PreetyCake123

On some days, Feliciano was the stroke of midnight on New Year’s; like fireworks, explosive and loud and vibrant. He was the noise that ricocheted down the cold hallways and the contagious laughter of a hundred people. Zipping to and fro, bouncing with life and color, dazzling to the eyes. Ludwig would listen, not to his words, but to his voice. Those were days he would not shut up, and Ludwig didn’t mind half the time. On some days, he was a homely art studio bathed in sunlight, smelling of paint and newsprint and other things. Fixated to his canvas, making figures and colors bloom across rough white cloth with every flick of hi