Arthur's mouth was dry and tasted terrible when he woke up, and his head was liable to split open.

'I'm never drinking again,' he swore, burying his face deeper into his pillow to shut out the light drilling into his head. The fabric smelled strange, a mixture of what he thought might be sunlight and...chocolate.

Some blurry recollection from his dream of arms wrapped around him and skin that smelled like sugar tumbled through his mind, and Arthur groaned in despair and pressed his burning face even further into the pillow. It tickled his nose, and he sat up in irritation to uncrumple the pillowcase and promptly realized his pillow was in fact a leather jacket with wool around the collar. It was definitely not his, since it was American.

Arthur warily looked around, but his apartment room was empty and devoid of any explanation as to why he was wearing an American's jacket. He felt around in the pockets for a clue and pulled out his mostly empty wallet. There was a note inside.

Hey Artie!

You probably won't remember, but I carried you home after you got really drunk. Don't worry, I saved your wallet, see! As to why it's empty, well, the bill tab was pretty big. You drank a lot.

You promised to get me into the East tomorrow (I guess it'll be today when you read this) and it's perfectly safe so don't worry, everything will be fine and I, your hero, will protect you. Meet me at the Cuckoo's Egg bar at eight PM. Wear your uniform.

It's the time to live, Arthur, now or never.

Yours always,

Alfred F. Jones (American hero)

P.S. Bring my jacket when you come.

Arthur groaned and buried his face in his hands. This was even worse than he'd ever imagined. He'd gotten drunk and done who knows what with an American and now he was wearing his jacket. Had he revealed his inclinations? How had he agreed to such an utterly dangerous, inane plan? He reread the letter, lingering on the name at the bottom that made his heart squeeze. Alfred F. Jones. You didn't get a more American name than that.

Shaking his head in frustration, Arthur got out of bed, stiff joints complaining, immeasurably grateful that he was still in the familiar uniform he was wearing when he remembered setting out in last night. That was the only good thing to have come out of the whole ordeal.

He stumbled to the bathroom and looked at himself. His hair was sticking up and his eyes were bloodshot, and his uniform cut a conflicting picture with Alfred's jacket. He tugged down the collar, frowning. If it hadn't been American, he would have liked it. The RAF had new fighters and bombers now, and beautiful things they were. It was a shame he hadn't been selected to fly.

The bugle sounded outside, and with a jolt of panic, he remembered that the military job he already had was going to be jeopardized if he didn't get to drill on time. He hastily threw the jacket onto his bed and tugged a brush through the worst of his hair before he rushed off.

0o0o0o

Drill had been even worse than normal with his hangover, but when Arthur returned to his apartment, he wished it hadn't ended yet. There was still a few hours before eight, and all he could do was pace the floor and speculate about who Alfred was. He found himself with the jacket more and more frequently. It was crumpled from being slept in. Arthur supposed it was his obligation to clean it. It was a welcome distraction until the clock finally showed near eight.

He folded the now cleaned and pressed jacket under his arm and started walking, wondering if he'd already made a mistake.

Standing outside the bar, eight o'clock came and went without sign of Americans. Arthur was fuming. Standing here holding the leather jacket, waiting for someone who'd apparently stood him up made him feel foolish. With a huff, he turned to go when someone grabbed his shoulder.

'You came!'

Arthur frowned up at the man. He was younger-looking than he'd first assumed, with messy golden hair and bright blue eyes that shone against the streetlights. He was wearing a simple shirt and tight jeans. Arthur swallowed and forced his eyes back up to his smile.

'Do I know you?' he asked carefully, stepping back.

His expressive face fell slightly. 'You haven't forgotten me, have you? You did drink a lot. At least you found my note. I'm so sorry I'm late, Mattie was getting trouble from some French guy and I had to scare him off.' He collected himself and offered a tanned hand. 'I guess I should introduce myself again. I'm Alfred F. Jones. I'm in the military too, the Air Force, on one of the bombers, but I'm just not in my uniform. They don't take too well to American uniforms over there.'

'I'm Arthur Kirkland.' They shook.

'I know,' Alfred added. 'I kind of hoped you were going to remember me, but, you...you really don't remember anything? From when I took you home?'

'Not a thing,' Arthur said. Alfred's ears were pink, and he could feel heat rising to his face. 'Why?'

'No reason!' Alfred beamed, his flush spreading across his cheeks. Arthur looked away first. 'You brought my jacket!'

'I did.'

Alfred eagerly took it, shaking it out of the folds. 'Wow, you even cleaned it. You didn't need to do that.'

'It's really nothing.' Arthur coughed and composed himself. 'What's this about the East? If it's too stupidly American, or if it's dangerous, I'm not going to do it. Promises you make when drunk don't count, you know.'

'Really?' Alfred frowned. 'No, it's not dangerous. I've just got a real beauty I need you to help me with. Everything's already set up for us.'

A faintly sick feeling was beginning in Arthur's stomach. 'A...beauty?'

Alfred winked. 'Oh, she's gorgeous. Love of my life. Come on, she's what we're using to get in.'

He broke into a run. Arthur followed. He had no interest in this. He didn't want to help Alfred flirt with some pretty woman to go cavorting in the East. It made sense that the American was so easy about these kinds of things, he thought bitterly. No girl could resist that bright smile.

Alfred soon slowed in front of a garage near the border. Crooning music played softly from behind the brightly spray-painted corrugated steel door. Alfred hauled the door up and motioned him in.

The space was an explosion of colour, and seemed to double as an art exhibit and studio. Strange sculptures and collages lined the space, and the walls were decorated with explosions of colours. People watched their entrance idly before returning to their art. In the middle of it all sat a car.

'There she is,' Alfred said proudly, spreading his arms. Arthur blinked.

'Your...beauty is a car?' he asked, feeling strangely both disappointed and relieved.

'A '55 Thunderbird car,' Alfred corrected, smoothing his hands over the hood. 'Isn't she gorgeous? She's on loan from a friend. You're going to drive her in while I hide. Nobody questions you Brits when you're driving nice cars.'

It was a nice car, in a pleasing robin's egg blue colour, but the whole thing was perplexing. 'Why can't you drive yourself in?'

Alfred waved his question off. 'Don't worry about that. Here, I'll pull it out of the garage. Which side of the road do you drive on here? I can't understand the signs.'

'Drive on the right.'

Five minutes later, Alfred was huddled in the backseat under a blanket and Arthur, feeling ridiculous and fully expecting to be caught and stripped of his military post, pulled up to Checkpoint Charlie. The sign declaring the end of the American sector loomed. He wondered what he would say to the officers if it was discovered he was smuggling Americans across the border.

The officer at the crossing point held out a hand for his papers.

'Name, occupation, and purpose?' he asked in deep, accented English.

'Arthur Kirkland, British Army, for enjoyment.'

After what felt like an eternity examining them, he handed them back and nodded to go. Arthur noticed his hands were very faintly smudged with a variety of bright colours, just like in the garage. In surprise, he glanced up and met startled, piercing blue eyes. They both gripped the papers for another half second before letting go.

Silently, as if still in shock, Arthur pulled the car forward again and through the border. On the other side, leaning against the Wall, a guard watched, gun slung over his back, his skin too pale against his darker uniform. He took the papers as well, coppery eyes flashing out from below the brim of his cap.

'Military?' he asked. His mouth curled up into a smile. 'Go ahead. Welcome to the East.'

Arthur nodded, throat dry with nerves, and followed the lines of orange cones to the street.

He parked the Thunderbird behind a nearby building and leaned over to tell Alfred they'd made it, but he'd already leaped out of the car, looking around in amazement.

'Really doesn't feel that different than the West,' he mused. ''Course, the land doesn't care what flag is flown above it. Welcome to the East, Arthur.'

Arthur could argue that it felt a good deal more like someone was always watching over their shoulders, but he kept it to himself.

'Come on, I'm going to buy you a drink,' Alfred said.

'Did you actually have something to do over here or not?' Arthur asked aggravatedly. 'You could have just gone drinking in the West.'

'This is for you!' He beamed. Arthur found himself not for the first time unable to resist, and agreed.

Alfred led them to a smaller place with a carved wooden sign depicting a Roman helmet. The place was crowded to bursting with the construction workers and Wall guards. People carefully sat apart depending on their uniforms. The atmosphere was tense. A spark could set it alight.

Arthur was starting to regret wearing his uniform. As he stood at the door, people turned to gape openly, muttering among themselves. Alfred looked past him and pushed in, lit up like lightning in the grey.

'Where's the music?' he asked. He had a point. The bar was nearly silent. When nobody answered, he broke into a grin. 'Come on, everyone likes music. Where's the fun in silence?'

'Order something or get out,' the bartender growled from the counter. Alfred put down a pile of notes.

'Shot of bourbon and...do you have Tennents?' He glanced back at Arthur. 'The stuff in the can, you know. It's for my friend.'

Arthur was beyond wondering why Alfred knew his order. He accepted the can and sat down at the bar beside a man with an intimidating glare and watched America's finest wreak his havoc.

Oh, Alfred was going to be the death of him.

He picked his way over to the jukebox and climbed up on a stool there.

'Who has requests?' he shouted. 'Come on, there's no way nobody here likes music. You, with the blue coat, next to my friend. What do you want?'

The man might have smiled. It was hard to tell. 'Elvis.'

Elvis music was not what Arthur had expected, but he wasn't going to argue. Alfred nodded excitedly, motioning to the crowd that was now starting to sit up for their drinks and take notice. Either Alfred would be cheered or attacked. Arthur couldn't blame the crowd either way.

Alfred buried himself with the jukebox until the music began to play. The bartender sat back, but some people began to sing, voices rusty from lack of use.'

'Tomorrow will be too late, it's now or never, my love won't wait…'

Alfred encouraged them, crooning out the verses with a passion. His voice still cracked on the long notes. Arthur wondered how old he was, but pushed it away in favour of listening to the soldiers and workers sing, led by the American boy who was now with a foot up on the table, one hand over his heart, one outstretched as if he was singing the anthem. When the song finished, people applauded. Arthur applauded along with them, amazed.

Alfred collapsed into the seat next to him, grinning broadly.

'How are you?' he asked. Arthur took a moment to think of how Alfred had led the song, but still came back to him. It made him feel light and warm at the same time, like drinking just before he was too drunk.

'Good. That was impressive.'

Alfred shrugged. 'I just thought they'd like music. Did you like it?'

Arthur raised his eyebrows in surprise. 'Of course I did.'

'Good. That's good.' Alfred settled down and threw back his bourbon. 'I like music. I really like stargazing, too, but you can't do it too well in the cities, there's too many lights. I used to go out to the country back home where it was dark and watch all night. What do you like to do, Arthur?'

Arthur had been watching his face light up as he spoke and shook himself out of staring.

'I had a book of poetry,' he began hesitantly.

'Awesome! Can I read it?'

'No, I sold it. I lost all my money to a bet with an annoying Frenchman,' Arthur said bitterly. 'It's not the point. I remember it had Keats' odes in there.'

Alfred blinked. 'Who's Keats?'

Arthur finished his can and set it aside. His body was warm and easier and Alfred was watching him with such intensity. He smiled. 'What do you mean you don't know who John Keats is? Don't tell me all you like is Elvis. I'll have to introduce you to good writing and better rock music.'

'That sounds good,' Alfred said warmly. Arthur knew he should look away and say something to break their quiet ease, but for once, he didn't.

Finally, Alfred nodded, as if he'd just confirmed something, stood up, and held out his hand. Arthur took it and Alfred pulled him to his feet.

'Thanks for all of this,' he said. 'Driving me over and letting me do everything.'

'It's for you,' Arthur said. 'A gift, I suppose. You…helped me yesterday, and now our debts are repaid.' The bell jingled as they left.

'So that's it?' he asked with a hint of disappointment. 'Can I still, y'know-see you around?'

'Of course,' he said in surprise. 'I'm not going anywhere. Where can I go? The Wall is up.'

'Oh. Right!' Alfred was shivering in his T-shirt. Arthur felt bad, and passed him his uniform jacket. It was only right, seeing as he had lent him the leather jacket last night. 'Thanks, Artie.'

'I'm sure I've said not to call me that.'

'Oh, yeah. Sorry.'

'Don't mention it.'

Alfred tucked himself into the jacket, broader shoulders curling in to fit. 'We'll have to see each other again before my term here is done,' he promised earnestly. Arthur agreed.

They were almost back to the car, and night was beginning to fall.

'What did you want over here for, after all?' Arthur asked in amusement, expecting something just as dangerous and electric as Alfred-a spy mission, or a secret political power shift.

'I wanted to see the Brandenburg Gate,' Alfred answered instantly. 'Here, can you take a picture of me with it?'

Arthur stopped in disbelief to rethink exactly how stupid Alfred F. Jones could be, considering he'd risked both their jobs and their lives to get a photograph of him with a building, but accepted the small camera and took a picture.

'Thanks, man! Here, I'll get one of you, too.'

'Hold on,' Arthur protested, but Alfred had already positioned him in front of the Gate and snapped a photo.

'You look great,' he assured him.

'You're a menace,' Arthur muttered, trying to fix his hair from where Alfred had accidentally ruffled it.

Alfred just laughed. 'Come on, we should get back to the car.'

The drive back across was without incident. Arthur hoped nobody asked where his uniform jacket was, but the pale guard had left and the man on the other side just nodded him through.

Maybe the land didn't recognize flags, but Arthur certainly breathed easier on familiar soil. He drove up to the garage. Alfred sat up from the back and clambered carefully into the front.

'I'm glad we did this,' he said sincerely. Arthur coughed again.

'Yes, well. It was nice enough. Don't expect me to do it again, though. Your American antics aren't worth my job.'

'Alright, Artie.' Alfred reached out suddenly and pushed a stray lock of hair back behind his ear. Arthur gripped the steering wheel harder, eyes on him. 'I...I'll catch you again somewhere. Tomorrow? Are you free tomorrow? Same place, maybe at noon? I could go for some lunch.'

Arthur found himself nodding, mouth too dry to speak clearly. Rain had begun to fall outside their windows, past the shelter of the garage, and the car was warm and safe and close. Alfred absolutely shone with excitement. He stripped off Arthur's jacket and folded it up before handing it back. It was a poor folding job, in honesty, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to care.

Alfred got out of the car and ran out into the rain. His shirt stuck against his shoulders and outlined the dip at the base of his spine, right above his hips. Arthur swallowed hard.

'Good thing we missed this in the East,' he said, winking, and ran off, whooping. Arthur only realized after he'd gone that his small camera was still clutched in his hand.

Arthur carefully wrapped the camera in his jacket, stowed it underneath his arm to shield it from the rain and kept to the overhanging eaves when he walked.

There was no way he could go back to camp this charged and dizzy. There was a film shop he'd seen coming in, and after a hazy few minutes of wandering, he found it and asked to develop the pictures. When they were done, he quickly took them home.

This feeling wasn't from the drinking. It was from Alfred F. Jones, a lingering buzz of emotion through every bone in his body. Arthur was already looking forward, though he didn't want to admit it, to tomorrow.

When he got up to his apartment, he took out the photographs. His-he looked flushed and confused and out of his depth, with a hesitant smile. His hair was sticking up from being manhandled in front of the Gate. But there-Alfred, hair upswept, arms flung out to hold the world, the lights of the city just barely coming on behind him in a blur of gold. The Gate-the old architecture should be the focus, but it wasn't. Arthur stared and stared at Alfred's smile and his eyes and his mouth and those jeans. Oh lord, those jeans.

He carefully placed the picture aside, buried his face in his pillow, and lay there, silently sleepless, until dawn was edging grey light through his window.