DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
AND 'Allo 'Allo! – David Croft & Jeremy Lloyd
THE GREAT UN-ESCAPE
TWO
AROUSING SUSPICIONS
Bonjour, dear reader. My name is Francis Bonnefoi and this is the story so far:
My lovely Café Le Fleur-de-lis has been playing host to German soldiers for many months now. (I can hardly refuse them, this being German-occupied France. If I did, I would be shot!) Coincidentally, Le Fleur-de-lis is also secretly hosting the Résistance Française, helping Allied soldiers escape the Germans. Presently in residence are two North American pilots, a Russian spy, and a Chinese fugitive. While the Chinaman—disguised as my adopted niece—forges false identity papers for the pilots, I must maintain a regular routine by serving the Germans. To make matters worse, the German capitaine has threatened to shoot me if I don't hide a priceless Italian portrait that he stole from the Führer. Fortunately, the Gestapo officer in charge of the hunt is too preoccupied trying to woo the Canadian pilot—who is disguised as my waiter—to notice that everyone around him is plotting something or other. The newest development—and most disturbing thing of all—is that I seem to have developed an inconveniently-timed infatuation with the English capitaine, whose connection to the Résistance Française is what started this whole mess. If I get shot, it'll be entirely his fault—
—which is why I'm making the most of his company while I can.
FRENCH
Ah! Oh... hmm, oh, nn... a-ah! Nn, France—!"
Francis covered Arthur's mouth with his hand. His breath was hot and moist; his lips were soft. "Quiet down! If anyone hears us, we'll be shot!" But his voice died on a deep-throated moan of pleasure. He bowed his head against Arthur's sweaty, freckled shoulder and pulled the half-naked Englishman closer, deeper. Arthur whined, digging his fingernails into Francis' bare back. The Frenchman's pulsating thrusts were skilled and rhythmic; not too fast, not too slow. He squeezed the other's slick cock as he rolled his hips, penetrating the gasping Englishman, whose slender legs trembled weakly, wrapped around Francis' waist.
"F-France—!" he stuttered, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "I-I— I'm, uh—AH!~"
Francis' cock released in climax and Arthur's body buckled in reply. Then they both deflated, relaxing against the unstable wooden tabletop, letting the cellar's damp coolness lick the sweat from their flushed skin. "Mon Dieu," Francis panted, buckled over as exhaustion overtook him. He braced his hands on either side of Arthur, who was lying on his back and staring absently at the ceiling beams, his chest heaving.
"That's not quite what I had in mind, you pervert," he said breathlessly.
Francis, having no idea what the Englishman said, simply kissed his cheek and replied: "You're welcome."
They re-dressed quickly and quietly. Arthur took the liberty of refastening Francis' incorrectly fastened shirt, while Francis combed back Arthur's messy hair. Then they returned to the café together, flushed and bright-eyed, but otherwise inconspicuous. Francis poured a glass of wine, gulped down half the contents, and then handed it to Arthur and continued into the kitchen to check on Matthew. The violet-eyed boy was elbow-deep in greasy dishwater, a scowl on his face as he scrubbed pots and pans with more force than necessary. He glared at Francis when he spotted him, feeling disgruntled.
"I can fly figure-eights, you know. I can do lines, loops, rolls, spins, and hammerheads," he listed, clenching a handful of steel-wool. "I was top of my class at the flying academy, the best aerobatic and combat fighter-pilot in the RCAF. I flew twelve high-risk missions into enemy territory before I got shot down. I was ambushed, shot down, and had to jump to safety from six-hundred feet before the plane crashed. But despite that, I love flying. I mean, I really love flying, Monsieur Bonnefoi. I love being a pilot more than anything in the world. I do not love dishes."
Francis cocked an eyebrow and resisted the urge to applaud in mockery. "How long have you been preparing that speech, Mathieu?"
"Since afternoon-tea," he replied, gesturing to the washtub of dirty dishes. "I'm sorry, Francis. I'm just bored out of my mind back here. I've been scrubbing dishes since noon. I can't imagine how Al must feel locked in the loft." He sighed deeply, already regretting his outburst. "Do you know how long it'll take Yao to forge travel papers for us?"
"No, I don't. But he's working as fast as he can. He had to buy new supplies since his were confiscated by the Gestapo. At least Gilbert only took Yao's suitcase because he thought that it was Ludwig's. It's lucky that Feliciano was there to confirm the mistake. I wish we hadn't had to tell him the truth about Yao though. He's a sweet boy, but he's so flighty. I pray he doesn't reveal us. Hopefully, Yao can finish writing the documents today. They'll dry overnight and be ready by tomorrow. I'm sorry that he's had to commandeer the boudoir, Mathieu. I do feel bad that you're sleeping on the floor now. You look tired."
"Thanks, but I'm fine. I've always had trouble sleeping in strange places anyway, be it a foxhole, a cockpit, or someone else's bed. Don't worry about me, I'll"—he yawned deeply—"be just fine."
"Francis—Oh, hello Matthew," Arthur greeted cordially, poking his head into the kitchen. "I've just received word from the French Resistance. They're sending instructions for the lads via the radio. C'mon."
Arthur led the trio into the scullery and pulled down the trapdoor and rope-ladder. Francis lit a lantern that had been left below, and climbed into the loft. The butter-yellow light revealed the small, dark space, under-furnished except for a bureau and a small bed, upon which laid two figures—one on top of the other.
"Alfred?" Francis gaped. The boy's wheat-blonde head peeked out from under Ivan, who was straddling him.
"No, wait! It's not what it looks like!" Alfred panicked. "Oh, fuck. Ivan—get off!"
"Alfred, what the bloody-hell are you doing?"
Alfred pushed against Ivan's broad shoulders, forcing a hiss of pain from the injured Russian. The American flinched in apology. Carefully he crawled out of the bed, letting Ivan lie back into the pillows. He muttered in annoyed Russian, holding his stomach, and rolled over to face the wall, leaving Alfred alone to explain. "It was an accident," he said, miming the scene. "Ivan was changing his clothes"—he pointed to a pile of discarded clothes on the floor—"so I decided to get the radio out while he was up, but the receiver got stuck in the cubby and I couldn't pull it out. I tried yanking it, but it's really fucking heavy! I didn't know that Ivan was right behind me and I accidentally hit him with it. He kind of just buckled and fell on top of me. That's it, really. But someone should probably check his stitches," he added sheepishly.
"Alright then," said Arthur suspiciously. "Where's the radio? Because I'm going to need it in"—he consulted his wristwatch—"thirty seconds! Bollocks!"
They didn't waste time trying to pry the radio out of the cubby. Instead, they hastily pulled the bed back from the wall with Ivan still on it and Arthur squeezed into the space provided, head half-buried in the cubby. The antenna stuck out over his shoulder, making him look like a visitor from outer-space. With six seconds to spare they all waited silently to receive the radio transmission:
"'Allo. 'Allo! Can you 'ear me? Over."
"Yes, I can hear you. This is Nighthawk, ready to receive instructions about the chicks. Over."
"The albatross flies on the Twelfth Day of Christmas. And I repeat: the albatross flies on the Twelfth Day of Christmas. Over."
Francis peered over Matthew's shoulder as the boy hastily flipped through the code-book, searching for the translation. "A British plane is coming to get Al and I at midnight tomorrow," he repeated in French.
Francis pursed his lips thoughtfully. "It'll be very close, but hopefully the false travel papers will be ready by then. I suppose the plane will pick you up in the field behind the railroad tracks. It's the only open-space large enough for a landing. The two of you will have to be waiting there at precisely the right time with a way to signal to the plane without alerting the German sentries. It'll be dangerous, but it'll get you out of France. I'm going to miss having you here, mes chéris," he said, smiling sincerely at the pilots, "but I'm glad that this will all be over tomorrow."
Then I'll only have the Italian portrait, the Russian spy, and the Chinese fugitive to get rid of before the Germans find out and shoot me.
GERMAN
Gilbert tapped his index-finger on the tabletop irritably. His beer sat untouched in front of him as he stared tensely at the kitchen door, willing it to open, and flinching like a sheep-dog when it did. His shoulders sagged, however, when Maria's ample bosom appeared instead of Matthew. Gilbert sighed. He hadn't seen the waiter for three days, not since Gilbert had asked him out and he had declined on Francis' orders. Dummkopf Frenchman! Doesn't he know who the fuck I am? If Gilbert Beilschmidt wanted sweet Matthew like take-away then—damn it!—he should have been able to have him. Feeling slighted by Francis' refusal, he had marched down to confront the Frenchman face-to-face and had unexpectedly found him tonsil-deep in a freckled blonde man. He had been so flabbergasted by the homoerotic sight that he had retreated fast, tripping back up the stairs.
That was so un-awesome of me, he thought, moping like a toddler.
He couldn't help feeling embarrassed about it even now. He was a twenty-six-year-old soldier trained to hunt and kill. The feats he had accomplished would impress even the toughest of men, and yet romance always bewildered him and left him red-faced and unable to speak. He didn't have much practise on the subject. It was hard to get dates when you were an albino Gestapo officer, after all. It's not like he could arrest someone's family and then ask them out to supper. Despite his occupation, Gilbert had never abused his position to force a romantic relationship like so many others did—and he never would.
Why does everyone always think I'm the bad-guy? He sighed unhappily and rested his chin on folded arms. Dummkopf French cock-block.
It was late when Gilbert finally gave up hope of seeing Matthew and decided to collect his coat and leave the café. Where is my fucking coat? he wondered. Maria had taken it into the coat-check, but she was nowhere to be seen. Nor was Yvette, or Francis. In fact, the café was empty except for a few drunken soldiers, the Frenchman's green-eyed lover, and a small Chinese girl in a lacy red dress, whom the soldiers were eyeing like dessert. Fine, I'll get it myself.
Habitually, he touched the Lugar on his belt as he stalked to the coat-check, which was a deep walk-in closet. If they've lost my coat, I'm going to shoot someone, he exaggerated, thinking on how this night could possibly get any worse. He pushed open the closet's door and stepped inside. It was dark, but the café's light shone in faintly, falling on the face of a pretty teenager.
Matthew was fast-asleep, lying on a wooden bench shoved against the wall. It was an unexpected sight. The waiter's pale-blonde head was pillowed on his folded arms and his legs were curled-up. His shoulders were arched defensively as he shivered. The coat-closet was an unheated appendage of the café and the wind was cold.
"Mathieu?" Gilbert said quietly, kneeling down. He swallowed and glanced coyly over-the-shoulder to ensure that no one was watching him, then slowly reached for the defenceless boy. He felt nervous as he did so. He had only ever looked at Matthew, never touched, but he had wanted to since the first time he saw him. Gently, he placed a hand on Matthew's silky head, but the boy didn't wake. He didn't even stir. You're completely exhausted, aren't you? That sleazy Frenchman is working you to the bone, isn't he? he thought, tenderly brushing back Matthew's curls. The boy's skin had always looked soft and Gilbert was not disappointed as his fingers lingered greedily. Is this where he makes you sleep? His red eyes scanned the closet in distaste. It brought to mind French fairytales, like Cinderella. You're so cold. If you were mine to take care of, I'd never let you get cold.
Chivalrously, Gilbert collected his long, black coat from the rack and draped it over Matthew. He tucked the boy in, taking especial care not to wake him. He didn't have an excuse for his being there, after all. He froze when the boy mumbled, but relaxed when it became a sigh of sleepy contentment. It was then, as Gilbert leant closer to look at Matthew's face in the dark (What? That's not creepy!) that he noticed a smile upon the shapely lips. The secretly soft-hearted Gestapo officer smiled in return and pressed a whispered kiss to the sleeping boy's cheek.
"Gute-nacht, schatz," he said. And then quietly left.
RUSSIAN
Ivan's side was throbbing painfully. He had examined his bandaged torso and found the linen sticky with blood. Fuck, he had thought, clenching his teeth. The stitches had been damaged when Alfred hit him (an accident, but he was still annoyed with the American), leaving the messy flaps of his half-healed skin open to infection. But he stayed silent. He rolled over and hugged his stomach, trying to keep his blood inside as the radio party received a message from—Oh, who fucking cares who they're talking to? Ivan's frustration was budding into short-tempered dislike of this place, of these incompetent people, and of his own helplessness. If I wasn't injured, I'd leave this fucking place. I'd be halfway back to Russia by now if I hadn't gotten myself ambushed, he thought in self-degradation. I hate it here! I hate them! He clenched his fists angrily. He was a self-sufficient man; he hated relying on others.
When the loft emptied, Ivan tried to rise but failed. "Ah—fuck!" he growled, clutching at his bloody stomach.
"Hey, are you okay? You shouldn't try to move, you'll just make it worse," said the American teenager. He sounded nervous, like he always did when addressing Ivan, but it didn't prevent him from invading Ivan's personal-space. "Are you bleeding? Let me see, maybe I can help—"
"No, don't touch me!" Ivan snapped. He felt feral. If he was a dog, he would have showed his teeth. It was the clumsy boy's fault that Ivan was hurting. The throbbing pain in his stomach made his head pound, and he felt hot and sweaty and nauseous as he tried to find a sleeping position that didn't aggravate his injuries. How many times had he been shot? Three. All of them flesh-wounds, none life-threatening, but he still felt sick and—dare he admit it—afraid. Afraid that he would vomit if the boy jostled the bed again.
"It's okay, I'm just trying to help," Alfred insisted, his voice an uneven blend of nerves and compassion, as if he was trying to soothe a dog he wasn't sure wouldn't bite. Slowly, he reached for Ivan.
"No!" Ivan repeated, but his words died on a groan. Alfred's hand felt good against his sweaty forehead. His fingertips were a little callused, but his golden skin was warm and invitingly soft. His touch chased off Ivan's dizziness and for a moment he closed his eyes and relaxed.
Alfred said: "You feel really warm. I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure you have a fever. That's not good." He pulled the blankets down without warning and saw Ivan's bloody bandages. "Shit! Why didn't you say something, you stupid Ruskie? Don't move! I'll be right back!"
Ivan watched Alfred descend the rope-ladder, leaving the loft in darkness. "Goddamn Yankee," he grumbled. The boy was so high-energy that he gave Ivan a headache. And yet the instant that Alfred's sun-kissed face left, Ivan felt the darkness close in on him (metaphorically-speaking). He felt lonely. It had been a month since the Frenchman had found him and dragged him here, leaving him alone except to feed him; just waiting for Ivan to die. The first week of lying in this small, dark space had made the Russian feel so claustrophobic. He was unused to crowded spaces and had quickly developed an intense dislike for them. Lying here in pain and sickness, he had wished that he had died on the café's doorstep. At other times, when he was diluted or asleep, he dreamt that he had died and was living in hell.
That had been before Alfred Jones. Since the boy's unexpected arrival, Ivan hadn't felt the bite of loneliness. His body still felt sick, but not heartsick. The boy's presence gave Ivan something to focus on besides his discomfort. Even though Ivan couldn't understand Alfred's words, the American talked to him (sometimes he talked incessantly); he forced Ivan to eat; and he tucked him in so that he slept in relative comfort. I suppose it's because he has nothing else to do, Ivan considered. That's why he's nursing me. Even so, it felt nice to have someone fuss over him. He hadn't let anyone take care of him since he was a child in need of his sister's maternal nurturing. Alfred might have been an eighteen-year-old egotist, but—like Ivan's older sister—he seemed to genuinely care for people. He seems to genuinely care about me. Though he wouldn't admit it, Ivan was grateful for Alfred, who had never poked fun at the Russian's weakness. That, he decided, would have been the most humiliating thing of all.
Of all the people in the world, he thought in defeat, it had to be an American.
Soon Alfred returned, toting an attractive Chinese girl behind him. "Yao said that he can re-stitch your—"
"Ivan?" Yao gaped in shock.
Ivan stiffened. He would know that high-pitched, accented voice; those almond-brown eyes; that delicately-figured body anywhere, effeminately-dressed or not. Even half-dead, he recognized his long-ago lover, whom he had left without a word of farewell. Uh oh, Ivan thought as Yao marched closer.
In thickly-accented Russian, he said: "What the heck are you doing here? I heard you were in Paris, I thought you were dead!" he snapped in accusation.
"Disappointed that I'm not?" Ivan retaliated curtly.
Alfred frowned. "Wait a minute, you know him?" He glanced curiously at Yao. "How?"
Yao shifted uncomfortably. "Just... from a long time ago. It's not important."
"Dude, how many languages do you speak?"
"Six," Yao replied impatiently. Then he focused on Ivan. "Why are you here?"
"Why are you here dressed like a girl?" Ivan countered. "I like the colour, though," he confessed, teasing the lacy dress between his blunt fingers. "Communist-red."
Yao slapped his hand. "It's just a stupid disguise. The café is crawling with Germans including the Gestapo, if you haven't noticed. If they find me I'll be executed. If they find you"—his face softened—"you'll be shot. If you haven't died by then, that is," he added, drawing out a sewing-kit. Inside were medical needles of varying sizes, scissors, and a bobbin of black thread. "You haven't changed at all. You're still a reckless ass-hat, Ivan," he chastised, taking a needle.
Ivan rolled his eyes. "And you're still selling lies," he said, eyeing the Chinaman's ink-stained fingers. "Which multinational corporation are you knocking-off now?"
"Prada," Yao replied shamelessly. "You want a handbag, thirty percent off?"
"No."
"Thirty-five percent off?"
"No."
Yao shrugged and carefully threaded a sterilized needle. "Alfred," he gestured for the boy waiting patiently in the loft corner, as far from the domestic spat as possible. "I don't have any painkillers so I need you to hold him down while I stitch, okay?"
"Uh, hold him down?" Alfred paled.
"Oh, don't look so scared, kid. I thought you were a soldier, huh? It'll be over quickly. And Ivan won't bite—probably. Come here," Yao repeated sternly, like a schoolmaster ordering a student.
Cautiously, the blue-eyed boy climbed onto the single-bed. "Sorry," he mumbled, pressing down on Ivan's broad shoulders. His head hung over Ivan, wheat-blonde hair framing his face like a lion's mane. So close, Ivan could see the tension in the fine-boned angles of his pretty face. His body was warm, which was nice. Ivan's skin was always cold (sans fever-heat). Despite the fact that Alfred was restraining him, Ivan found the boy's presence comforting. The way he nervously avoided eye-contact with the Russian was oddly endearing. Though, as Yao unwrapped the bloody bandages, Ivan found himself wishing that Alfred would look down at him, wanting to focus on those blue eyes. It was strange, he thought, as Yao sterilized the wound with alcohol—Ivan clenched his teeth and tried not to yell in pain; his body jolted in reflex, but Alfred held him down—to be reunited with his old lover, and yet have his head filled instead with thoughts of the young American.
As Yao stitched, Ivan reached up and clenched Alfred's forearms. "It's okay," Alfred said. "You're going to be okay. You'll feel better soon, I promise."
Ivan couldn't understand Alfred, but the boy's tone, his voice, was soothing. He wanted him to keep talking.
Soon it was over. Yao cut the thread and cleaned his hands off with a cloth (the blood washed off but the ink did not). He collected his tools and repacked them in the sewing-kit. "Alfred, I'll leave you to bandage him up," he said, handing the boy a roll of clean linen bandages. "I have to finish writing those travel papers. Hopefully they'll be dry before tomorrow night. And, Ivan, don't be a fucking fool." Yao planted his hands on his lace-clad hips. It was, admittedly, a comical sight. (The ribbons tied into bows in his long, jet-black hair made him look especially feminine.) "The next time you injure yourself, tell someone! Your pride isn't worth bleeding to death, idiot." Then he stalked off.
Alfred looked down at the bandages in his hand. "Err... okay then. So I'll just wrap you up... like a mummy," he joked. Ivan lifted an eyebrow in question. Alfred sighed. "Never-mind. Just try not to move, okay?"
As Alfred focused on his task, wrapping the linen bandages around Ivan's barrel-chested torso, Ivan focused on Alfred. He liked the touch of Alfred's clumsy yet gentle hands. And his faint scent, like corn fields and sunny skies. He could feel the boy's hot breath on his skin, his head bowed. Like Ivan, Alfred was strong. He tied the bandages too tight and flinched when Ivan grunted. "Oops, sorry!" he apologized, looking like a scolded puppy.
He's cute, Ivan decided. He's really cute. I wonder why I never noticed it before? (Probably because Alfred never shut up.)
Finished, Alfred stood. "I'm going to ask Francis for a cold-compress. It'll help bring your fever down. And I'll get more water. I'll be right back—"
"Alfred," Ivan interrupted his retreat. The boy looked over-the-shoulder at him in surprise. The Russian had never addressed him directly before; certainly not by name. "Thank-you," he said. It was the extent of Ivan's English, but Alfred's pretty face softened in reply, which made the Russian's mispronunciation worth it.
Kindly, the American smiled, and said: "You're welcome."
ENGLISH
Arthur poked his head into the kitchen, the pantry, the scullery, and the cellar. "Matthew?" he said hopefully, but the boy was nowhere to be found. He scanned the darkness—he saw that Francis' portrait was safe—but couldn't find the Canadian anywhere. There are only so many places he could be, he thought, logic fighting panic. Matthew was aware of the danger; he wouldn't go wandering off. (Alfred, maybe, but not Matthew). Arthur had told him to stay inside, so that's exactly what Matthew did. He obeyed like a child afraid of his father's disapproval. It had never been Arthur's intention to mother the North Americans—they're both eighteen-years-old, they're capable of making their own life choices—but the past few weeks had been hectic and he felt uneasy about leaving them alone—they're eighteen-years-old, they'll definitely make the wrong choices.
"Oh, for the love of Victoria's bloomers," he grumbled. "Where are you, you little—"
"Who are you looking for?"
Arthur wasn't expecting a reply and jumped like a Jack-in-the-box when he got one.
"Bloody-hell, Yao! Don't sneak up on me like that!" Arthur clutched his chest in reflex, his heart racing. Yao waited patiently for the Englishman to catch his breath. "I'm looking for Matthew. I can't find him anywhere and I'm starting to worry. It's late and that Gestapo officer just left. I hope Matthew's disappearance isn't somehow connected. Have you seen him?"
"Matthew is the pilot, right? The mouthy blonde with the blue eyes? He's upstairs with Ivan."
"No, that's Alfred," Arthur corrected (though he, too, sometimes called them by the wrong name). "Matthew has violet eyes. He's Canadian. He's posing as a waiter. He's the quiet boy whose room you commandeered—?"
Yao shrugged.
"Oh, never-mind," said Arthur impatiently. "Maybe the frog-eater sent him to run an errand or something. Come with me," he ordered Yao.
But—using Yao as a translator—Arthur soon learned that Francis didn't know where Matthew was either. He voiced the same concerns that plagued Arthur: that Matthew's whereabouts could somehow be connected to Gilbert's late-night visit. Arthur bit his knuckle thoughtfully. Should I organize I search-party, or will that draw suspicion?
"Oi! Alfred!" he called when Alfred appeared. "Do you know where Matthew is?"
"Mattie? Uh, no. Do you have a cold-compress, Francis?"
Francis nudged Yao: "What did he say?"
Yao, who was less inclined to translate for monolinguals (Matthew now did it habitually), rolled his eyes and repeated Alfred's request. "I'll take it to Ivan—"
"No!" Alfred denied. "I mean, err... I'll do it. I don't mind." He waited for Francis to shovel ice into a rubber-compress and then took it. "I can't leave the café, so I can't search for Matt. You go, Yao. I'll stay with Ivan. I hope you find him," he said, distracted by his task as he dashed back to the loft.
He left Arthur shaking his head in frustration. "If I ever have kids," he said, "I hope they're nothing like those pilots. They'll give me an aneurism before this is all over. C'mon," he gestured to Francis and Yao. "Let's find Matthew before someone else does."
FRENCH
Matthew awoke when a gunshot fired. He jolted up, heart pounding as he reached in reflex for a gun. He imagined the foxholes of the front-lines and whipped around in panic, shaking. He pushed himself onto his elbows and blinked in the darkness. Only then did he recognize the café's coat-closet, where he had fallen asleep. "Oh, jeeze," he exhaled in relief. "Just a dream." But the loud, boisterous voices in the café's dining-room sounded through the walls. They were
the aggressive voices of rowdy soldiers—soldiers who had found a new plaything.
"Come here, darling. Let's see your pretty face."
"Let's see your pretty—Ouch!" The soldier chuckled in appreciation. "You're a feisty little thing, aren't you?"
Matthew got up and stumbled blindly to the door. Is it Yvette or Maria that they're after? he wondered. He emerged from the closet to investigate, blinking in the dim light. The soldiers, flushed with alcohol, were laughing and swaying and waving handguns around dangerously as they surrounded—not Yvette or Maria. Not even a girl, actually. It was Yao. At least his disguise is working, Matthew thought, hurrying to intervene. "Pardon!" he called-out, pushing into the circle. "I'm sorry, but my, uh... cousin isn't a waitress. She shouldn't even be here, actually. Please don't—"
"Oh? And what have we got here?" said the German soldier holding Yao's waist. His hands were big, strong, and wandered heedlessly. "You want to play hero, boy?"
"Or damsel-in-distress?" said another, grabbing Matthew's hips from behind. He pulled the boy against his chest and leaned down. Matthew could feel the soldier's hot breath against his cheek. "I'll be your hero," he joked. His fellows laughed and wolf-howled. In encouragement, the soldier kissed Matthew's cheek.
The Canadian shivered in revulsion and clenched his fists, repressing the urge to fight. He (and Yao, too) had formal combat training, but he couldn't let the Germans know that. It would undermine his disguise and probably just get him beat-up. The Germans were trained to kill, too, after all. Instead, he threw a panicked glance at Yao, seeking advice, but the Chinaman was red-faced in fury. He seemed to be holding his breath as a soldier knelt and slipped a hand beneath the red dress in exploration. Yao flinched.
"Stop it!" Matthew begged. "Please, stop it!"
"Sorry, darling. I don't speak French," said the soldier holding him."What is it you want from me, huh? You want me to touch you like that?"
"No, please—"
Suddenly, Yao screwed-up his face and shrieked like the girl he was pretending to be. It was loud and high-pitched and made everyone in the café flinch.
"What the fuck? Hurry! Shut her up! If the Captain hears her—!"
Yao got backhanded across the face, but his shriek worked. Francis and Arthur hurried in from the back, and Alfred jumped down the from loft. But nobody arrived faster than Ludwig.
"STOP!" he yelled furiously. "What in hell do you think you're doing? Release them right now!" The soldiers dropped Yao and Matthew and tried to detach themselves from the scene as quickly as possible. They backed away, seeming to shrink beneath their captain's smoldering gaze. "You are German soldiers, not savages!" Ludwig lectured. "This is not why we're here! These two"—he indicated Yao and Matthew—"are relatives of our host! I don't care what you do to Allied soldiers, but you will not lay a hand on civilians as long as I am captain here! We might be at war with France, but we will not harm innocents! Our job is to protect people! Don't ever forget that!" he roared. "Now get out!"
"I'm sorry, so very sorry! Signore Beilschmidt is really, really, really sorry, Signore Bonnefoi!" said Feliciano. He bowed his head as he over-translated Ludwig's apology. "That shouldn't have happened. It'll never happen again, we promise!"
Francis held Yao and Matthew protectively, pretending to be concerned about the well-being of his younger family members. "This is completely unacceptable, Capitaine," he said, trying to find a balance between outrage and forgiveness. "If your men require some female companionship then may I kindly offer the services of Yvette or Maria? My family is not available for such things!"
"Yes, I know. I'm sorry. Tell him I'm sorry, Feliciano. Tell him that I—" Ludwig stopped suddenly. He eyed Matthew curiously, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. "Is that my brother's coat?"
Matthew blinked. Suddenly everyone was staring at him. He blushed. Too focused on rescuing Yao, he hadn't realized that he was, in fact, wearing a heavy black coat that wasn't his. Did I mistake it for a blanket in my sleep? he wondered. Then he saw his reflection in a wall-mirror and recognized the Geheime Staatspolizei insignia—the proud eagle and swastika—and Feliciano's translation hit him. His brother—the Gestapo? He gasped in apology. "Oh! I'm so sorry! I must have grabbed it by mistake!" he said, stripping it off. "I'm sorry, Monsieur Capitaine!" Hastily he handed the coat back to Ludwig, who took it suspiciously.
"Well," said Francis, stepping protectively in front of Matthew. "I think that's enough excitement for tonight, don't you agree, Capitaine? No one got hurt"—Yao glared at him—"so let's just forget these little accidents, okay?"
As Matthew helped Francis tidy the café after the Germans left, he found himself thinking about everything that had happened. Maybe he had been sleep-deprived, but even so he couldn't picture himself grabbing Gilbert's coat unprovoked. He hadn't even meant to fall asleep, but he had been so tired. I could have gotten into a lot of trouble for that, he knew. I could have been accused of stealing from the Gestapo. But Ludwig let me go. The German's reactions tonight had surprised Matthew (in a very good way). He hadn't expected Ludwig to defend he and Yao from his own men, or leave so quietly with Gilbert's coat and an apology on his lips. He's a German, but he's not a monster.
"Our job is to protect people!" he had said, which confused Matthew. He had been told that German soldiers were cruel and murderous. Evil, even. But Captain Ludwig Beilschmidt was not. And if that was true, then maybe—
He considered the heavy, black coat.
—Gilbert Beilschmidt wasn't either.
GERMAN
Ludwig stopped on the café's doorstep. "Wait a minute."
He exchanged a thoughtful look with Feliciano, who blinked, and then deliberately strode back into the café.
"Bonnefoi!" he yelled, but needn't have. Francis and Matthew were in the dining-room, tidying up tables; the Chinese girl was talking to the green-eyed man, who nodded; and beside them stood a tall, blonde boy, eyeing a bottle of cognac on the bar. He flinched when Ludwig pointed at him, and said: "You! You're that grocer I saw on the street!" The boy froze like a spooked fawn as Ludwig marched toward him. He saw the boy's American dog-tags and realized his mistake. "No! You're not a grocer, you're a solider!"
Ludwig drew his gun at the same time Arthur drew his. He pointed at the German's chest as Ludwig aimed at Alfred. Unexpectedly, Matthew snatched the gun from Feliciano's holster and pointed the barrel at Ludwig; Feliciano peeped in fright; Yao drew a knife from under his dress; and Francis raised his unarmed hands in innocence. He said:
"Capitaine Beilschmidt, we don't want a fight. Just lower your weapon—"
"Drop it now or I'll fucking shoot you!" Arthur threatened.
"My God! An Englishman?" Ludwig gasped. "Bonnefoi, what the fuck is going on in here? How long have you been hiding Allied soldiers?" He glanced from Arthur to Alfred to Matthew. "Feliciano, ask him!"
"About as long as you've been stealing priceless artefacts from the Führer," Francis gambled. He stepped in front of Alfred and bravely faced the Lugar's barrel. "Might I remind you, Monsieur Capitaine, that I am presently in possession of the portrait that you wish to keep secret? If the Gestapo were to find it—"
"You would be shot," Ludwig inserted. "They'll think you stole it."
"Yes, and then the Gestapo will give the portrait to the Führer and you will be left with nothing. Feliciano will be left with nothing. All the trouble you went through to secure it and hide it will have been for nothing. Don't you see?" said Francis smoothly. "Neither of us gains anything by exposing the other. We'll both be shot, especially if I just happen to drop your name before my execution. We have a better chance at outwitting the Gestapo if we work together," he urged, revealing a smile of good-faith. "You don't even have to do anything, Capitaine. Just pretend you didn't see Arthur, Alfred, and Mathieu tonight, and I'll pretend that I know nothing about the portrait in the cellar, okay? That way everyone benefits—except for the Gestapo, of course."
Ludwig considered Francis' proposition. "Work together with the Allies?" He looked down at Feliciano, who was clutching his sleeve, wide-eyed in fright. The Italian's safety was always Ludwig's priority. He disliked the idea of aiding the Allies, but it was better than watching a firing-squad shoot his lover for betrayal. I don't actually have to do anything. I just have to turn a blind-eye. Besides, Gilbert will be devastated if he finds out that his crush is a soldier. It'll be better if he just thinks the boy left town.
After a lot of careful deliberation—and extensive debate—he agreed. He lowered his gun, and said: "Fine, I'll do it. But if they get caught"—he pointed to the Englishman and North Americans—"then I'll deny everything. I'm not risking Feliciano and I for you people, understand?"
"Yes. Thank-you, Capitaine. And don't worry, tomorrow this will all be over."
ENGLISH
EIGHT HOURS LATER
Arthur rolled over and buried his face in the lily-sweet scent of French laundry-soap. He inhaled sleepily and hugged a pillow, letting the bed-sheet slip down his naked shoulders. A minute later he felt the whispered kiss of soft lips on his skin. He cracked open an eye and glanced over-the-shoulder at Francis, who grinned. "Hmm, what time is it?" Arthur asked, stretching his arms as he turned. Bright sunlight filtered in through the blinds on the window, leaving a striped pattern on the Frenchman's languid figure. "Oi, stop that!" he laughed. He tried effortlessly to push Francis off as the Frenchman peppered him in playful kisses, but eventually he relented. He loved Francis' skillful touch and the way his velvety lips nipped affectionately at Arthur's neck. Lying in the Frenchman's bed, Arthur felt relaxed for the first time in months. Maybe Alfred is right, sex is the best medicine. Or maybe, he thought, wrapping his arms around Francis, it's because a plane is coming to get the lads tonight and they'll finally be safe. I can stop worrying about them.
"Mm, mon chéri," Francis whispered, lifting his bedraggled head. He kissed Arthur's eager lips. "Bonjour—"
"Francis! Francis!" cried Maria suddenly. "Monsieur, a messenger from the Résistance Française just gave me a letter! It's encoded, but I think it's about the—Oh!" She stumbled to a sudden halt in the doorway when she saw Francis and Arthur in bed together.
"Oh, fuck," said Arthur.
Francis extended his hand. "Give me the letter, mon petit chéri."
Maria held it to her bosom, out of reach. She pouted. "What is this?" She looked from Arthur to Francis as if she had been betrayed, a sad, lost look on her heart-shaped face. "Francis, you said that I was your only true love. You said that we would be together after the war. Why are you in bed with the Englishman?"
"Ah, yes... that's a very good question, ma cher." Francis looked at Arthur, who merely shrugged, offering no help. "It's because... of you, chéri. I did it for you, of course! The Résistance is so greedy, they think they can demand whatever they want from us. I know that you are already doing your part, Maria, by entertaining the Germans. I just couldn't live with myself if you had to service the Allies as well, so I offered him myself instead to, err... protect you, ma cher!" Dragging half the of bed-sheet with him, Francis stood and kissed Maria's delicate hand. "Do not think badly of me, Maria. Ma petit cabbage, ma chéri—?"
Arthur rolled his eyes and leaned back, his arms crossed. "A bit overdramatic, aren't you frog-eater?" he said, expecting no reply.
Maria, however, swooned in happiness. "Oh, Francis! I'm so sorry, my love!" she said, squeezing his hands. "Please forgive me. Here, your message." She handed it to him.
"Thank-you, ma chéri." Francis cast an innocent look back at Arthur, who merely cocked an eyebrow. "Uh, I think it's best if you go now, Maria, ma belle. But don't tell anyone about, err... my sacrifice, okay?"
Maria promised to take Francis' secret to her grave and then hurried off. Francis leaned back with a relieved sigh. He handed Arthur the letter, which was written in coded English. "It's from the Résistance," he said.
"Oh, it's from the Resistance," said Arthur, unfolding it. "I need the code-book to read it."
They got dressed, searching Francis' disorganized bedroom for clothes, and then headed into the loft. Arthur felt like a sailor as he climbed the swaying rope-ladder, snapping at Francis behind him: "Holding my arse isn't necessary, you know." He reached the trapdoor and pushed it open, using a pocket-torch to light the small, low-ceilinged space as he crawled inside. The bright light reflected off a small mirror and momentarily blinded Arthur, which is why it took him a moment to recognize:
"Alfred! What the bloody-hell are you doing?"
Alfred's long legs were wrapped suggestively around Ivan's waist and his hands were tangled in silver-blonde hair, urging the Russian closer. Ivan's torso was naked except for the bandages denoting his injuries. He held Alfred's sides, hands beneath the boy's shirt as he sucked his suntanned neck; his shoulder; his chest. Alfred's flushed skin was slicked with beads of sweat and his wheat-blonde hair was in disarray, head pressed back into a pillow. A subtle whine pushed past his lips as he opened his bright cornflower-blue eyes. Then suddenly he gasped; because of Ivan's greedy administrations or because he noticed his audience, Arthur didn't know, but the boy's eyes looked more frightened now than when he had been at gunpoint.
"It's, uh... not what it looks like—?" he gasped guiltily.
"What the fuck, Alfred? Get off—get off of him!" Arthur yelled at Ivan, grabbing his shoulder. The Russian's face was impassive as he shoved Arthur back. His push was strong and forced the Englishman back into Francis, who steadied him. "Braginsky! I swear to God, I will fucking shoot you if you've hurt him!"
"No, Artie, it's not like that!" said Alfred. "I can explain, okay? Just let me—Hey, Ivan, get off."
Francis held Arthur's biceps as Alfred crawled out of the bed, half-dressed and tousled, thinking perhaps that Arthur would otherwise try to charge the boy in outrage. Arthur glared at the sweating American, whose well-being he felt responsible for. He had been so careful and spent so much time and energy protecting him from—I thought the Germans were the only ones I had to protect him from. Arthur clenched his fists. "If that Russian forced you to—"
"No, he didn't!" Alfred waved in frantic dismissal. He stood defensively between Ivan and Arthur, like a boy trying to explain his blunder to a livid parent. Arthur eyed him expectantly. Alfred swallowed, trying to re-buckle his trousers without looking down. "Ivan and I have been spending a lot of time together locked in here, and... we just, you know... we were both kind of lonely, and... I know we can't understand each other, but he's not so bad, you know? It's not like he just jumped on me unexpectedly. I let him, err... not jump on me exactly, but it wasn't like what you're thinking, Artie. It's, uh... really sweet. Like, tender and shit. It's not like I got bored and decided to let the Ruskie fuck me," he laughed nervously.
Arthur continued to glare, dissatisfied with Alfred's explanation.
Alfred shifted from foot-to-foot before noticing the letter in the Englishman's pocket. "Hey, is that from the Resistance?" he asked hopefully, grabbing at the change-of-topic. "I'll get the code-book!"
"What does it say? Oh hell, where's Mathieu when I need him?" said Francis, considering the room's lack of Francophones.
In simmering silence, Arthur decoded the short letter. His Lincoln-green eyes widened in realization and he crumpled the letter in his fist. "Oh, bollocks!" he growled in frustration. "It's about you and Matthew, Alfred. The Resistance buggered-up one of their bloody reconnaissance missions and the Jerries got smart to their movements. They've posted sentries around the clock at all points of entrance into the town. They'll be guarding the bloody field tonight where the plane is supposed to land."
"Fuck!" said Alfred. "How the fuck are Mattie and I going to get to the field if it's being guarded by Krauts?"
Ivan placed his hand on Alfred's shoulder, concerned about the look of distress on the boy's face. He didn't speak unnecessarily, knowing that nobody would understand, so he let his actions speak for him. His hard, pale eyes scrutinized the letter in Arthur's hand, as if the ink itself could somehow harm Alfred.
"Let's tell Matthew," said Arthur, grabbing Alfred's forearm. He pulled indelicately, still angry.
"Ach—!"
"What the—? Ivan, let go of him!" Arthur yanked Alfred's arm like a tug-o-war rope, but Ivan didn't let go of the boy. "Alfred, for fuck's sake, tell him to let go!"
"It's okay." Alfred awkwardly patted Ivan's hand. "You can, err... let go of me now. Please."
Arthur dragged Alfred down the rope-ladder, muttering profanities to himself in frustration until he reached the bottom, taking Francis' outstretched hand for balance. The Frenchman grinned at him ironically.
"A bit overdramatic, aren't you, chéri?" he said, expecting no reply.
FRENCH
They found Matthew in the kitchen sweeping wheat-flour off the floor. "Sorry, Francis! It was an accident, I knocked it off the counter. I'll replace it, I promise. I know how expensive supplies are. I'm really sorry—"
"Oh no, it's alright, Mathieu," Francis soothed. He pulled Matthew into a one-armed hug and took the broom dismissively. "Don't worry, I'll get another bag from Capitaine Beilschmidt. It's okay, chéri. Besides, judging by Arthur and Alfred's reactions, we have more important things to worry about. Tell me what this letter says."
Matthew read the letter and then listened as Arthur and Alfred talked simultaneously in explanation, both at increasing volumes as the subject intensified. He repeated everything to Francis, who, in return, proceeded to panic.
"Mon Dieu! If the Germans catch you, you'll both be shot!" he said needlessly. "You'll both need to disguise yourselves, but not as Frenchmen. The sentries won't let civilians get near the field. They probably won't trust anyone who's not wearing... a German uniform!" he realized suddenly. "I've got it! If we disguise you as German soldiers, you can pass unnoticed!"
"That's completely mad, frog-eater! It's way too dangerous!" said Arthur. "Besides, where exactly are we going to get two German uniforms?"
"Ciao! Monsieur Bonnefoi, are you here?" Feliciano's jaunty voice called from the dining-room.
The Allied foursome shared a collaborative look. Francis' lips curled into a daring grin.
"No." Arthur shook his head in dread. "It's too risky, we can't steal Ludwig and Feliciano's uniforms!"
"We won't steal them, we'll just borrow them," Francis emphasized, "Monsieur Capitaine won't even notice."
"And what makes you think he won't notice?"
Francis poked his head out of the kitchen door, spying on the German and Italian. The café was quiet, nearly empty. The pianist was flirting with Yvette, and Maria was replacing the tablecloths. Nobody was paying attention to Ludwig, who was standing at the bar, impatiently awaiting service. Feliciano was holding his arm affectionately, like a lady and her escort. He smiled up at Ludwig, talking incessantly. Ludwig sighed, feigning annoyance, but Francis saw the stern-faced German's cheeks blush in proximity. He lifted a big hand and patted Feliciano's silky head, toying with an errant curl, which made the boy blush in reply. Francis smirked as a plan took shape in his mind. He ducked back into the kitchen and closed the door.
"Don't worry, he won't notice a thing," he said craftily. "I'll get you those uniforms. Just be ready to leave at eleven o'clock."
ENGLISH
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED IN THE LOFT...
I'm so bored!" Alfred whined. He banged his forehead on the wall twice, then decided a headache wasn't worth the drama and sunk onto the floor, resting his head against the bed's edge. Ivan, who was lying on his stomach, looked at him indifferently. The bed-sheet hung low on his tapered hips, revealing the waistband of threadbare trousers. He was healing quickly. He breathed easy, chest rising and falling rhythmically, and his eyelids drooped in boredom. When his hand landed on Alfred's head the boy glanced at him, unimpressed. "I wish we had some dice, or a deck of cards, or, like, a yoyo or something," he complained. Ivan lifted a questioning eyebrow; Alfred's lip quirked in amusement. It fell, however, when Ivan took a hold of Alfred's face and leaned forward, closing the distance between them. Their lips met briefly and the boy's body flinched in surprise. He flushed in embarrassment; in unexpected arousal.
"Wha—?" he gasped.
Ivan grinned. "Thank-you," he said cheekily in English.
Alfred blinked. "You just... kissed me."
Ivan chuckled, shifting in bed. He lowered his hand to the back of Alfred's neck, massaging it tenderly. There was no mistaking his body's carnal intent.
Alfred considered the Russian's mischievous invitation, weighing it against the mind-numbing boredom he had felt moments before. Ivan was good-looking, after all. And a good kisser, it seemed. And there was nothing else to do. What could it hurt, really?
"Yeah, okay," he said. And he climbed into Ivan's bed.
