Arthur Kirkland peered around the doorframe of a long-abandoned Italian inn, assuring himself of its barren emptiness before beckoning for the rest of his comrades to follow in close pursuit of their leader. He whisked away the drapery that veiled over the doorway, which shielded all light and whatnot from reaching beyond its intended source, and flung it back over in a hurried anger. He withdrew a match from his pocket, striking it against the wall and lighting it aglow with a warm flame, slowly licking its way down the pencil-thin wood. Arthur, assuring himself that his gloved hand had not fallen victim to singe, dipped his hand into a lamp propped upon the wall, brushing the flame to the candle within and lighting the room with a dim glow. This building in particular had been abandoned for nearly one hundred years, having been used in the earlier stages of Italian civilization, thus many of the technological disadvantages of the previous generations had failed to make their presence in such a peasant's inn. The lighting would have been the first thing to improve upon, had they acquired any sort of money in their escapade mere hours ago. Alas, as it was, the group of rebels remained steadfastly broke, and would continue their meager lives in such a way, lest they receive a handsome amount of cash in the near future.

"That was… kind of pointless, da?" Ivan muttered, tossing his crowbar to the ground and clambering on over to the old bar, nestled in the room adjacent to the front of the building. As it was, an inn of such unimportance had been mildly used, and thus had very few rooms, barely enough to accommodate their own group. The Russian man fished through the cabinets, removing a half-empty bottle of vodka, which had begun to lose its shimmer in its aged state. Regardless of such trivial matters, Ivan flung his head back, vodka bottle enclosed in his lips, and slugged down a few gulps before joining the group back in the front.

"Kind of pointless?" Feliks repeated, banging his head against his fist in a drowsy irritancy. "That was totally a waste of time! And we blew our cover!"

Arthur, the obvious ringleader of the assemblage, gritted his teeth, emerald eyes ablaze in a passionate rage. "Don't take such a defeat so lightly!" he snapped, voice heavily accented with an English fervor. "This was utterly humiliating! I've never seen such absurdity in all of years of combat! When infiltrating a building, you aren't to make a sound. You aren't to begin quarreling amongst yourselves, and for god's sake, you aren't to use your real names! We will begin preparations in the morning, and I suggest you all rise with the sun, lest you want to be thrown out with the trash." Huffing as he unsheathed his knife and placed it on the end table, Arthur ran a hand through his unkempt blonde hair and sighed in utter defeat. "I'm going out back to bathe. Yao, you're in charge until I get back."

"R-Right," the Chinese man replied, giving a slightly hesitant nod. The Englishman returned the head motion curtly and staggered out the back door and to the pond about a mile from the hideout. Running water was most certainly unacceptable, as they hadn't the money to pay for it, nor did they attain the patience to deal with the government as to why the rebels weren't paying any sort of mortgage.

Francis sighed, hand reaching absentmindedly for the knife on the tabletop. "Completely clean, as usual. Oh, mon cheri, how can you expect to lead us if you fear drawing the blood of another man?" he muttered, intended for no one in particular.

"Man, what's Arthur's problem?" Feliks mumbled, slouching in his seat on the half-shredded sofa. "He's, like, so caught up in his own little world that we can't pay any attention. And we're always getting blamed for it! It's totally unreasonable!"

"That's true, aru," Yao admitted, taking a seat beside the Polish boy. "But you have to remember that Arthur has been through more than most of us. And I'm sure he has a perfectly good reason for wanting to thieve from and murder the Vargas', aru." Even if he won't tell us his intentions…

Feliks gave a little grunt, revealing none of his true emotions about the matter, and instead swiveled his body to face Ivan, who was preoccupied staring aimlessly out the window, up at the glittering heavens above. "Hey, Ivan? Since you only joined a few days ago, why not let us in on your story?"

The Russian's eyes glinted with a murderous intent, though his somewhat sadistic smile remained plastered on his face. "I was mistakenly jailed for murder. I firmly believed my innocence, regardless of their so-called "proof", and escaped across the border about a month ago. Eventually, I wound up here. Ah, court justice these days is really something, da~? Unless, of course, you really do believe that I murdered that "defenseless" girl back in Moscow?"

"O-Of course not! Let's not get hasty…" Feliks stuttered nervously, hands rising up in surrender.

Francis rose from his spot on the ground, disheveling his hair in exhaustion. "Eh, I think I should go check on Arthur. I should return shortly." The Frenchman retreated from the room without awaiting a response from the rest of their improbable crowd.

Footsteps ever-light against the crunch of decaying grass beneath his bare feet, Arthur stepped reluctantly from the pool of water, dabbing at his soaked body with a dank towel. A gentle sigh escaped his lips, slow and monotonous, as he shivered at the nippy air against his lithe, naked form and wrapped the towel around his waist, approaching his garments, which sat folded up against a bush nearby.

"And where do you think you're going, dressed like that?" Francis Bonnefoy loomed over to the Brit, crouching low to pick up his leader's clothing. "Don't get me wrong, mon cheri, I'm not complaining. This is a rather nice view, to be honest."

"Oh, sod off, you pervert…" Arthur grumbled feebly; his face reddening ever-so-slightly as he snatched his garbs back from the Frenchman's hands, which now took their time traveling up the Briton's bare back, fingertips brushing against the smooth flesh beneath. Arthur pushed him away lightly, willing the intimacy away for the time being. "And I never accepted you as a potential romance, so you'd better bloody listen to me!"

"Oh, but you can be so hard to resist sometimes," Francis mumbled huskily, reaching over to trace the outline of the Englshman's collarbone, receiving a prompt slap on the forearm.

"I said bugger off!" Arthur brought his hand back, perhaps in self-defense, on the considerably high chance of his underling attempting something unseemly again. "I'll punch your jaw so hard next time you'll never kiss another woman again!"

"But I do not wish to kiss a woman right now…" Francis advanced, taking Arthur by slight surprise, and caught one hand around his waist, one dangerously sinking down from the spot on his lower back. "They aren't as fun as you can be." With a mischievous smirk, the Frenchman leaned the younger man back and planted a zealous kiss onto his lips, chapped from the bitter winter chill. Arthur gasped in an unintentional mingle of lust and detest, and ended up elbowing his underling in the chin as a tongue lashed out to hungrily claim the Brit's mouth.

Francis stumbled backward, falling to the ground and rubbing his aching jaw, mumbling incoherent French swears. Arthur towered over him, gleam of ferocity striking his green gaze, lips swollen from the vigor of the kiss. "Do that again, Bonnefoy, and I swear I will make you regret it." He stormed off, slipping on his clothes all the while.

Francis smirked, fingers still tenderly stroking his bruising chin. "We'll see."

********

Ludwig Beilschmidt leaned idly against the firm wood of the kitchen chair, letting loose a dreary sigh as his sapphire eyes gazed absentmindedly at the ceiling above. Within the solid grasp of the young man's left hand was a somewhat damp newspaper, moistened from the bitter cold rain outside and slowly disintegrating in the unyielding grasp; clutched in his right hand was a mug of freshly-brewed coffee, courtesy of his older brother, Gilbert, who now slept soundly in the bedroom nearest the kitchen, gentle snores erupting from behind his tightly-shut door. Ludwig persisted in his everlasting stare-down with the ceiling, stopping only once to direct his gaze to his mug, bringing its heated contents upwards to fleshy pink lips before lowering it once more and relaxing his broad shoulders. He placed the slightly decomposed newspaper upon the kitchen table, raising his free hand to tousle his vividly-blonde hair in unease. An uncomfortable silence clung desperately onto the atmosphere, disconcerting the young man in surprise at the abrupt cease of his brother's inhumane snoring. It was predominantly bizarre for Gilbert to wake at such an "unseemly time", and the fact that his brother had made the motion to crack the door slightly ajar made it all the more peculiar.

Gilbert Beilschmidt trudged into the kitchen, slumberous daze lingering in his normally-wild crimson eyes as he staggered towards the counter, whisking off a mug of coffee for himself and plopping down lazily into the chair beside his brother, lips parting in an obnoxious yawn. A single strand of platinum hair dangled freely in his face, a hand rising to batter it away begrudgingly. The older man slumped back into the seat, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing his throbbing temples in burden. "Damned hangovers…" he grumbled, slugging down a swig of coffee and likely burning his mouth in the process.

Ludwig cast a sidelong glance at his brother, shaking his head gently before returning his solemn gaze to the newspaper before him, spread out upon the tabletop as oceanic eyes scanned its various contents. T'was the International Weekly, or rather the "Wöchentlich Internationalen" in his native language, a paper of the utmost obscurity, of which you never knew quite what until you thoroughly examined its contents. "Hmm," he grumbled, a rather quiet man in the morning. "Nothing too exciting going on in the world today, it seems…"

"Oh, honestly, Ludwig!" Gilbert scoffed, hands still clutching his forehead in all of its unrelenting throbbing. "All you ever do is read that newspaper! Get a hobby, pick up a girlfriend, or find a fucking job! It's driving me insane, and probably all of Germany by now…"

Just because you stayed out drinking too long doesn't mean you should take it out on the people around you… Ludwig thought, dismally glancing away. "You're right, I know. I've needed a decent job since I returned from the war overseas… Nothing seems to catch my interest." He sipped the beverage once more, wincing at the bittersweet flavoring of the hazelnut liquor that had been stirred in previously. "Last week, the only available job requests were a maid at some English manor and a mechanical technician over in Osaka." Needless to say, such occupations were far from what Ludwig considered to be substantial, taking into account the fact that they weren't particularly interest-sparking. The very inkling of the idea of him as an English maid sent unwilling shudders down his tensing spine as he flipped through the pages, eyes flitting to the "Help Wanted" ad in nonchalant curiosity.

"Right there, see?" Gilbert snapped, jabbing a shaky finger at one individual occupation offering, a job deep in the heart of India. "That sounds like it would fit you to a fault."

Ludwig groaned, placing his head in his calloused palm in frustration as he reread the advertisement. "Gilbert, I'm not applying for a job as a personal masseur for some fifty-year-old man!" Rolling his eyes in aggravation at his brother's hangover-driven antics, the younger man took a quick glance further down the column, a certain occupation catching his eye. "A bodyguard, huh? Not really my style… and it's some aristocrat from Italy? Italy, of all places? Noblemen haven't lived there for years…"

"Oh, come on, Ludwig! Live a little! You'd make a perfect bodyguard!" Gilbert persisted mockingly, guffawing obnoxiously into the crook of his elbow as he propped his chin up on his knuckles. "Need I remind you that you were kicked out of the army? You didn't resign, you dolt, you were all but given a restraining order."

"That only happened because-"

"Because you allowed someone to drug you before battle, I know. My point is that this would be the perfect opportunity for you to reclaim your title! Okay, maybe not, but either way, have you looked at the salary offering? Hell, I would accept the job for that amount of money!"

Then why don't you…? Ludwig brought the mug back towards his lips, allowing the last, warm drips of coffee to scald his throat on the way down before glancing half-heartedly at the paper and nearly spluttering it all out. "Th-That's…" He gulped in anxiety, a tremor of pure exhilaration jolting through his body as he spied the salary that the rich Italian had offered.

1.2 mil €

Gilbert smirked, though in his agony it appeared more as a grimace, and grunted in contention. "Wanna take the job yet?"


A/N: Eh, sorry for the sort of abrupt shortness of this chapter. I sort of hit a roadblock with this one, as the next chapter would have been much too long compared the the length of the previous one. The next will introduce more characters, as well as some more of the plotline. Feel free to request appearances from characters!

R&R, please! Critique, criticism, and compliments all welcome!