Spring passed in a haze of pain and confusion. White sheets, cold hands, cool cloth that turned warm on burning skin. Faces drifting in his dim, cloudy vision - Lovino, Grandpa, strange people he did not know. Water that tasted of metal, food he could not swallow. Someone praying; someone crying. The clean, warm scent of flowers and herbs from the garden. And always the dreams. Dreams of Ludwig, of oak trees and fireplaces, of winter afternoons that Feliciano could not be sure were real. But now, he could not be sure if anything was real.

When Feliciano woke, summer had already begun. With the Germans gone from the village, Grandpa and Lovino worked again in the fields. Feliciano spent the days sitting in the garden, sometimes reading, sometimes remembering. Occasionally Antonio joined him. Feliciano was grateful for the company, but Antonio coughed so much it made conversation difficult. Usually they just watched the sky silently for hours, but Antonio always looked like he was in pain. Very rarely, if it did not hurt too much, Lovino would help Feliciano walk to the oak tree. But when Feliciano spoke of Ludwig, Lovino just looked away.

Feliciano did not remember the hospital. Did not remember the bullet being dug from his skin. Did not remember being brought home, barely conscious. All Feliciano remembered was seeing Ludwig's face, feeling his arms, hearing his voice as that piercing pain tore through Feliciano's body. All he knew was that Ludwig was gone. All he attempted, day after day, was to suppress his anguish, and ignore his fear. It was not until autumn that Grandpa Roma sat Feliciano down in the kitchen and tried to explain.

"Feliciano. I want you to listen to me, and I want you to be brave, okay?"

Feliciano's gaze drifted away from Roma's sad, concerned eyes. He listened to the clock ticking like thunder in the silent room and watched the autumn leaves float leisurely into the garden outside the window. "I don't think I want to hear, Grandpa."

Feliciano did not resist when Roma reached out and took his hand across the warm, wooden table. "Please, Feli. I've waited too long to tell you this. You've waited too long to hear." Feliciano did not respond, but neither did he tear his eyes from the dancing leaves outside. "Feliciano... do you remember Alfred? Your American friend, the pilot?"

"Yes." Feliciano ignored the ache in his chest, the irregular pounding of his pulse. He did not want to feel. He had tried for months not to feel. Feliciano was so sick and tired of feeling.

"You do know how Lovino and I were able to rescue him, don't you?"

"L... Lud..." Feliciano squeezed his eyes shut. He could not say the name. If he said the name, it would be too real, and it would hurt too much. "He told you."

"Yes," said Roma quietly. "I thought you might know."

Of course he knew. Although Roma and Lovino had stayed mostly silent, it was not hard for Feliciano to put the pieces together. True, he did not know everything. But from what he had been told, what he had overheard, and what he had determined himself, Feliciano knew enough. How Alfred had been shot down and captured. How Ludwig had told Roma about Alfred's position and arranged an escape. How Roma and Lovino had picked up the American pilot and taken him to an American base. How neither his grandpa nor his brother would tell Feliciano any more than that.

Roma spoke softly, as though afraid to break the silence, or something else. "Feli. The night Ludwig brought Alfred to us... just after he handed Alfred over..." Roma took a deep breath and delivered the next words evenly. "Feli, what Ludwig did was very noble, and very brave. It was also against military law. That night, Ludwig was arrested by the Gestapo."

The words tore into Feliciano's heart like another bullet. He could not longer contain the feelings, fears, and suspicions he had tried to suppress for months. Once again he couldn't breathe, his skin turned cold, the room spun like the falling leaves outside, and all Feliciano could think was... "Gestapo... the Gestapo had Antonio... oh God..."

Roma interrupted, loud and firm. "No, Feli, listen to me. They did not do that to him."

Feliciano gulped back his tears, blinked at Roma pleadingly. He gritted his teeth and shook his head. Don't say... don't say... "No."

Roma squeezed Feliciano's hand. "They did not kill him either. Ludwig was very well known in Germany. The German military would not execute one of their most celebrated pilots at such a crucial time - the damage to morale would be too drastic."

Feliciano had to stop to breathe. He placed a hand to where the bullet had torn through his skin. This cold panic was exhausting, and the old pain in his chest was building and sharpening. "Then what?" he asked hesitantly. He did not want to know, but he needed to know, and all Feliciano could think was that he was about to finally have his heart shattered beyond repair. "What happened to Lud- to Ludwig?"

Roma breathed out audibly. "All we know is that he was sent to the Russian Front. He was probably put into a punitive unit."

Feliciano did not understand. "A what?"

"It is like a military prison. Combat units made up of criminals and traitors. They are given mission considered too dangerous for the regular military, and..." Roma broke off and sighed. Feliciano waited for him to continue. "And no one survives for long."

The room darkened - a cloud must have drifted across the sun. Feliciano sat silently, wondering why he wasn't screaming, wondering why he wasn't falling to the floor. Strangely, he simply felt numb. "Oh." Feliciano looked again out the window, waiting for the sky to brighten again. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were sick, Feli. I was already so afraid you would not survive. I'm sorry."

Feliciano nodded. "But you don't know. You don't know for sure that he is dead."

"No. But... oh Feli, I'm so sorry, but... but it would be best for you to forget him."

Feliciano was stunned by the words. He couldn't even be sure he had heard them correctly. He snapped his head back and stared at Roma incredulously. "Forget him?"

Roma looked almost guilty. "I can't stand to see you like this forever. You used to laugh and sing." Roma blinked heavily and looked at the table. "You used to smile." He shook his head as though to clear it, and stared again at Feliciano intently. "Ludwig is not coming back, Feliciano. Forgetting him is..." Roma shrugged. "It's all you can do."

Feliciano could not believe it. He actually laughed. Forget Ludwig - he'd never heard a more impossible suggestion. He looked Roma in the eyes. "What if I told you to just forget Grandma. To forget Mama. Would you be able to do that?"

Roma closed his eyes painfully. "Feli..."

Feliciano blinked, then felt his gaze drift once more. Was this really it? Was this the last he would ever hear of the person who meant more to Feliciano than anyone or anything he had ever known? It was too calm. It was too quiet. There should be an earthquake; the sky should be falling. Why was he still not screaming? Why was the world not ending? "So I'll never know." Feliciano barely realised he spoke the words aloud. "Never know if he died quickly. If he was in pain, if he was alone. I'll never know if it was a bullet or the cold or..."

"Stop it, Feliciano!" Roma's commanding words were a startling intrusion in Feliciano's thoughts. "You can't think like that, you can't, it will drive you insane!"

Feliciano let out a short, sharp breath. He had to shake away the terrifying image of Ludwig falling, lifeless, in the Russian snow. He tried again, desperately, not to think; not to feel. "I don't want to hear anymore, Grandpa." Feliciano realised his hand was still in Roma's, and snatched it back. "I just want to go away."

And again the winter. A year since Feliciano had met a German officer on a country road and the world had changed; a year since Feliciano found the one real thing in life that mattered. Feliciano barely noticed the season passing and turning again to spring. Barely realised that the war continued, fought in other countries now, other villages. Barely cared when the news came of Germany's surrender, and a few months later of Japan's also. The days drifted past, empty; the months stretched on, barren. Feliciano did not even notice when the war ended.

.

Autumn, 1947

.

Feliciano grew accustomed to a certain kind of numbness. It was the only way he could make it through, day to day. He did not always consciously remember Ludwig these days. Instead he was like a constant shadow, a presence that was always there, always with Feliciano, beside him and inside him. Almost four years had passed since Feliciano last saw Ludwig. The Resistenza was broken, grown into a political movement Grandpa Roma wanted nothing to do with. Now Roma worked in the fields. Feliciano helped with what he could, but he still got short of breath sometimes, and the pain from the wound in his chest made it impossible to work for long. Lovino and Antonio had moved away, closer to the doctors in town. And while everything changed, still nothing changed. Feliciano did not know if he still had hope, or where it had gone; he did not know if he was waiting, or what he was waiting for. All he knew was that there was some part of him - some tiny, persistent, stubborn part of him - that refused to let Ludwig go.

So the days and months and years passed slowly, numbly. Most days were fine. Months could pass in some strange semblance of normality. But sometimes the old pain would overwhelm him. It could be the tiniest thing - the smell of rosemary, a red flower falling from a tree, the familiar strains of an old song. And then Feliciano would remember Ludwig's deep laugh, and the touch of his lips; the smell of his jacket and the blueness of his eyes. He would almost hear Ludwig's voice, almost feel Ludwig's big hand in his. And Feliciano would need him so much he would fall, or scream, or throw something, anything, against the wall. He would feel too much, the way he always used to, and the anguish would claw at his chest until he almost felt he wanted to die.

On days like these, all Feliciano could do was walk to the oak tree. He would watch the sky turn dark, feel the wind grow cold. And he would let himself remember. He tried to recall every word Ludwig had ever spoken to him. He sang 'Bella Ciao' and 'Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart' softly. He picked flowers and remembered Ludwig's big hands holding a little red daisy, Ludwig's voice telling him it was his lucky charm. He wondered if Ludwig still had the flower, or if Ludwig was holding it when he breathed his last. He ran through the grass and remembered how it felt to fall, laughing, beside the bluest eyes and kindest smile he had ever seen.

On days like these, Feliciano looked up over the hills, remembered walking with Ludwig and sitting on old church ruins. Remembered looking down at the cloud-covered landscape and the tiny town below, remembered plucking leaves from trees and taking photographs. He did not need the photograph of Ludwig anymore. Of course he kept it beside his heart, every day. But he did not need to look at it to see it, the image long since burnt into his heart and his memory. And yet sometimes, looking up at that hill he could no longer climb alone, Feliciano would take the little photograph from his pocket. He would run his fingers over the image of Ludwig's face, over the words on the back. Auf wiedersehen, sweetheart. And he would remember.

On days like these, Feliciano let his eyes wander in the direction of the old barn, and remembered the most breathtaking night of his life. Ludwig's bemusement at a fireplace in a barn, his wordless surprise at seeing Feliciano removing his clothes. Ludwig's gentle hands, his heated skin; his darkened eyes and rapid breath. Ludwig's heartbeat against Feliciano's ear, his big, safe arms that held Feliciano like they would never, ever let him go.

Today was one of those days. The sun was turning a burnt orange in the cloudless, midday sky as Feliciano sat in the familiar spot against the tree, the bark at his back almost polished smooth over the years. He twirled a leaf absently between his fingers, humming to himself, feeling the peace that this place evoked settle over him slowly. This was Feliciano's somewhere else now. This was the centre of his memory, the respite of his soul, and the resting place of his heart.

The day drew on, slow and calm and easy, until the sky gradually started to darken. A swift gust of wind shook the brittle leaves from a nearby tree, sending them spiralling past Feliciano's eyes. At almost the same moment, the hair suddenly stood up on the back of his neck. A strange, wary tingle started in his shoulders. It took Feliciano only a few moments to realise that someone was watching him. A fearful shock ran through his head and down his spine, and he jumped immediately to his feet.

The man approached him slowly, elegant but purposeful. Feliciano pressed back into the tree, his pulse racing fearfully beneath his skin. He never met strangers out here. No one came this far into the fields these days, not since before the war. So who was this man who moved towards him with such a determined stride? As the man drew closer, Feliciano noticed with a gasp that he was incredibly beautiful. He looked to be in his late twenties, and wore a well-pressed suit and thin wire glasses. His dark brown hair fell over his stunning face, his expression solemn but kind. Feliciano waited, confused. This man did not look like anyone from the village. Strangely, however, Feliciano did not feel afraid anymore, and took a single step forward. The man stopped a few paces away, smiled just faintly, and said, "Feliciano Vargas?"

Feliciano felt his mouth drop open and his eyes widen. Stunned and confused, he could only stammer, "But who... what... how do you know my name?"

The man lowered his head slightly. "I beg your pardon." He spoke in English, with a familiar accent. "I do not speak Italian. I was told you spoke English?"

"Oh." Feliciano switched to English. "Yes. I'm sorry, I was just wondering who..."

"My name is Roderich Edelstein. I am here on behalf of one who can not come himself."

And then Feliciano could not hear. His mind went blank. He felt his hands fly uncontrollably to his face, felt himself fall back against the tree behind him. His chest choked closed and a familiar, horrifying, burning panic raced through his veins. He shook his head, but he could not see or think, and when he tried to take a breath he only managed a strangled gasp. He did not want to hear this... he did not want to know... Roderich appeared through the closing shadow, his unusual violet eyes wide with concern. His voice came from far away.

"Feliciano, please. Listen to me. I have been sent by Ludwig Beilschmidt. I've come to take you to him, if you wish to go."

Ludwig... Feliciano suddenly understood. Air flooded his lungs, the brightness of the afternoon came flooding back, and everything made bright, clear, beautiful sense. Of course! He did not understand how, or why, or when it had happened. But he was not sad, or stunned; instead, he felt himself overwhelmed with joy. The whole world faded to nothing then burst back, sparkling and new. Feliciano laughed joyfully, loud and clear and brilliant. "Oh, gosh. I did not even realise I was dead!"

Roderich blinked silently for a moment, his expression furrowing in confusion. "I'm sorry? Dead?"

Feliciano laughed again. "Well, yes, of course. And you are an angel. You must be, because you're so beautiful, and you are taking me to Ludwig, and that must mean I am dead. And you are a German angel, also, because when you speak you sound like Ludwig did, only not as deep and shy and nice. How did I die anyway? Oh, but that doesn't matter, none of that matters, can I go to him now? Can you take me to him? Please?"

Roderich looked completely bewildered, then broke into laughter and shook his head. "He did say you were a strange one. No, Feliciano, I am not an angel. You're not dead. And neither is Ludwig."

"I'm not?" Feliciano paused to contemplate this unexpected change of circumstance. Everything slowed and spun around him. The gusting wind, the descending sun. This only made sense if he was dead. That, he could understand. That, he could accept. This was too much. "Then he's... then Ludwig..."

"Is alive. In Germany." Roderich laughed again, softly. "And thinking of nothing but you."

Feliciano's body turned cold and still. He could not understand it, could not quite grasp it. It was too incredibly breathtaking, too strange and sudden, and if he started to believe it, he would surely lose control. He just breathed deeply, placing a hand to his chest to steady the familiar wave of overwhelming sensation. Ludwig... "No." Feliciano shook his head again. "I'm dreaming. Or I'm imagining, or... are you sure I'm not dead?"

Roderich nodded. "Quite sure."

Feliciano's frozen body seemed to melt. Sweat broke on his forehead, his pulse raced burning through his veins. "It's just, I... I've waited so long, and everyone said Ludwig was... was dead, or lost, and that I should forget him, and so I thought I'd never see him, I believed I'd never see him, I was certain I would only see him again when I died, but... but if he's alive, then... You don't understand, this is too much, and it's been so long, and I don't know..."

"Breathe, Feliciano."

It was only when Roderich said the words that Feliciano realised he was shaking and breathless. He put his hands to his knees and leant down, taking deep gasping breaths. Doubt still crowded his mind. This couldn't be real, there must be something wrong... "Why did Ludwig not come himself?"

Roderich paused, then simply said, "He tried."

Feliciano's eyes stung as his throat choked with these overpowering emotions he had spent years trying to suppress. "And you, how... who..."

Roderich's voice remained calm, steady. "I am a friend of Ludwig's brother's. Of Gilbert's."

Feliciano's head spun, still refusing to let him accept this. Roderich knew his name, knew Ludwig and Gilbert, but still... "But how do I know..."

Roderich answered the question before Feliciano asked it. "He has your photograph. He kept it all these years. You are smiling, and wearing his jacket. There are two words on the back - bella ciao."

The tears spilt over. Only moments ago this had been just another autumn afternoon by the oak tree. Now it felt like Feliciano's life had stopped short and begun again. Ludwig. Ludwig was alive. Ludwig existed somewhere in the world, and Feliciano was going to see him again. Feliciano felt like laughing, like screaming, like falling to the ground in thanks. But he just looked up finally, straightened, and nodded as he wiped away his tears. "Can we leave now?"

Roderich smiled kindly in response. "I'm sure your Grandpa would like to say goodbye."

.

"I think probably the worst I've ever seen Gilbert act was in Czechoslovakia one summer." Antonio leant forward on the couch as he spoke in English, his green eyes sparkling, his face vibrant and smiling. "And I'm telling you, when I say the worst I've ever seen Gilbert act, that is saying a hell of a lot."

Roderich raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Oh, I believe you. But I definitely think I have a few stories to challenge yours." Roderich shook his head and breathed out a short, incredulous breath of laughter. "I still can't believe I would meet a friend of Gilbert's here in Italy!" Roderich placed his wine glass gently on the table beside his armchair. Feliciano noticed that everything the man did was refined, gentle. It was hard to believe he had been in the army.

Antonio and Roderich had been trading stories for over an hour now, delirious with excitement that they had each found another acquaintance of Gilbert Beilschmidt. Feliciano was stunned to learn that Antonio had been friends with Ludwig's older brother for years, although it did explain a few things. Antonio laughed in response to Roderich. He wasn't even coughing, or clutching his chest in pain. Antonio's mental state had improved remarkably in the last few years, but this was still unusual - it was the happiest Feliciano had seen him since before the war. He almost sounded like his old self again. "I learnt long ago that the world delivers the strangest things, right when you don't expect them." Antonio grinned at Lovino, who just rolled his eyes and looked away.

Feliciano could barely keep still on the couch opposite Antonio. Brilliant, dreamlike, uncontrollable happiness ran through his veins like a rushing tide, soaring through his chest and his head and turning the world bright with deafening, dazzling colour. Every impossible dream Feliciano had held for four long years was right before him, inside him, bursting around him; each of those four years of uncertainty fading and falling and crashing to nothing. Grandpa Roma sat beside him, smiling warmly and pouring wine freely. Lovino sat beside Antonio, his face radiant with happiness as he watched Antonio speak of old memories of Ludwig's brother Gilbert. But even now, with everyone talking and drinking and happy together, Feliciano could only think of leaving; of getting to Ludwig, seeing him and holding him and knowing this time it would be forever. Tomorrow was too long to wait.

"So what did happen with Gilbert in Czechoslovakia?" asked Lovino, lifting his wine to his lips and lowering his head. Feliciano giggled softly. Lovino was trying so hard to hide his smile.

Antonio put down his drink so he could gesture with his right arm; his shattered left had been amputated the year before. "Well. Have you ever tried absinthe?"

Everyone shook their heads but Roma, who sighed and said, "Once, in Egypt. The girl was beautiful. We drank the green nectar and inhaled sweet-smelling smoke from a gilded hookah. I'm still not sure if the snakes were real."

Feliciano and Roderich laughed, Lovino cried, "Grandpa!" indignantly, and Antonio grinned and leant forward again.

"Ah, but I assure you, Signore, that Egyptian hookah has nothing on Czech absinthe. This stuff is genuinely intense. Gilbert, Francis and I were in a little Czech tavern when Gilbert decided to try some. Because of course, Gilbert can handle anything." Roderich laughed softly at that. "So, he stands up in the middle of the tavern, shouts 'This Czech piss is like lemonade to a German!' then downs half the bottle."

Roderich rolled his eyes, smiling, and Feliciano gasped loudly. "No!"

"I swear, his eyes just about popped right out of his head and rolled across the floor!"

"What did he do then?" asked Lovino, peering sideways up at Antonio.

Antonio laughed as he replied. "Gilbert... lost his mind. He started screaming that he had to get back to Germany that instant. He ran out onto the street, grabbed some poor passerby by the collar, and screamed, 'WIE KOMME ICH NACH BERLIN?'"

"Oh, oh!" said Feliciano excitedly, as the others laughed loudly. He had been learning German since the war ended. He was proud he could translate Antonio's last sentence. "'How do I get to Berlin?' Yes?"

"Sehr gut, Feli!" smiled Antonio, and Feliciano felt a shiver run up his spine at the words. To think he might hear Ludwig say them again... soon... Antonio gestured again with his arm as he spoke. "The terrified man shouted back, 'Vlak! Vlak!' So Gilbert takes off down the street, running up to every man he passes and shouting, 'I'm looking for Vlak! Are you Vlak?'"

"What were you doing?" Lovino managed to ask through his laughter. "Shouldn't you have tried to stop him?"

Antonio's eyes widened incredulously. "Are you kidding? It was hilarious! Francis and I followed a few paces behind just laughing hysterically as Gilbert ran around like a lunatic on the streets of Prague screaming, 'I need Vlak to take me home to Berlin!'"

Roderich looked strangely unsurprised. "He found a Vlak, didn't he."

Antonio smirked. "Oh, he did. A Mr Jakub Vlak, police inspector, who took a very willing and enthusiastic Gilbert into custody. We rushed over and tried to explain, but Gilbert seemed rather delighted, and quite content that Mr Vlak would get him back to Berlin."

Roderich put a hand to his forehead. There was still a small, reflective smile on his lips, but his expression turned briefly pained. "Mein Gott, Gilbert..."

"It took Francis and I all afternoon in a police station, speaking some ridiculous mixture of nine languages because neither of us spoke Czech, trying to convince the officers not to send Gilbert to a lunatic asylum. Luckily in that time he sobered up just enough to prove he wasn't completely insane, just very drunk, and they finally let us go."

"Just like that?" asked Roma doubtfully.

Antonio's eyes brightened. "Not before giving us a map to the nearest train station and telling us to be on our way. So we drag Gilbert out of there, open up the map, and what do we see written where the train station is?"

Lovino breathed out an exclamation of realisation. "Oh, no."

"Oh, yes. 'Vlak.'" Antonio leant back and picked up his drink. "It's Czech for 'train.'"

Everyone again burst into laughter. Roderich shook his head, a wistful expression of bittersweet memory on his face. "That sounds just like Gilbert."

Antonio smiled understandingly. "He's a bit overbearing sometimes. But he's so much fun. And a good man, also."

Roderich shrugged, his expression again contorting softly in pain. "He is the best man I have ever known." Feliciano tilted his head thoughtfully as he regarded Roderich closely. What he knew so far was that Roderich had been with Gilbert on the Russian Front. It was not difficult to see that he also loved Gilbert deeply. Roderich sighed softly, reached for his wine glass, and Feliciano squinted when he noticed a strange mark just above the Austrian's wrist.

"Roderich, why is there a number on your arm?"

Roderich froze. A heavy silence fell in the room. Feliciano felt immediately confused. Lovino and Antonio both glanced at Roderich's wrist, then quickly looked away. Feliciano started to worry he had done something wrong.

"Don't be rude, Feli," said Lovino softly.

Feliciano felt his forehead furrow. Why was it rude to ask about the number on Roderich's arm? "But, I just..."

"No, it's fine." Roderich smiled, but he pulled his sleeve down over his wrist. Then he glanced sideways at Feliciano, raising an eyebrow conspiratorially. "That's how many Russians I killed on the Front."

Feliciano gasped, astounded. The number was at least six digits long. "Oh my gosh!"

"You must be an excellent shot," said Antonio, but he said it softly, sadly, with a small, understanding smile.

Feliciano had the feeling he was missing something. Uncertain, he asked, "Did you really kill that many Russians, Roderich?"

Roderich breathed a strange, sadly amused sigh. "No Feliciano, not that many." He looked down, his smile fell, and his eyes darkened. "Only one."

Feliciano did not know what to think of that. The next silence only lasted a moment, however, before Lovino nodded at Feliciano. "Feli. Grandpa has gone to the kitchen. He might want to speak to you."

Feliciano looked at the empty space beside him with a jolt. He had not even noticed Roma leave. Suddenly fearful of what his grandpa might be thinking of him leaving tomorrow, Feliciano quickly excused himself and headed for the kitchen.

.~*~.

Roma stood at the kitchen window, watching the autumn leaves dance past on the evening breeze. He almost laughed to himself. Of course - it had to be autumn. Why did everyone he loved leave him in autumn?

"Grandpa? Are... are you all right?" Roma turned, and felt his heart pull at the sight of his grandson standing, small and uncertain, in the kitchen doorway. He sounded so unsure. Roma smiled, sighed, and shrugged slightly.

"I guess I'm just a little sad, Feli."

Feliciano gasped and walked further into the room, his eyebrows drawing together with worry. "Oh no! Please don't be sad! Don't be sad when I am so happy!"

"And you are happy now, aren't you?" As a child, Feliciano was so bright and cheerful. Roma had never known a happier child since his daughter, his Renaissa. Seeing Feli silent and cheerless was wrong, painful, and yet it was far too common these last few years. Roma had only ever wanted to protect his grandsons. He wanted them to be safe. He wanted them to be secure. Roma wanted everything for his grandsons.

But Feliciano was not that happy little child anymore. He was no longer Roma's to protect. Roma could not pretend to understand it: how both his grandsons had fallen in love with men. But Roma had come too close to losing them both, and he would be a fool to let something like this be the reason he lost them for good. And even though he did not understand it, Roma could not change the simple fact that Feliciano loved this German. Today was the first time Roma had seen him truly smile in months. Roma had accepted Antonio for Lovino's sake; accepting this German was the only way Feliciano would ever be completely happy again. And Roma realised that, more than anything else, all he really wanted was for his grandsons to be happy.

"I don't know how or why, but I suppose this German is to you what my Helena was to me." Roma smiled sadly. Not a day passed since he lost her that Roma did not miss his beautiful Helen of Troy. That he did not remember her smile, or her laugh, or her sarcastic jokes. That he did not dream of her. That he did not think how proud she would have been of her remarkable daughter, and her strong, delightful, brave grandsons. "Feli," said Roma softly. "You'll never truly be happy without this German."

Feliciano nodded, though he looked slightly troubled. He looked up with wide, anxious eyes. "Grandpa... his name is Ludwig."

Roma gritted his teeth and tried not to flinch. This man was a German, he had taken vital information from Feliciano and taken it to the occupying military, he was the reason Feliciano was shot and nearly killed. He had also risked the Gestapo to rescue an enemy, and more than that, he was the man Feliciano loved. Roma took a deep breath and nodded. "Feliciano, Ludwig is your happiness. And all I've ever wanted for you, is your happiness." Roma laughed shortly. "I just never thought you'd have to go to Germany to get it."

Feliciano broke into a brilliant smile; the kind that lit up the room, the kind he used to flash so easily and so often. Roma's heart soared to see it. "You wouldn't try to stop me?"

Roma could not hold back another laugh. "Do you think I could?"

"No." Feliciano laughed with him, and Roma thought that anything was worth it to hear that sound again.

"I don't think so, either. Now. I've spoken with Roderich." Roma had only spoken with Roderich shortly, but it did not take long to see that he was a good, honest man. "He looks a little delicate, sure, but to survive... well, what he's been through, he must be a damn sight tougher than he looks. Stay with him."

Feliciano nodded. "I will, Grandpa."

Roma regarded Feliciano for a few moments in silence. He could not even say when he realised how much Feliciano had grown up. Twenty-three years old, and Roma could not stop thinking of his Feli as a child. Perhaps, in a way, he always would; regardless of how far from the truth that actually was. "I'm so proud of you, Feli."

"You are?"

It hurt Roma to see that Feliciano was so surprised by the words. "Do you remember, I told you once - you follow your heart. You follow your happiness. Feli - you're the bravest man I know." Roma ran a hand through his hair and sighed wearily. Why did it feel like he was saying goodbye?

"I will come back, Grandpa," said Feliciano earnestly.

Roma blinked heavily, taken back. "Damn straight, you'll come back. Who said anything about not coming back? By God, you're coming back."

Feliciano raised his hands, laughing. "I know, I know!" Roma gave him a warning glance, smiling, then pulled him into his arms. Feliciano hugged him tightly. "I love you, Grandpa."

Roma held him close, remembering a simpler time - when Feliciano knew nothing of passion and love, when he was small enough to protect. Roma was terrified of Feliciano going so far away, even if only for a short time. After all, Roma always wanted his grandsons to be safe. But he had seen Feliciano safe and miserable at home, and he had seen his overflowing joy at the mere mention of this pilot in Germany. It had taken Roma too long to see the truth: he could never be happy if his grandsons weren't.

Roma pulled away and gently pressed the palm of his hand to Feliciano's chest. Feliciano's scar was hidden beneath his shirt, but Roma knew exactly where it was. The image of that bullet being dug from his skin was imprinted in Roma's memory. "I'm so sorry I was not strong enough to protect you, Feli."

"It's okay, Grandpa. No one is strong enough to control everything." Feliciano smiled, almost like he was remembering something. "And nothing can protect you from love."

.

A small village in Germany...

.

Aldrich Beilschmidt turned away briefly, closed his eyes, and ran a hand through his long, white hair. Ludwig had barely moved from his place by the window for weeks. He had not spoken since Roderich had left for Italy. And now, once again, he even refused the food brought to him. Aldrich placed it on the table by his grandson's side, but Ludwig did not turn his eyes from the falling leaves outside.

Aldrich always thought of himself as a decent man. He did his duty by his country, having fought for its honour and attained the rank of Major during the Great War. He worked hard as a clockmaker until his shop's destruction during the recent bombings. He was honest, he was loyal. But the greatest achievements of Aldrich's life were his grandsons. After his son and daughter-in-law's deaths, Aldrich did what he could to raise the boys to be good, honourable men. He sold everything he had to send Ludwig to flight school. He'd tried his hardest with Gilbert, damn it, and at least he'd kept the boy from a jail cell. Aldrich had only ever wanted to support and strengthen his grandsons. He wanted them to be successful. He wanted them to be respected. Aldrich wanted everything that mattered for his grandsons.

But then this war erupted. It turned his country against itself; it glorified what was evil and silenced what was good. It made Aldrich a dissident, and it tore his grandsons from him. For years Aldrich watched the seasons pass alone. Watched his great, beautiful country brought to its knees. Watched Ludwig's name disappear from the propaganda papers and fade into obscurity. Watched the reported number of casualties from the Russian Front rise and rise, with no word of Gilbert. Aldrich lost hope. Lost faith. Lost everything. He was heartbroken, he was bitter. And he was angry. Because in the end, what was it for? The years he had spent nurturing his boys, teaching them and guiding them and loving them; the joy and pain, the effort and care of raising two boys to men. What was it for if they could be destroyed so easily by events out of their control?

But then this strange, dreamlike, startling autumn drifted around, and Aldrich gained back some of what he had lost. A young, quiet, refined Austrian brought him respect and gratitude and news of Gilbert, brought him deep and profound pride for his eldest grandson. And when Ludwig was finally brought home mere weeks later, for the first time in years, Aldrich had hope. Ludwig was empty and lost and hurt. He did not smile, he did not laugh. He barely spoke, but when he did, it was of one place and one person. Of a village in Italy, of oak trees and red flowers and songs of love and resistance. Of long, yellow grass and pouring rain and gunshots on a clear, warm night. Of a young man with bright eyes and a brighter smile, whose torn, blood-stained photograph Ludwig clung to like it was the one thing in the world that could possibly save him.

Aldrich always wanted his grandsons to be successful. But he had seen Ludwig celebrated and esteemed as a pilot of the glorious Third Reich, and he'd seen him brought home broken, discarded, and forgotten. Now Aldrich knew that more than anything else, he wanted his grandsons to be happy. He wanted Ludwig to be happy. And strangely enough, it looked like the only thing that could bring him this happiness was a young Italian man he'd known for mere days, years ago.

Aldrich thought he had lost both his grandsons. Against all odds, he had one back, one who was hanging on a precipice. Aldrich refused to lose him again. So if this mysterious little Italian was the thing to truly bring Ludwig back, then Aldrich prayed for his swift arrival with a faith he had lost long ago.

Aldrich looked back at Ludwig staring blankly out the window, staring with eyes that saw nothing but long ago winter days in the Italian countryside.

And he hoped it was not too late.