Blazing light and silent dark drifted interchangeably before Ludwig's eyes. He tried to cling to the light, to blink away the black flashes of oblivion, to stop his mind slipping in and out of consciousness. The smell of smoke hung smothering in the heavy air. It was too hot, too hazy. It would be so easy to let the heavy dark pull him under, and yet a dull, insistent awareness tugged at the corners of his mind. He had to get out. Had to stay awake, had to get out. Drawing upon every reserve of strength he had left, Ludwig forced his eyes open and his mind to stay alert. He gritted his teeth and reached up, pushed open the canopy, and dragged himself out of the cockpit. Falling heavily to the ground, Ludwig stumbled away from the plane, fought for breath and to clear his head of the foggy shock. He finally turned to look behind him and immediately closed his eyes at the painful sight. Greta was burning, flames rising slowly but relentlessly from the engine to engulf the entire plane. Ludwig felt a vicious stab in his chest. But he was alive. He had made it, had landed, and he was amazingly alive, and relatively unscathed. When he turned around to see a group of American airmen striding across the field toward him, he wondered briefly how long that would be the case. Ludwig shook himself out of his daze, stood straight, and waited for the men to reach him.

The man at the front had to be their leader. He carried his headgear beside him, swaggering boldly in his uniform and bomber jacket, his bright blond hair flying messy in the wind. Ludwig knew immediately that this was the Magician. He was younger than Ludwig had expected, but his whole bearing was one of confidence, almost arrogance. He grinned cheerfully as he walked up to stand before Ludwig. Ludwig used his superior height to glare down at him.

"Afternoon." The American pilot looked up at the burning plane and whistled. "That's some fine flying, pilot. Thought for sure you were a goner." Ludwig remained silent, and the pilot turned to speak to the man at his right. "Matt, you speak German right, we need to get this guys name and rank..."

"Lieutenant Ludwig Beilschmidt. Serial number, 2413/9."

The American glanced back at Ludwig, his expression slightly surprised and a little impressed. "Uh, right. You got that, Matt?"

"Got it."

The American nodded and grinned again. "You speak English, German?" Ludwig raised an eyebrow. Was that not obvious? "All right, Lieutenant Beil... Beilsh... Ludwig. I'm gonna have to ask you to surrender your weapons."

Ludwig gave an almost imperceptible nod before he swiftly pulled the pistol from his jacket, spun it so the handle faced the American, and handed it over. He noted with some satisfaction how the other pilots almost flinched away. Ludwig knew he could appear intimidating if he wanted to. Right now, he wanted to. In the end though, he had no power here, and the American knew it. He just smiled as he took the pistol, then looked down at Ludwig's closed hand and raised an eyebrow. Ludwig followed his gaze. He hadn't even realised he was still holding it; that he had been holding it the entire time. He slowly opened his hand. The little flower was almost crushed. Glaring at the American, Ludwig very deliberately placed the flower in his pocket. They would not be taking it from him. The American looked slightly confused, but then he grinned.

"Your lucky charm, right? Looks like it worked today. This here is mine." The American gestured to a piece of white cloth sticking from his left front pocket. It looked like a handkerchief. "Seems it worked as well. You came close to getting me today, Lieutenant Be... uh... Ludwig. Took down two of my men also. Impressive." Ludwig gave a small shrug. What did the American expect? And why was he chatting away as though they were friends? The American tapped his foot and waited as though expecting Ludwig to respond at some point. He didn't. He wouldn't. Under the Geneva Convention all he was required to tell the enemy was his name, his rank, and his number. He had already done so. He had nothing else to say. "Chatty one, aren't ya," said the American finally. "All right, let's make this easy on everyone. You will come with us quietly, won't you?" As though he had a choice. Ludwig nodded.

.

It was with a massive shock that Ludwig realised they had to be close to Feliciano's village. Judging by where he was when shot down, and the duration of the trip to the American base, Ludwig reckoned that they must be only miles outside of it. The same wide fields, the same scented air. Even the view of the mountains was almost identical to how he remembered. It was too cruel, too insane... but of course, the Americans had to be based mainly around Feliciano's village. It was an ideal strategic position to both the mountains and the coast; that's why the Germans had it in the first place, why the Americans had fought so hard for it. Ludwig could not help wondering just how close Feliciano was. Where he was right now, what he was doing, how it would feel to see him, to hold him one more time... Ludwig forced himself to cut off that train of thought. He was only torturing himself.

Ludwig sat warily in a chair against the wall, his arms folded, surveying the air base common room with narrowed eyes. It was not equipped for prisoners, but there were at least twenty American airmen and Ludwig was unarmed, so there was no chance of escape. Ludwig was not used to being helpless. He loathed the feeling. He figured he was waiting for the military police to arrive. And then, who knew. The Americans were said to be good to their prisoners. But Ludwig knew he could expect to see nothing but the inside of a prison camp for the next few years. He burned with anger and shame at the thought. That he had let himself be shot down, that he had shamed his country like this. It was almost unbearable.

The American leader, Jones he had been called, seemed like a decent enough man, despite the strange friendliness and obvious arrogance. To Ludwig's surprise and almost amusement he had even offered him a drink the moment they arrived at the base. He and his wingman - Ludwig could not remember the man's name - looked almost identical, and seemed as oddly friendly as each other, though the wingman was much quieter and less overbearing. He had actually apologised for Greta, then tried to introduce Ludwig to a polar bear attached to his lapel, then pointed out quite clearly that he was Canadian, not American. That was when Ludwig realised he had been the one to shoot him down. He did not respond.

The others, however, were not so friendly. Even now they were throwing him unpleasant glances, muttering to themselves. This, Ludwig could understand. This, he could deal with. He glared back and most looked away when he did. Jones and his Canadian wingman stood talking on the other side of room, but a small group of around six airmen started growing louder as they sat at a nearby table, watching Ludwig, laughing. Ludwig listened warily as their voices rose. Two of the men seemed to be discussing something.

"A picture of a kraut's wife can fetch a good price as a souvenir."

"Go on then, take his wallet, what's he gonna do?"

Ludwig's pulse increased and his skin burned. His shoulders bunched, his chest tightening with uneasy apprehension. Ludwig did not move, but he glared at the man moving towards him as murderously as he could manage. The American faltered slightly, then turned to the other pilot.

"You take it, you're the one who mentioned it first!"

"Come on, he's unarmed. Like I said, what's he gonna do?" The pilot walked straight up to Ludwig and tore open his jacket. It took every ounce of Ludwig's control, every fibre of strength he possessed, to stop himself from grabbing the man by the throat. There were twenty armed Americans in this room. He could do nothing but sit there, forcing himself still, anger burning through his veins as the American pulled Ludwig's wallet from his inner pocket and started rifling through it. He pulled out a few cards, some German and Italian banknotes, then Ludwig's stomach fell and his teeth clenched when the American pulled the precious photograph from the wallet.

"Well, holy shit!" laughed the American. "I ain't got a picture of the kraut's wife, but I think I got something better!"

"What is it?" asked the other man as the group of pilots jostled to look.

"Looks like the krauts are a bunch of faggots after all. Take a look at this shit!" The pilot passed the photograph to the next man who laughed uproariously.

"What the hell?" He turned the photograph over and laughed harder. "The kraut is a fag! Take a look at what's written on the back!"

"That's sick, man," said the next pilot as he snatched the photograph, laughing along with the rest. "That's just wrong, and sick."

Ludwig was going to lose control. He could feel it. Feel his blood boil in his veins, his pulse thrum rapid and hazy in his ears, his muscles start to tighten. As the pilots passed the photograph roughly amongst themselves, as they laughed and shot him disgusted looks, Ludwig felt himself engulfed by pure fury. Because he was powerless, and he couldn't stand it. Because the most important thing in his life was nothing but a joke to these Americans. Because more than anything, he needed that photograph of Feliciano. It wasn't much, but it was all he had left. It was everything. And if these bastards took it from him... if they ruined it... Ludwig's control was starting to slip...

"What the hell is going on over here?" The angry voice cut through the red haze surrounding his head and Ludwig glanced over to see Jones marching over to the group of pilots, his expression furious. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The group of men broke apart but the man holding the photograph stood his ground. "Come on, Jones, we shot him down fair and square, it's all right to take a look at his wallet, surely."

Jones snatched the wallet and the photograph from the pilot. "Actually, it's not, and it's certainly not all right to stand around laughing at a picture of his..." Jones trailed off as he looked at the photograph. His eyebrows furrowed, his mouth opening slightly in surprise. But he did not look disgusted like the other pilots. Instead, his expression remained unfathomable, slightly puzzled and somehow almost sad. Finally Jones looked back up at the pilot, anger in his eyes again. "Get out of here, Sergeant. And it's Lieutenant to you, not Jones."

The sergeant was obviously not used to being spoken to like that. He took a step back and nodded, his hands in his pockets. "Well, yes Lieutenant, sir." Then he sauntered away.

Ludwig's rage turned quickly to confusion. This American flight leader was something else. His men obviously respected him, but spoke to him as though he was one of them. He had treated Ludwig with nothing but courtesy since the moment he had shot him down. And now he was gazing at him curiously, something strangely akin to understanding in his eyes. Ludwig had no idea how to take it all. Jones nodded to him, smiled, and mouthed an apology. Then he placed the photograph in his pocket and despair and anger flared again in Ludwig's chest. But he could do nothing as Jones walked slowly back over to his wingman, their eyes flicking almost imperceptibly back to Ludwig occasionally as they spoke. And Ludwig was helpless to understand, to get back his precious photograph, to do anything but sit and endure the stares of the room until the special forces finally arrived. Ludwig was relieved when they did.

Being led through the corridor to the waiting car outside, Ludwig realised that he was not getting it back: he had lost his photograph. Lost the only image he had of his beautiful Feliciano, laughing brightly at the camera with that ever-present cheerful smile, his eyes so bright and his cheeks slightly red and his hair flying up in that one curl of his that never sat straight. The picture with his goodbye written on the back, with his memories of their last night in that barn. Ludwig let the officer lead him by handcuffs to the door without protest. He felt like he had lost everything.

"Hey, Lieutenant." Ludwig turned at the voice, not sure if it was directed at him. Jones hurried down the corridor, but his eyes were fixed on the officer detaining Ludwig. "You've left some sort of... a, uh... you've left something back in the common room."

The officer looked skeptical. "Left something?"

"Yeah, some folder, it has 'top secret' stamped on it or something like that..."

The officer released Ludwig and hurried back towards the room, his face panicked. "Watch the prisoner, flyboy!" he shouted at the last second.

"Of course, not a problem, I under..." The officer disappeared around the corner and Jones turned immediately to Ludwig. Ludwig looked at him in complete confusion. It was becoming quite obvious. All Americans were insane. "Lieutenant B... Ludwig. Damn, your German names are impossible. I believe this is yours." Ludwig's chest swelled with hope. He almost gasped as Jones took the photograph from his pocket and quickly placed it in Ludwig's. He was confused, stunned, but more than anything just incredibly grateful. He gave the American a confounded stare, but Jones just smiled at him. "Good luck, pilot." Ludwig nodded slowly. Then a special forces officer appeared at the door just as the earlier lieutenant returned from the common room.

"What's going on in here, what's the damn holdup?"

"You're crazy, flyboy, there's no folder in there, what are you playing at?"

Jones raised his hands and backed away down the corridor. "Nothing, sorry, my mistake! Continue, my good sirs." Then he gave Ludwig a tiny wink and turned the corner.

"Damned pilots are all crazy," said the lieutenant as he again took a hold of the handcuffs. Ludwig had to agree. But it looked like some of them were decent men, as well.

.

Feliciano walked softly, quietly, into the front room. Everything was soft and quiet around here these days. Lovino sat at the table, staring at the wall. He did that a lot these days, too. Feliciano walked up behind him and threw his arms around his neck. "Good morning Lovino! How are you today, Lovino? Have I told you how much I love you, Lovino?"

"Good God, are you ever going to stop doing this, Feliciano?" Lovino sounded cranky, but Feliciano could tell he was smiling, even if only a little.

"Stop what? Can't I hug my big brother and tell him I love him!"

"Yes, yes, that's quite enough." Lovino patted Feliciano's arm and Feliciano released him gently.

"There is a tomato flan on the bench, it had better be all eaten up when I get home tonight!"

"You're going out?"

Feliciano took a few apples from the bowl on the table and placed them in his basket for lunch. "Only for a little while. I'll meet you this afternoon at the cantina, if you come. You should come, Lovino. You know, you can't live in the house forever."

Lovino turned and fixed Feliciano with a worried glare. "You're going to your tree again." Feliciano just nodded. "Feli..." Feliciano shook his head, silently refusing to listen. He knew his brother understood, but Lovino still said, with the faintest hint of a smile, "You know, you can't live at that tree forever."

Feliciano smiled back. How easily, how terribly, Lovino understood. "That flan, Lovino. Every last bit."

When things happened, they happened so quickly. The Germans were finally out of the village, though the damage from their final battles with the Americans was still being cleaned up. Since the Americans had taken over the nearby bases, life had changed. Mostly for the better... but this was still a war. Feliciano had not seen Ludwig in months, not since their last night together in the barn. And Lovino... Feliciano forced his mind to stop turning. He did not want to think about that.

Feliciano ambled slowly down the country road, swinging his basket beside him, the same as he did every day. He spent most of his free time at the oak tree now. Just sitting, humming to himself, reminiscing, waiting... always waiting. The breeze drifted gently by, carrying the familiar scents of spring, but this year they seemed different - bitter, almost. Feliciano was still clinging to winter. As usual, Feliciano barely paid attention to the world around him, too wrapped up in the thoughts which took up his every waking moment. He wondered where Ludwig was. What he was doing. If he was free. If he was safe. Oh God, if he was alive. It was too much to bear that Ludwig might disappear forever, and Feliciano would never know what had happened to the most important person in the world.

With a sudden jolt, Feliciano came back to himself just in time to notice that he was about to run into two men dressed in military uniforms. His stomach dropped, instinct took over and he pulled out his little white flag and began waving it frantically. "I surrender! Mi arrendo! Je me rends! Kamerad!"

The two men stopped short, simply stared at him for a moment, then the shorter one turned to the other. "I think he surrenders."

"I got the first bit. I think the rest was in Chinese or something..."

Feliciano paused, calmed down somewhat, and glanced between the two men staring at him amusedly. "You're... Americans?"

"He is," said the shorter one. His voice was very quiet. "I'm Canadian."

"Ohh..." Feliciano pointed to the man's lapel. "The polar bear."

The Canadian seemed delighted he had noticed. "Why yes! This here is Kumadara."

"Damn it, man, why can you never remember the name of your own stupid mascot?" asked the American, his eyebrows drawn together in frustration. "It's Kumajiro!"

"Is it? Oh. Well, either way, he's a lucky little bastard." The Canadian gave Feliciano a friendly smile. "I apologise if we startled you."

"Oh, that's all right, I wasn't paying attention. I just noticed the uniforms, and some men in uniforms are really mean and try and hit you, but then of course some are really nice and handsome and wonderful." The men's uniforms were slightly different to the ones Feliciano was used to seeing on the American soldiers in town. The Canadian wore a blazer and the American wore a big brown jacket with a big, fluffy collar. They were both blond, but the Canadian's hair was longer, and strangely enough they looked almost identical. "Are you two brothers? You look like brothers. Everyone says that Lovino and I look like brothers, which makes sense, because we are. Only isn't it strange that you're both from different countries? Did you grow up in Canada or America?"

The Canadian had that slightly dazed look that Feliciano was used to seeing, but the American just smiled and answered easily. "We're not brothers, everyone says that though, people always get us mixed up, it's really quite funny. I grew up on a farm in the states and Matt was raised by bears."

Matt looked taken aback. "I... what?"

Feliciano gasped. "Wow! You grew up on a farm too?"

The American grinned widely. "Born and bred Nebraskan!"

"Gosh! That's amazing! I mean, except that, um... well, I don't actually know what that is." Feliciano scratched his head briefly then reached into his basket. "Would you like an apple?" Feliciano held out the apple and the American took it cheerfully.

"Sure!"

The Canadian just shook his head in bewilderment. "Alfred, I believe we may have found the only other person in the world who speaks your dialect."

Alfred's eyes widened in sudden realisation. "Hey, wait, yeah, you ain't speaking Italian!"

"No," replied Feliciano. "Didn't you notice?"

"That's not what I..."

"See, Matt, here you are going on about how I need to learn all these foreign languages, and everyone over here speaks English."

"I speak a little bit of German, too," said Feliciano proudly. "Here you are, Canadian Matt, have an apfel."

Matt smiled dazedly as he took the apple. "Danke."

"Bitte schön." Feliciano felt a slight stab in his chest at the words. How many times had he said that to Ludwig?

"I'm sorry, we haven't introduced ourselves properly," said Matt.

"No, you haven't."

Alfred leant towards Feliciano and muttered, "He's so rude sometimes." Feliciano laughed and pulled out an apple for himself. He liked this American. He was funny, and nice. Matt just gave him a frustrated look.

"Well go on then, you do the honours, you do it so well and inoffensively."

Alfred gave a small bow. "Thank you, I shall. Italian friend, this is Lieutenant Matthew Williams, wingman extraordinaire, and I am Lieutenant Alfred F Jones, here to save Italy!"

"Gosh," said Feliciano around a bite of the apple. "All by yourself?"

"Well, Matt's gonna help. A bit."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "Don't listen to him, he's slightly delusional."

Feliciano laughed again. It felt like months since he had last laughed so easily. "I'm Feliciano! I'm trying to save Italy as well, at least that's what Grandpa says. We're part of the Resistenza and I think I'm allowed to tell you that because apparently you're on our side, whatever that means." Feliciano welcomed any distraction lately, so he was enjoying talking to these friendly strangers. Anything to take his mind to something else, even if only for a little while. Maybe he could even make this distraction last a little longer... "Oh, I know, since you're our allies and we're friends now you should come and have a drink with us this afternoon, and I can introduce you to my grandpa and my brother and all of the other resistance members, I'm sure they would all be so happy to meet you!"

Alfred looked genuinely delighted. "That'd be swell! You Italians have bourbon, right?"

"Yes, of course! I mean, I think so. Well, um... actually, I don't know what that is either. Anyway, we'll be at the Cantina Verde in town, ask anyone where it is." Feliciano could barely believe he was saying the words. Things were so different now from when the Germans were in town.

Alfred laughed joyfully. "Great, I haven't had a proper drink in weeks!"

The American's laugh was infectious. It was so loud, so boisterous. "Wait until I tell everyone we're drinking with two American..." Feliciano smiled apologetically at Matthew, "Sorry, American and Canadian soldiers!"

Matthew laughed softly. "Well actually, we're both fighter pilots."

Feliciano's smile fell immediately, his skin turning instantly cold. The light, carefree feeling in his chest vanished and instead an icy, angry shudder ran down his spine. He squared his shoulders and gritted his teeth. "Oh." He clenched his fist around the apple and took a quick, unsteady step backwards. "Pilots."

Alfred and Matthew glanced at each other briefly, confusion on their faces. "Yes," said Matthew simply, inquiringly, the word almost a question.

"Oh," said Feliciano again. He took another step away, his skin prickling unpleasantly. "Um. I have to... go."

The pilots still looked slightly puzzled, but they smiled carefully and Alfred said cheerfully, "See you later this afternoon then!"

Feliciano nodded tersely and ran swiftly past. His hand shook as he threw the apple into the grass beside the road. Hot, unfamiliar rage rolled in his chest, in his gut, and he blinked angrily, refusing to cry. He had wanted to forget everything. He had wanted a moment of peace, of forgetful happiness. Instead, he had just invited the very people trying to kill Ludwig to the cantina.

.

The Italians who understood English were hanging on the American's every word. Those who didn't just stared, obviously unsure what to make of this loud American who was already halfway through a bottle of bourbon and gesturing wildly as he recounted his recent exploits to the room.

"So there I am, isolated, completely out of sight of my squad, surrounded by six German Messerschmitts!"

The Canadian knocked back a glass of bourbon before interjecting. "Four."

"I'm pretty sure it was six."

"It was four."

"All right, five then. So anyway there I am, wondering how the hell I'm gonna get out of this one, when suddenly, Matt comes flying out of the sun and does this ridiculously sudden dive in the middle of the lot of them. I tell you what, it confused me just as much as it confused the hell out of the krauts, but it gave me just enough time to take down two of them, dive, turn, and get the hell away from there. They call me the Magician, but I tell ya, Matt here is the invisible man!"

Feliciano smiled politely as the rest of the room laughed appreciatively. The cantina was packed full of Resistenza members and local villagers, talking loudly, offering Alfred and Matthew more drinks, hanging on every word they said about the aerial battle with the Germans. Feliciano could not remember ever seeing the cantina this full, or hearing it this noisy. People conversed loudly as they drank, broke into small arguments, occasionally sang along with the radio that blasted from the corner, jostled over each other to speak to the American pilots. Feliciano was not sure how to take this. On the one hand Alfred and Matthew were really nice, funny, and they seemed genuinely happy to speak to everyone. But Feliciano didn't like listening to them talk about shooting down Messerschmitts, or calling the Germans 'krauts', or speaking of pushing the Germans out of the country. Lovino was of course pointedly ignoring the pilots, while Grandpa Roma was all hospitable and politeness, but he seemed to be trying to find out information from them at the same time. Feliciano wondered briefly what Antonio would ask the pilots if he were here.

"One thing I'll say for the krauts," said Alfred in response to a question from Roma. "They don't turn and run. They fight to the end."

"Like our man yesterday," said Matthew, almost inaudibly.

"Oh, yes!" said Alfred, his face lighting up excitedly. The group clustered around the table fell silent as he spoke. "You should've seen this guy! I've been after him for weeks, and yesterday morning I thought I had him. We did have him... his squad escaped and this one stayed to distract us. So of course we thought he'd be easy." Alfred shook his head and laughed wryly.

"And he wasn't?" asked Feliciano quietly. It annoyed him how Alfred seemed to think he was better than every German pilot. Feliciano knew he could not be better than Ludwig, at least. Alfred looked at him thoughtfully for a moment before responding.

"They call me the Magician. Because I'm evasive... they see me, I disappear, I drop in again and before they know it, bam. All over. But this guy was something different. He comes at us straight - no hiding, no tricks. Just charges us head on, one pilot taking on a whole squadron. I've never seen anything like it. He was after me, that was obvious. Took down two of our men doing it, and he would've had me, too, if it weren't for Matt here. But even with his engine on fire and a torn wing, this German was still shooting. And I tell you what, it took the whole damn lot of us to bring him down. But here's the kicker." Alfred paused to drink then leant forward eagerly, everyone hanging on his every word. "The German lands the damn plane! Takes it down like he's on a test flight! After he's grounded, he steps out of that wreck like he's getting off the bus. Gives us his rank, name and number, not a word more." Alfred raised his hands slightly and sat back slowly. "Say what you will about the Germans. But their pilots are brave bastards."

The room filled with chatter again when Alfred fell silent. He furrowed his forehead as he looked down, lost in thought, then almost startled Feliciano by staring him suddenly in the eyes. His eyebrows shot up and he whistled softly. "Well I'll be damned."

"What?" asked Feliciano, puzzled by the sudden strange behaviour.

Alfred immediately dropped his gaze back to his drink. "Sorry. Nothing."

More stories, more drinks. Everyone wanted to speak to Alfred, and he gave his full attention to everyone who did. Everyone liked him immediately; it seemed impossible not to. Feliciano was so confused by his conflicting emotions. He liked Alfred, too. He'd tried not to, but the American had been nothing but friendly and cheerful since he had walked into the cantina. He insisted on sitting beside Feliciano, chatting about the difference in seasons between Italy and America, about the great cities of London and New York, about the cats he had passed in the alley earlier. He'd asked Feliciano about life on his farm and what it was like in the resistance and what he thought of baseball and cricket. Alfred even gave him an orange in payment for the apple earlier. And before Feliciano knew it they were chatting away like old friends. But then Alfred started talking about battle. And the men he described shooting down - they were Ludwig's people. Alfred was Ludwig's enemy. Feliciano had no idea how to feel. Part of him wanted to remain angry, but he never was able to stay angry for long, and it was so silly to feel that way about someone who was just doing what he thought was right, the same as Ludwig. It was too much to try and comprehend. Feliciano was at least relieved that Lovino had finally left the house to join them, though was starting to wonder if maybe that wasn't the best idea after all.

"Where did you even find these bastards?" muttered Lovino, taking a large gulp of wine. He had refused to speak to the pilots all afternoon. He had barely even looked at them. Feliciano shrugged guiltily and whispered back while Alfred was engaged in conversation with Roma.

"On the road outside town."

Lovino glared at him sideways. "What is it with you picking up fighter pilots, Feli?"

"I wasn't trying to, they were just really nice and they made me laugh and stop thinking about horrible things so I asked if they'd like to have a drink with us because I thought maybe everyone else would like to meet them too. I didn't even know they were pilots." Feliciano didn't add that he would not have asked them if he had known. He tried to push Lovino off the topic. "It's good to see you out of the house, though!"

"Yes, well. I'm not here to talk to your little pilot friends. I just needed a damn drink." Lovino swiftly finished his glass of wine. Not long later, he'd had far too many and, as usual, they were getting the better of him.

"You know what I think?" Lovino shouted in Italian, leaning on a chair and pointing his drink at Alfred. "I think you're just a presumptuous bastard! Think you can come in here, and blow up a few German planes, and that we're all gonna whatsit... fall over!" Lovino stumbled, spilt his drink, then quickly pulled himself up again. "No, I mean, over you, fall all over you!" Feliciano and Roma glanced at each other briefly. It was pointless to try and stop Lovino once he got started lately. Luckily the rest of the room was still so loud that Lovino was not making quite as big of a scene as he possibly could have. Alfred, however, looked completely bewildered as to why he was being shouted at in Italian and having a wine glass waved before his face.

"Uh, sorry, I don't know what you're say..."

"Shut up! You know what we've gone through? Still, still going through? You're a bit late now, aren't you?" Lovino gestured wildly and Roma smoothly took the drink from his hand. Lovino barely seemed to notice. "Could've come and kicked the Germans out months ago, couldn't you? Could have been a week earlier, a day, a few fucking hours, but oh no, had to wait until it was too late, too damn late now! Tell your little stories and think we're all gonna call you heroes well you can fuck off is what you can do!"

Alfred just smiled and nodded before leaning over to Feliciano and whispering, "He seems real pissed off about something."

Feliciano smiled apologetically. "Yeah, he kind of always seems pissed off about something. He usually is. But be nice to him. He's... well, he's got a reason to be pissed off this time."

"Does he know we don't speak Italian?"

"Yes." Feliciano raised his voice so Lovino could hear. "And he does understand English, he just pretends not to."

Lovino turned and yelled at Feliciano, still in Italian. "Shut the hell up, really Feliciano, you should never have brought these stupid Americans here in the first place..."

"I'm Canadian," said Matthew softly. Lovino broke off and stared at him blankly. He was obviously a little shocked to realise that Matthew had understood every word he had said.

"Oh." Lovino stumbled a little again and his shoulders fell.

"I'm very sorry for everything you've gone through, even though I am sure I can't begin to understand." Matthew spoke smoothly in perfect Italian. "And I apologise for Alfred here. I know he can be a bit loud and arrogant, but he means well. Please believe me, if we'd had the chance to land any earlier, Alfred would have been the first to jump at the opportunity. I hope you can forgive us for any unintended offense. We really are so honoured to be in your lovely village and we are very grateful for everyone's hospitality."

The entire room stared in silence. It seemed to be the first time most had even noticed the Canadian.

"Is there any language you don't speak, Matt?" asked Alfred finally.

Matthew raised an eyebrow sardonically. "Chinese, Alfred. I don't speak Chinese."

Lovino narrowed his eyes, blushed red, and quickly blinked his embarrassed expression away. "Well. Um. All right. I have to go home now. I can't leave..." he trailed off and glared at the pilots again, then stared, almost disoriented, around the gradually loudening room. "I have to go."

Roma nodded, smiling the way he always did, like everything was all right and nothing was out of the ordinary. "Of course. Are you all right to walk on your own?"

"I'm not a child," Lovino spat back before turning and storming from the cantina, kicking a chair on his way.

"Well, gosh," said Alfred, watching Lovino leave with a slightly stunned expression. "Is he gonna be all right?"

"He's going to be just fine," said Roma, smiling reassuringly at Feliciano. Feliciano tried to smile back, but just looked away. He only hoped Grandpa Roma was right. Roma leant across the table and poured Alfred another bourbon. "It is good my little Feliciano made your acquaintance today. I am glad to be able to talk with our allies firsthand. And of course, I am pleased to see the war in the air seems to be favouring you."

"We're doing all right. It's never ending, though." Alfred's brave exterior seemed to fade a little, and he glanced around cautiously before continuing. "And I don't really know how much it's all counting in the end."

Roma's eyes flashed with interest. "Meaning?"

"Well, we go up, we get shot down, we send up more. The Germans do the same. We pushed them back towards the border but since then its been a stalemate... and I just don't see how its worth it, you know. I'm losing too many men. They're telling us we're supposed to be heading to France soon, but I don't see that happening. Its just this, day after day, and we ain't getting nowhere. Seems like just a damn waste."

Roma nodded understandingly. "But that is war, isn't it. Now I was wondering if you could tell me..." Roma broke off abruptly and smiled again at Feliciano. "Surely this must be boring you, Feli?"

Feliciano let Grandpa Roma have his way. He did not want to hear anymore, anyway. He stood and left Roma to talk privately to Alfred and Matthew. He wandered between the tables, speaking briefly to a few people, but mainly kept his distance. He felt like he was walking in a dream. This whole afternoon was just too unreal, too painful, too much. He couldn't stop the awful thoughts and fears that attacked him relentlessly. Could Ludwig be one of those who Alfred spoke of shooting down? Feliciano tried to convince himself - Ludwig was better than that. He had said so himself. But that didn't stop the horrible sick twisting in Feliciano's stomach, the terrifying images of burning planes in his head. And the whole time, Alfred kept looking over at him strangely...

Feliciano was just starting to wonder if he should follow Lovino home when Alfred left Roma and Matthew talking and headed straight towards him. He took Feliciano's elbow and led him to a corner. But before Feliciano could ask what was going on Alfred said quickly, quietly, "Look, this might sound real strange and all, but... do you know a German pilot named Lieutenant... Ludwig?"

Feliciano blinked a few times in complete and utter shock. Now he was certain he was dreaming. He could scarcely speak. "What... how..." How could this American possibly know that? Unless he'd seen him alive, or... unless... Feliciano suddenly felt like he had been stabbed in the chest. He couldn't breathe, then his breath caught painfully in his throat, then it came so fast he started to hyperventilate. Everything turned red and hazy and he took an unsteady step backwards, shaking his head frantically. "No..."

"No, stop, it's all right, he's alive." Feliciano nearly fell over in relief. Air flooded his lungs and he looked up hopefully. "But..." Alfred paused, looked around, and lowered his voice. "He has been taken prisoner."

His lungs choked closed once again. Feliciano could hardly believe he was having this conversation, could hardly believe this man before him could know the answers to the questions that had assaulted him for months. Ludwig... taken prisoner... "Where? Please, tell me where?"

Alfred shook his head, and a pained expression crossed his face. "I'm sorry, you know I can't tell you that."

Feliciano briefly closed his eyes and nodded. What a silly thing to ask. He did not even know what he could do if he was told. "Of course. He's the one you were talking about earlier, isn't he? You... you shot him down."

"Yes." Alfred swiftly led Feliciano to a nearby empty table, then sat down slowly beside him. The noise of the cantina was enough to drown out their conversation. "How do you even know him? How does he have a photograph of you?"

Feliciano barely heard the words. All he could hear was a rushing in his ears, all he could think was... "Is he all right? Is he hurt? What will you..."

"He's fine. Completely uninjured. Our military police took him away today. He will be questioned, but force will not be employed. He is an honourable officer, and he will be treated accordingly."

Feliciano breathed easier in relief. "And... and then?"

Alfred's expression was almost apologetic as he answered. "Then he will be transferred to a prisoner of war camp."

Feliciano squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that pricked his eyes, swallowed past the heavy, painful lump in his throat. He leant forward on the table and put his head in his hands. What did that mean? When would he see Ludwig again? Oh God, oh please no, would he ever see him again...

"You... you're... you and he..."

Feliciano jumped slightly as he looked up. He had almost forgotten Alfred was there, watching him curiously, worriedly. Of course, he must be so confused by all this. "I met him in winter," said Feliciano. "He was stationed near the village, probably near where you are now. He used to walk out to the countryside to see me. We would meet by the oak tree in the field near my house. I suppose, in the end, we didn't actually see each other all that much... it was only a few times after all. But it's funny, it almost seems like I can't really remember anything clearly up until then. But those few times we met... I remember every second." Feliciano smiled at the memories of the best days of his life. "He is the best, kindest, most wonderful man I have ever met."

"You love him." Alfred said it so certainly.

"More than I ever thought I could love anyone, or anything, ever." Feliciano immediately laughed nervously at himself. He had spoken the words before he thought about them. Just what was he saying? This wasn't something people understood; most people thought it was wrong to love another man, though Feliciano could not see why. But who knew how this American would take it... "I'm sorry. What a silly thing to say."

Alfred seemed to understand Feliciano's sudden panic and he responded quickly. "No. It's not silly."

At the kind look in his eyes, Feliciano felt it was all right to continue. "We took the photographs one day when we went walking in the hills. I have his here." Feliciano pulled the photograph he carried always from his pocket and handed it to Alfred, who nodded as he took it.

"That's him." Alfred turned it over and read the back. "'Auf wiedersehen, sweetheart'. His said 'bella ciao.'"

Feliciano nodded. He did not want to explain.

"Feliciano..." Alfred furrowed his brows as he looked at the photograph, his expression confused and bewildered. "You are part of the resistance. He is your enemy."

Feliciano shrugged, smiled slightly, and looked Alfred in the eyes. "There are no sides when it comes to love." Alfred sighed softly, smiled gently, and passed back the photograph. Feliciano placed it carefully back in his chest pocket, then cleared his throat and pushed back his chair. "I am sure Grandpa will help you with anything you need to know about the Germans. You're busy fighting them after all, I'm sure you will want information. I wish I could tell you more, but I don't know all that much, really, and no one tells me much anymore after... well, like I said, I don't know much these days." Feliciano stood and turned to leave.

"How old are you, Feliciano?"

Feliciano paused and looked back down at Alfred, a little thrown by the sudden question. "What? Oh, I... I'm nearly twenty."

"No kidding. Same as me!" Alfred grinned cheerfully, though he looked slightly surprised. "Funny... I thought you were younger."

Feliciano felt a strange mixture of upset and offended, and yet somehow he understood. After all, wasn't that what everyone always thought? Suddenly desperate to be alone, Feliciano hurried past the tables and clusters of cheerful, chatting villagers, headed straight into the next room, and slammed the door shut behind him. The immediate silence was reassuring, comforting. He fell into a chair, covered his face with hands, and let his grief engulf him. What did the Americans do with their prisoners? Of course everyone said they were good, they didn't use torture or anything like that... but how could he be certain? What if they weren't like everybody said? What if they hurt him, what if they executed him, oh God what if it was worse, what if it was like what happened to Antonio? Feliciano was suddenly furious having these Americans in the next room, angry at anything, at anyone who kept Ludwig away from him. He missed Ludwig so much it was a physical pain, and he couldn't stand it. He wanted him back more than he had ever wanted anything. He would give anything, do anything, just to see him even one more time. But it was impossible.

The door clicked open and Feliciano looked up to see Grandpa Roma closing it behind him. He looked tired tonight. But then, he always looked tired these days. He slowly crossed the room and sat beside Feliciano. "Feli... is everything all right?"

Feliciano tried to nod, but shook his head instead. He never could lie to his Grandpa. "No." But he didn't cry. He couldn't cry. It was like there were no tears left. This was just a numbing sort of ache, a grief so exhausted it could not feel hot or sharp or vicious. It just felt completely empty, utterly hopeless.

Roma sat quiet, still. Feliciano could hear nothing but his breathing. "Do you want to tell me about it?" he asked finally.

"No." But after only a second, Feliciano leant against him and Roma took him in his arms, holding him close, rocking him gently. Since the morning after those awful words that still burned in Feliciano's memory, the morning of Lovino's devastated breakdown, Grandpa Roma had been the one strong, secure, dependable thing in their lives. The rock they threw themselves against. He laughed and sang while they were empty and silent; stood quiet and accepting when they sobbed and screamed. He held together when they fell apart. Even now he said the same words he always used to, held him and tried to make it better, even though Feliciano was no longer a child and they both knew that now that was impossible.

"It's all right, Feli. Everything's all right now."

For the first time Feliciano wondered if things could be different if he was a soldier, or a fighter; if he was someone important. Someone who could do something, could save Ludwig, could make it so there was some way to see him again. But he was just small and unimportant and he had no power to do anything. He was just what everyone always thought he was - silly little Feliciano. Ludwig was the only one who ever took him seriously. Who listened and cared about what he had to say, who thought he could be brave if he needed to be...

"Grandpa, do you wish I was... like Alfred? He's so brave and, and everyone likes him, and... and he's the same age as me, you know. The same age as me and he's fighting and flying planes and... and you'd be proud of me if I was like him, wouldn't you."

Roma responded immediately. "No." Feliciano was surprised by his answer.

"Huh?"

"I wouldn't be proud of you if you were like him. Because that's not who you are."

"But..."

"Don't let anyone tell you you're not brave. Yes, you have done things which have upset me... devastated me." Feliciano flinched. Roma had never said another word after that awful afternoon... but Feliciano knew how much his betrayal still affected him. He was just grateful that his Grandpa's love was stronger than that. "But you trust your heart, Feliciano. And that is such a brave thing. Not everyone can do that."

Feliciano shut his eyes tightly. He did not know where to go from here. If he could hope for Ludwig; if he should give up. "Grandpa... why does everything always end up hurting so much?"

It was a pointless question, and of course Grandpa Roma had no answer. He simply stroked Feliciano's hair and said, "I wish you could be innocent forever, Feli."

But of course, some things were impossible. When his Grandpa had left, when he had pulled himself together, when he felt he could face the world again, Feliciano finally brought himself to walk back into the front room. There were fewer people here now. Night had fallen, and Alfred and Matthew looked like they were saying their last goodbyes to those who remained. Feliciano prepared himself to hurry past, but Alfred noticed him almost immediately. He broke away from the small group, took Feliciano's arm before he could escape, and again drew him into a corner.

"Listen, I've been thinking. Your Resistenza, you don't... uh... bust people out of prison and things like that, do you?" Alfred winked and Feliciano furrowed his brows in confusion. "Okay. So, if I tell you this... if I give you this information... remember, what you were asking me earlier..."

Feliciano was stunned as he started to understand. Ludwig had been taken prisoner... Feliciano had asked Alfred where...He gasped in realisation. "Why would you tell me that?"

Alfred looked hesitant for a moment before he sighed, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small photograph. Feliciano took it slowly, his pulse quickening a little. It was a light haired, handsome young guy with bushy eyebrows glaring angrily at the camera. He was wearing a suit and standing before a cabinet filled with dozens of bottles and glasses. Feliciano looked up at Alfred curiously, and Alfred's eyes burned into his. "If it was him, I'd take on the whole German military single-handed."

Ohhh. So Alfred understood after all... Feliciano felt slightly calmer, less confused, as he studied the photograph. "He looks angry."

"He didn't want me to take a photograph. I told him there was no film."

"What is his name?"

"Arthur." Alfred smiled as he said it.

Feliciano glanced at the photograph once more before handing it back. "Is he English? He's wearing a suit, so I thought he might be English."

"Yes, he's English."

"I bet he knows lots about poetry."

"He knows lots about everything. He's really smart."

"They usually are, English people."

"Now." Alfred put the photograph back in his pocket and again stared into Feliciano's eyes intently. Feliciano felt a shudder run through him, and the impossible suddenly seemed somehow within reach. "I didn't give you this information, and you aren't going to use it to do anything drastic, are you?"

Feliciano did not respond, but his eyes widened and his chest filled with nervous hope. He wondered how much bourbon Alfred had consumed, and whether he would later regret this. But Feliciano stayed silent, waiting to hear what Alfred had to say, waiting for what might be his last hope to see Ludwig, his only chance. Alfred nodded abruptly.

"I'm going to take that as a no. Now listen."