attract some odd stares. Who knows what might happen while he's locked in his senses. He was on his own, too. With no one to watch his back, Feliciano had to be extra careful.

Feliciano gave himself plenty of time to turn his other senses back on before he wandered over to the closest bench. The beginnings of a vicious headache throbbed at the top of his head, and his body rocked with vicious shivers as it tried to keep itself warm enough to function. Feliciano thankfully sank onto the cold bench, tugging his hat from his head to irritably muss up his hair. Feliciano's been in the park for most of the day now, and even with his new winter gear and Alfred's thick leather coat, the harsh winter took advantage of his distraction to freeze him to the very core. The downside to turning off his sense of touch meant that he was also turning off his body's natural ability to regulate its temperature. If he continued for much longer, he might actually freeze. Hypothermia and frostbite were the least of his worries, however. Feliciano refused to leave until he absolutely had to. Meeting Gilbert earlier that week, the talk they shared, only cemented the mutant's determination to find Ludwig and get him to safety. There was someone out there risking everything to find Ludwig; how could he do anything less for his dearest friend? Feliciano didn't care that he was putting himself at risk, as he told Alfred after that same run-in with Gilbert. The longer Ludwig was out here, the more danger he was in. Being returned to the Underground was honestly the least of his fears, now. The public might try to take matters into their own hands if they got a grip on Ludwig...

It took a sharp shake of the head to get those thoughts out of his head. His headache moved swiftly to his forehead and into his sinuses at the action. Feliciano immediately regretted the action. Wearily tugging his hat upon his head, the brunette searched through his pockets until he located a handkerchief. As he blew his noes, his mind wandered. Feliciano would have heard if something had happened to his best friend. Neither Alfred nor Gilbert would have been capable of keeping Ludwig's fate a secret. Not from Feliciano. Just as Feliciano had promised, Gilbert swore to share any information (good or bad) he might find on Ludwig. And if Feliciano wanted anything to report (hopefully with a Ludwig in tow) by the time he returned, he needed to get back up and keep looking.

However, his head ached quite viciously now, and his first attempt to unclog his nose ended in failure. With another grimace, Feliciano folded the cloth to a clean spot and blew his nose again. Pain flared through his sinuses and with he pulled the hankie away from his face, the cotton was stained with blood. Feliciano wasn't sure of the cold caused the nosebleed, or if it was overuse and overstress of his olfactory nerves. Either way, blood steadily dripped down his face. Feliciano whined at the taste, quickly shoving the hankie against his face before the blood could stain Alfred's coat. The American hated it enough when Feliciano 'borrowed' his coat, he would probably throw a fit if Feliciano returned it with bloodstains. Once blood was staining his handkerchief instead of his skin, Feliciano tilted his head back, hoping to stop the flow. It seemed like he was stuck here until his nose stopped bleeding. The brunette just hoped he hadn't broken his sense of smell, too.

Ludwig was here, somewhere. Feliciano knew that much. He'd found Ludwig's scent all over the park, multiple paths that crisscrossed and ended in bushes and near trees. Nothing concrete so far, not the source, but it was a start. Feliciano just had to keep looking. But he also knew he had to be careful; the temperatures were only dropping further, and if he kept pushing on with only his sense of smell, he would make himself sick. He couldn't risk getting sick. Any doctor who got a hold of a sample of his blood would realize immediately who he was, and then everything would be ruined. But Alfred couldn't handle any serious sicknesses from the safety of his home. Feliciano couldn't put that kind of pressure on Alfred. But he also couldn't just sit around and do nothing.

Feliciano cursed to himself, putting more pressure against his nose as the blood refused slow. He winced at the taste of blood at the back of his throat. What could he do now? Feliciano couldn't return to the apartment, to Alfred, empty handed; not again. He had to know where Ludwig was, or at least where he was camped out. Not these old sleeping grounds and hiding places, where Ludwig was right now; something concrete, actual proof. If he came back not only empty-handed but sick on top of it, Alfred would permanently quarantine him to the apartment. If he kept failing, Alfred would probably lose his patience and keep him there anyway. Why couldn't Feliciano just find Ludwig? He was here. If only there was a way to... Leave a message for his friend. Let him know Feliciano was out looking for him, that there was somewhere safe to go.

Feliciano wracked his brain for a decent course of action to take. He cursed the blood clogging his nose, his senses for failing him, the cold for limiting his capabilities and leaving most of his body frozen and numb. He almost cursed Ludwig for being too good at hiding and not coming out when Feliciano just wanted to see him. Almost. He mostly cursed himself for praising his mutation so highly and failing, day after day after damn day, to find Ludwig. Where did he go?

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Ludwig A. Beilschmidt

[Ludwig A. Beilschmidt]

baby you're a firestorm you're a loaded cannon

The ongoing days of hard weather meant that Ludwig spent more and more time in his shelter, for security’s sake. On days when the sun broke through the overcast skies, he was able to occupy a park or plaza and work on getting food, supplies, or even money to sustain his life outside of the Underground. But on snowy days, Ludwig had to resign himself to staying curled up in his makeshift bed. Not that it was an unwelcome place; in fact, Ludwig felt modestly proud of his shelter. It had started out as nothing more than a heap of junk, a tarp roof tied in place over a dirty mattress. But he’d put genuine work into it, in both materials and in labor, and some of the skills Ludwig had honed in Weeds had finally come in handy. Ludwig could hardly call it a house, but it was large enough for four people to sit upright in. The new tin roof was sturdy and watertight, and the floor had been raised to keep out moisture and cold. Ludwig had scavenged a newer, cleaner mattress, along with a heap of blankets, and he’d assembled a few sets of shelves. It was a small and rough but cozy sanctuary. As yesterday had been nothing but snow, Ludwig had hunkered down in his makeshift home with a book he’d rescued from a dumpster, pretending that the cold bothered him. But the little food he’d saved up had run out, and when the morning dawned overcast but dry, Ludwig set out on a mission to restock his supplies. A half-hour’s walk to the west put Ludwig in a large plaza in one of Arcadia’s middle-class districts. Nobody here was likely to recognize him — and honestly, this newer and gaunter version of himself, this version that needed a haircut and a shave — this person didn’t look anything like the photograph that the Underground had pinned to his file, the one that occasionally stared uncertainly out at him from the fading posters in store windows. Setting himself up on the edge of a decorative planter, Ludwig started to strike up conversations with passers-by. On a normal day, maybe one person in twenty would return his greetings long enough for Ludwig to ask for some food. On a good day, one person in ten answered him, and sometimes Ludwig even got money in exchange for small favors — giving directions, or helping to carry heavy bags. Today, Ludwig quickly realized, wasn’t proving to be either. Maybe something had happened — some news that hadn’t reached him or the newspapers yet, but everyone seemed to be on edge and snappish, rebuffing Ludwig with curse words or just straight up ignoring him. After a half-hour of futile effort, Ludwig abandoned his place and started the trek to his next hunting grounds. The park wasn’t too far from the plaza, still in the same district of town. It was smaller, which was somewhat of a disadvantage, but the nice scenery seemed to put people in a better mood. Maybe he’d have more luck here. Maybe it was just the cold weather, Ludwig mused, but the park seemed emptier than usual. A few middle-aged couples were strolling between the hedges, and there were a few people occupying the cold wooden benches. It didn’t look at all promising, but he had to try. The couples wandering around the frozen walkways didn’t want much to do with him, and an old man he met up with actually shouted him away before Ludwig could even open his mouth. Hiding his frustration from his expression, Ludwig approached one of the benches. ”Hello, do you mind if—“ He’d been about to ask to share the bench, but something else had caught his eye across the park. Distracted, Ludwig didn’t notice the woman sitting on the bench throw him a dirty look, fold her newspaper, and leave. The man seated at another bench had bright auburn hair and wore at least two coats. He looked young, his head was thrown back, and in one of his hands, he held a bloody-looking cloth. Ludwig bit his lower lip: the scene painted an odd picture, and yet… He hadn’t heard anything about Feliciano being captured. The news wouldn’t have hesitated to play it up in an effort to fix the Underground’s wounded reputation if any of the mutants still on the run had been snared. So he’d assumed Feli was still out in the world, but if this was Feli, he looked remarkably well off, save for the blood coloring his handkerchief. Ludwig couldn’t see the man’s face properly, but it was possible, under all that bundling, that the stranger might be his best friend… He hadn’t seen Feliciano since the day the other man broke him out of his cell and told him to run, and truth be told, he’d missed him desperately. To Ludwig, Feliciano was irreplaceable, and all he could hope to ask for was some news that the Italian was safe and unhurt; with his abilities, Feli wasn’t cut out for a life on the streets, and Ludwig feared for his safety almost constantly. He’d searched for him, even, trying to find any news, trying to reunite with him, to thank him and make sure he wasn’t cold… but those efforts had been in vain. Every auburn-haired man he’d followed after had ended up being a stranger. And regardless, Ludwig always took the risk to follow them, just in case this time, this one time, he might find his friend. Glancing back to the now empty bench behind him, Ludwig approached the other man slowly, trying not to appear threatening. Some paces away, he held up a hand in greeting, ”Hey, hello. Do you mind if I sit with you for a little while?” Word Count: 995 Tags: Feliciano Vargas Notes: slow reply is slow

by worldie for lena

[Feliciano Vargas]

Feliciano's nose had yet to stop bleeding. It had been at least fifteen minutes of him sitting now, and his headache was in full swing. At least the bleeding had slowed, but he was running out of dry places on his handkerchief. This basically confirmed that this was not just a nosebleed caused by the cold weather. The mutant swore irritably, grimacing at the sensation of blood coating the back of his throat. Pulling his handkerchief from his face, Feliciano quickly leaned forward and spat out a bit of blood onto the snow over the side of the bench. The taste was disgusting. It brought back bad memories, as well. Memories of time in the Underground, of upsetting guards and violent fights in the Arena. He didn't want to remember those times. His life had changed for the better, and Feliciano would rather focus on the good things in life.

With a sigh, Feliciano spat one last glob of blood and saliva onto the ground before he leaned back on the bench, returning his bloodstained handkerchief to his nose. He halfheartedly kicked at the dirty snow, attempting to bury the stark red stains beneath a fresh layer of white. Nobody needed to see that. Feliciano knew he should try to be more careful with where he was leaving his scent, but Feliciano also knew how to cover his tracks. Honestly, if they were going to find him via bloodhound (no pun intended), the mutant would have been discovered long before Feliciano had impromptu moved in with Alfred. He wasn't particularly worried, so long as he didn't give anyone a reason to look here for him.

The taste of blood was distracting, to be sure, but he wasn't so focused on it that he didn't catch the sounds of snow crunching beneath someone's feet. Feliciano paid the approaching person little attention, at least at first; attributing the sounds to someone simply walking past him and his bench. However, when the footsteps came to a stop somewhere to his right, Feliciano forced himself to stay relaxed, eyes slipping closed. Later on, he would attribute his negligence and distraction to the headache pounding in his temples; the blood buzzing in his eardrums. Plus he still didn't want to bleed on Alfred's coat. Just a few minutes and he should be alright on that front.

When the stranger asked, sounding utterly uncertain, if they could share Feliciano's bench, the brunette simply nodded slightly in acquiesce. He swapped hands at his nose before blindly brushing off some of the lingering snow on the bench. He might not want a guest, but a happy, snow-free guest would be less likely to get snippy with him. Once he'd cleared a space for the other, he carefully scooted over; careful not to make his head spin with any sudden movements. "I'll move in a moment, so you can have the bench to yourself," Feliciano garbled, face twisting up in discomfort. He attempted to dislodge that blood from the back of his throat with a few subtle coughs, grimacing at the ache there. Please don't get sick, he begged himself, aggravated and aching and just wishing to find at least a clue of his best friend before he could go home and rest. "Then you can have the bench to yourself, ve."

Hopefully, the stranger wouldn't ask about his bloody nose. The truth of the matter, he obviously wouldn't disclose; the cold weather is a good excuse, and would be the truth if he hadn't been pushing his sense of smell so hard attempting to find Ludwig in this stupid, cold place. People generally think the worst, and this is the worst time to have a concerned pedestrian wonder if he'd gotten into a fight and either try to take him to a doctor. It'd be infinitely worse if they tried to call the police, though. Feliciano could only hope the other would catch the vibe that he didn't feel like talking.

Feliciano slowly grew frustrated, the more he sat in his head, though. Where the hell was his best friend?

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Ludwig A. Beilschmidt Sorry your best friend is a giant effing moron |D