A/N: HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY!


Chapter Three: The Cooler King


1943

Germany

"Lovino?" Antonio prompted. They were in his room, but the only reason Lovino was there was because Antonio bribed him with coffee. Funny how well that trick works.

Lovino's face was elated as he took a sip. "Hm?"

"I was wondering…" Antonio began slowly. "Where are you planning on escaping to?"

Lovino blinked and pulled away the coffee. "Huh?"

"After the escape—where are you going?"

"Oh," Lovino put the cup down and brushed some hair away from his face. "Feli and I are going to Switzerland. We haven't decided whether we'll hike or take the train though."

Antonio nodded. Most people were going to Switzerland, of course. It was the closest safe country. It wasn't the easiest to get to with all of the patrols, but it was certainly the closest.

Lovino was waiting impatiently for Antonio to reply, but seeing how he went quiet at the table, Lovino blurted, "and you?"

Antonio laughed at the question. "Spain, of course," he replied. "The resistance around here knows guides that can lead me there. Much safer than the train that way. I don't know enough German or French to pass as a citizen."

Lovino pressed his lips together and looked away. "Yeah, Feli and I are running into the same problem. Feli's always been pretty good with languages - at least German - but me…" Lovino sighed. His cheeks were pink and his brows cross. "But we refuse to split up, so we might end up finding a way to hike to Switzerland."

Antonio held his chin in his hand and looked at Lovino. He looked at him for a long time, until Lovino was just about to snap, and then suggested a plan. "How about you and Feli come with me to Spain?"

"To Spain?" Lovino repeated dumbly, his eyes going wide. "How is that better than Switzerland?"

"It's still neutral. Maybe it's not as safe, but you'd have me there, so I can get you around Spain just fine. There might even be a way for us to get a flight or boat to America. Who knows?"

Lovino was a statue. He didn't say a word for several moments, but he did continue to take sips of coffee. His dark eyes flickered many emotions: surprise (of course), confusion, suspicion (that one was insulting), flattery, curiosity, and temptation. He pursed his lips one last time, before raising his chin confidently. "I'll think about it," he declared.

Antonio's smile faltered. Well, that was not the answer he expected.

Lovino drained the rest of his coffee, set it down hard on the table, and stood up. It didn't take long for Antonio to realize Lovino was really just going to march out without another word, so it was up to him.

"Um," he said, his hand outstretched automatically. Lovino turned around and glared at him, so Antonio retreated his hand and grinned. "Is there any way for me to convince you?"

"Bribe me," Lovino said, not missing a beat.

"What?"

"Bribe me," Lovino repeated. "That's right up your alley, isn't it? I like things and I like food, so figure it out." He gave a rare smile to Antonio, and left the room.

The door shut, and Antonio bent over the table, hand in his curly hair, and laughed. Really laughed. He was still laughing when Francis came in, but it was hard to explain why. The war was giving him a strange sense of humor.


One thing Francis was incapable of letting Arthur live down was how he was in charge of approving the civilian outfits created for the escape. Francis refused to relent, not only because it was funny to imagine Arthur dictating fashion, but also because he was furious that it wasn't him instead. Arthur tried to explain it to him over and over, that it was better if he did it because his taste was more ordinary and plain—if Francis had his way, everyone would be too sharply dressed, they'd be looked at everywhere.

However, the only way to placate Francis enough not to interfere with the tailor team was to promise that his outfits would be a mark above the rest. Arthur later pulled Feliciano to the side and warned more seriously that it better not be too high of a mark. (No way in hell he'd have Francis caught after finally escaping for being too fashionable—the irony would be too much to bear.)

And Francis of course was too busy forging 250 people's worth of documents to hold up much a fight, and for once a feud of theirs died almost painlessly. Almost being the keyword.

So it was just Feliks and Feliciano with Arthur during the meeting. Feliks was hovering over the array of garments, while Feliciano had one splayed over his figure as display.

"Now, in order to get the right amount of outfits, Arthur. I recommend we work from service uniforms," Feliciano said. The jacket he held in front of him was navy (like so many of their uniforms) and not yet tailored. "Now we can do double-breasted, single-breasted, and," Feliciano pulled the jacket a little further down. "We can also make rather nice lounge suits."

"We can do like, a lot of things with lapels," Feliks prompted. He scurried over to Feliciano to adjust the model jacket, and fold over the material as example. "We can make them go deep—like that. Or high ones like that. Totally cool, right?"

Feliciano reached around him and grabbed some indigo material set on the table. "Here's one we're working on right now."

Arthur leaned back and observed it carefully. "What about buttons?"

Feliks jumped and reached back at the jar behind them. "Here are some totally cool ones. Have a look."

Feliciano let the basic jacket drop onto the table and rounded the room to grab another. "Here's one that we finished, Arthur," he called happily, and swung the jacket into Arthur's arms. Feliciano grabbed another. "And here's one we dyed with a bottle of blue ink." Feliciano seemed with himself and giggled. "I think it turned out pretty nice!"

Arthur abandoned the garments for a moment and looked forlorn to the window. "Damn, the Germans would have a field day if they found this."

But Feliciano wave him off. "Oh, that's Lovino's department." He ran over to the other table and said, "now I've started working on the other materials. The blankets that everyone has, particularly their stripes—perfect! Can make so many things. I decided to make them into coats." Felciano lifted the example up over his chest. "We have people working on these all working the compound."

Feliks had shuffled over beside him, and when Arthur picked up the long piece of brown fabric he blurted, "oh, those we were going to make into like, battle dresses. But they're kind of short, so we're going to do some cool working man's outfits."

Arthur nodded his head and tossed the fabric down.

Feliks skipped over to the other pile of fabric and he smiled. "Oh, these were from those like, other pretty blankets with ticking," he said. "We made them into cool waistcoats." Feliks held up the sample over Arthur, and Arthur pulled it close to his chest and examined it.

"Ah, yes," Arthur hummed. He was pleased. "And these are dyed, correct?"

"Of course!" Feliks exclaimed.

Feliciano had bounded over to a pile of brown fabric. "Oh, and Arthur, come have a look at this." Arthur neared, and Feliciano continued. "So with this blanket material," he pulled it up to demonstrate. "We scrape it down, until it's very smooth, and then dye it with boot polish." Feliciano's smile was wide and proud. Arthur graced him with a nod.

"Oh my god, and the corduroys!" Feliks shouted, and he rushed over near Feliciano. He pulled the fabric up. "Antonio got this," he said. "I wish we had more of it, because it's like, so pretty, right?"

Arthur was admiring the fabric when the last two piles of pale blue and smooth gray caught his eye. He grabbed them roughly and inspected with a close eye. "Where in the hell did these come from? They look pristine." Arthur couldn't help but think how exalted Francis would be if he saw this haul.

"We got them from Antonio," Feliciano replied.

"Well where the hell did he get them from?" Arthur demanded. These were nice fabrics. Not just good: nice.

Feliks and Feliciano exchanged a look. Feliks shrugged his shoulders and said, "well, we tried to ask him, but stopped us and said 'Don't ask'."

God, well the enigma was certainly annoying, but with results like this, Arthur hardly had to care. This scrounger was leagues superior than the last. If he could continue finding materials like this, then perhaps sending 250 people on the streets won't be as asinine as Arthur (occasionally) worried.


One day, after what seemed like ages, Alfred and Peter were released from the cooler. The two of them stepped out and were greeted with a clear blue sky. Alfred inhaled the fresh air with a triumphant grin-his spirit was so hard to squash. But Peter…even Alfred had to admit, Peter looked a little too relieved. Like he truly believed he was going to be in there forever. Were his hands shaking?

Alfred clapped a hand to Peter's back and shared a smile with him. Peter seemed to lighten up. And together they marched into the compound, ignoring the ogles of the rest of the prisoners.

They parted ways, and while Peter went to his hut, Alfred went to his. It took him some time to remember though, as he hadn't actually spent a full night there yet. And it was kind of funny asking a German for directions to his own room. But it got him the information he needed, and Alfred scampered off to his hut.

The door to his room was open, and Alfred walked in. He stopped in his tracks when he saw that the room was not empty, and that it was Artie the Brit, and Mattie the Canadian sitting at his table, drinking what could only be tea. They both looked up, and, to hide his surprise, Alfred slapped a grin onto his face.

"Artie! Mattie! Is this a welcome home party? Because I'm pretty sure the cooler is more my home now," Alfred jeered and laughed at his own joke.

Arthur had a strange way about him. He was tough—Alfred could tell that much. And it took one look at his face to know he'd been with the Gestapo. And it wasn't just the scar that told him that. Alfred had a small run-in with them after his seventeenth escape, but it lasted maybe a few days and they released him. But Arthur…it was obvious he was with the Gestapo for quite a while. Those green eyes didn't trust anyone. Matthew was definitely the closest, and maybe that French guy, but Arthur didn't seem to let his guard down even around them.

One vice about Arthur though: he was too much of a thinker. It was plain as day when Alfred stared at him that that mind kept turning and turning, probably obsessing about every single thing he saw. Whereas Matthew seemed to be smoother, calmer, and it was up to him to speak first.

"Alfred," Matthew began softly. "We were wondering if you might be—"

"Going out again?" Alfred interrupted preemptively. Matthew and Arthur gave short nods. "I am."

"Oh," Matthew breathed and he shared a look with Arthur. "When, um, when were you planning?"

"Seventeen days, on the seventh of July."

"Dark of the moon," Arthur stated, his eyes cast away.

Matthew bit his lip and failed at catching Arthur's gaze. He looked back to Alfred. "We have to ask…um, is Peter going with you?"

Alfred's shoulders rose an inch. "If he wants to."

"It's just," Matthew paused. He seemed torn on what to say. "Well, Peter is very young. The youngest in the camp. And you must know that he's pretty close to cracking, right?"

Alfred's eyes fell to the ground, a little disheartened, and admittedly depressed. "Yeah, I know," he said quietly. But Alfred didn't like to stay sad for too long and tried to think of the solution. He crossed his arms and began tapping his foot. His head shot up and looked to Matthew. "You think it'd be better for him to go out in the tunnel, do ya?"

"Safer," Arthur offered, without facing him.

Alfred hummed, trying to make sense of his thoughts. How did Artie do it, he wondered? It was obvious Arthur was putting a lot of effort into thinking about every little part. But Alfred wasn't as good at multi-tasking. He couldn't decide what to do about Peter. Even though, of course, Peter would end up making his own mind.

"Right," Alfred finally muttered. He walked to the little counter and found the kettle of water. He poured himself a glass—no tea thank you.

Arthur turned around now, and he clenched his fist to try and manage his stress. "Alfred," he began slowly. "Of course, there are a number of people who have escaped alone by the wire and done it well. Even gotten away." He let the compliment sit for a moment. "However, there are also a considerable number of people in this camp trying to escape beside yourself."

Alfred raised a brow. "I figured as much." It's not as if any prisoner in the camp was the type to sit on their hands and wait for the white flag. Of course there'd be other escapes. But the way Arthur and Matthew were looking at him…gosh, it was like they wanted something from him. But what the hell could that be? "All right, Artie," Alfred laughed defensively. "I know something's up. You're pushin' somethin' on to me. I know you are. I can feel it."

Arthur cleared his throat. "My name's Arthur."

Alfred smiled—Arthur was cute when he blushed. "All right, Arthur."

"And your're is Captain Jones, correct?"

Alfred chuckled easily. "Just call me Alfred."

Arthur glanced to him, brows staying low, and he nodded. "Right, well," Arthur picked up his cup roughly, but only stared at it. "As I was saying, we have maps of Germany - general maps that is - in fact we have all the information for the escape routes out of Germany. But um," Arthur turned to him, and his face was trying very hard to be persuasive. "What we do not have is, um…"

"Is a clear idea of what's 500 yards outside those trees, right?" Alfred guessed.

Arthur appeared surprised, but slightly pleased that Alfred had said that. "Right," he replied.

"We have tried every German in the camp with no results," Matthew added tiredly.

Arthur, however, remained hard and steadfast. "We must know the exact position of the local tower. We want to know when we hit the main roads. They must patrol them," Arthur stated firmly. No innocence there.

Was it odd, that Alfred found this seriousness rather attractive?

"Where the local police stations are," Arthur continued. "Where they've got their military road-blocks. And most important of all, we have to know how to get from here to the railway station." Arthur put his cup down and kept a firm gaze on Alfred, trying to make a point.

Oh, was this Brit a trip, or what? Alfred could have laughed. This guy was so thorough. Was he not a general? Hell, if Alfred knew. Because Artie certainly acted like one. Alfred often thought he was the most eager to escape, but with the way Arthur was acting, maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was dead wrong. Arthur cared more about the escape than most people did, or maybe, ever should. He stared at Alfred as though he was asking him to die for him (and expected him to do it).

Now Alfred did laugh, because honestly—did Arthur really think Alfred would do anything he said? He was American after all. Not in the same army. And despite all of that, Alfred did his own thing. Always.

"Artie," he said between giggles. His eyes sparkled, and he was still grinning. "You're cute, but no. Absolutely not," he affirmed. "Once I get through that wire, I'm not gonna be peeking over fences making maps for you guys. I'm gonna be so far away," Alfred spread his arms dramatically, and his water dripped onto the floor. "By morning, I'm gonna be so far away, you're not gonna know whether they were shooting me with howitzers." He stared Arthur and Matthew down. Arthur was a mix of annoyed and…perhaps embarrassed. Matthew again, was more empathetic. "Okay?" Alfred asked.

"It's most understandable," Matthew reassured finally.

Arthur was still quiet, so Alfred glanced to him. It seemed like he was more pissed now.

Alfred scratched his head and tried to figure out a solution. "Um, I mean I'd like to help, but…you know?" That didn't make matters any better.

Matthew and Arthur continued drinking their tea. Alfred finally began enjoying his glass of water, but he was so worked up, now he had to pace to do it in peace. "It's an interesting idea though," he blurted. "How many are ya taking out?"

Arthur set his cup down delicately, and without looking up, he replied, "250."

Alfred almost dropped his cup. His eyes were blown wide, and he impulsively ran to their table and leaned over. He looked at Arthur incredulously. "250?!" Arthur was obviously appalled by Alfred's proximity, but he made no move to correct it, and tried to hold his own. He nodded again. "I can't believe it," Alfred laughed. "250 men just walkin' down the road, just like that. You guys are crazy. Crazier than I am! And that's sayin' somethin'. Honestly, you guys had better be locked up too."

"Well," Arthur placated smoothly. "There will be some on the road, some by train, others by boat, some cross-country."

"They'll have forged papers. Clothes, maps, compasses, rations…" Matthew added delicately.

Alfred was still staring at them with wide eyes, but now his smile was sarcastically ecstatic. "Has it occurred to you guys you're gonna alert every German in the country? And that every guy with a pitchfork is gonna be out lookin' for you? Why they're gonna grab you so fast, it'll make your head swim!"

Arthur's face was alive and eager to debate. Alfred was actually eager for it. Just speak what's on your mind already! I can't hear your thoughts trapped in there!

But Matthew, who seemed to be the moderator of the room, quickly intervened. "Yes, well Alfred," he smiled. "Thank you, anyway. We'll get out of your hair now." He put down his teacup and removed himself from the chair. "I don't know if you were told but Feliciano moved out of this room to live with Feliks. So Lovino is here now since he thought the room would be empty." Matthew laughed shortly. "Good luck with that."

Alfred waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, I've had plenty of experience with those two. I know how they operate."

Arthur and Matthew rose from their chairs and were on their way to walk out. Arthur looked very clearly despondent, and Matthew maybe more secretly so.

"Um, but if there's anything I can do to help you guys out with the tunnel, just let me know!" Alfred added hurriedly. Arthur and Matthew stopped to stare at him, as though they were waiting. And it was like someone shook something loose in Alfred's head, and everything finally fell into place. "Wait a second…You guys aren't seriously suggesting that if I get through the wire and case everything out there, and don't get picked up," Alfred laughed in disbelief, "to turn myself in and get thrown back into the cooler for a couple of months, just so you can get the information you need?" Alfred didn't know whether he wanted to hear denial or acceptance.

The fact that Arthur smiled, was a pleasant surprise. But it was a demanding, cruel smile. As if it said, Of course you moron. Do everything I say. I want you to be my hound dog. My servant. Don't talk back.

Instead, Arthur actually said, "Well, yes." He pursed lips and decided to add, "we must ask very strange things in an operation as large as this one."

"We'll give you a good position in the tunnel!" Matthew offered enthusiastically, but he paled a little looking at Alfred's sarcastic eyes.

"I wouldn't do that for my own mother." Alfred hoped they would find a better way at bribing him than that. They really didn't know him at all, but he supposed there was no time to.

"Well," Matthew said. "I don't blame you."

"Well, okay then," Alfred replied.

"It's completely understandable," Arthur assured condescendingly.

Alfred's grin was not as happy this time. "Well, okay then."

Matthew shared a look with Arthur, and it was a secret language Alfred didn't know the key to.

Eventually, Arthur spoke, sounding more obnoxiously snobbish than before. He lifted his chin, and said, "well thank you for your time, Alfred and good luck to you." He turned on his heel and Matthew was close to his side.

Alfred watched them walk away. He knew what he had to do, but he was becoming increasingly more concerned with what Arthur wanted him to do. Was that a bad thing?


Living with Francis meant living with all of his sophisticated quirks. It reminded Antonio again and again, that Francis was less of a soldier, and maybe the most civilian of all the prisoners. Because Francis insisted on nice cooking, decent gardening, and pleasant pastimes. He'd very recently convinced Antonio to learn chess after he acquired a set from an unknown source.

"Check," Antonio said.

Francis didn't bat an eyelash, and continued staring at the board closely and deliberately. A silence fell between them, but was interrupted by a violent burst through the door.

"Antonio," Gilbert called before he was even inside. His voice was frantic. "You gotta help me, I think I lost my—" Gilbert stopped at once when he spotted another person in the room.

Antonio glanced up casually from the chessboard. "Oh, don't worry. Francis is a friend."

Gilbert analyzed Francis in one glance: letting his eyes flit from shoes to hair. He never missed a thing. Gilbert stood up straight and clasped his hands behind his back, looking official. He addressed Antonio with a firm gaze, "Antonio, I seem to have lost my wallet. It must be in this room when I saw you last."

"Oh, damn," Antonio shook his head. Francis moved a piece, and he followed suit. Then he leaned back in his chair and grinned, "well, I told you we were friends, right? I'll find them. Don't you worry."

Gilbert's shoulders fell in relief, and he managed a smile. "Oh, thank you," he breathed. Then he excitedly wandered about the room, pulling up covers and looking into cabinets.

"Gilbert," Antonio called lightly. Gilbert turned to him. "Not now—It might seem a bit peculiar if you and I were probing around at this time of night." Antonio raised his brows and gave a suggestive look, to make a point.

Gilbert's hands fell to his sides, and he took stiff steps back. "Oh, I see."

Antonio stood up from his chair and languidly walked over to Gilbert. He rested his elbow on his shoulder. "Look," Antonio smiled, and his eyes sparkled. "I'll handle it. I promise you I'll find it, if I have to tear this room apart." He gave him a swift pat on the back, and returned to his chair.

Gilbert spent several moments watching them, and Antonio was able to admit that he felt a tad bit nervous-it was always hard to tell how much Gilbert knew and didn't know. Eventually, however, he chuckled and said, "well, thanks Spaniard. If you ever need someone to get you out of the cooler, just let me know. I owe you one." Gilbert turned to the door, ready to leave.

"Ah, actually Gilbert," Antonio stopped him. "There is something you can do for me."

Gilbert narrowed his eyes, and a light dawned on them. "Oh?"

Good, Antonio thought. Gilbert was catching on now.

"I have one small favor," he continued easily. "A camera. Want to take some snapshots, you know? For keepsake?" he flashed a debonair smile, and the next second it was gone. "Thirty-five millimeter, 2.8 lense, and a plane shutter."

For the first time that conversation, Francis looked up from the chessboard, but only to Antonio. "Focal plane shutter."

Gilbert glanced from Francis to Antonio: a mix of confused, discerning, worry, and amusement.

"Gilbert," Antonio said, and gave a serious look. "That's a focal plane shutter. Let me know when you have it."

Gilbert's brows went up and down, and his lips stayed pressed so tightly it was difficult to tell what emotion he was fighting. After a tense moment, he marched out the door without slam, leaving Antonio and Francis to their chess.

Antonio moved a piece. "He's a crazy, mixed up kid, that Gilbert. But I like him."

Francis blinked, and a small smirk crept across his face as he made his turn. "Checkmate."

Antonio's eyes went wide, before he laughed. Francis was too adept at getting to him when he was unawares. But that was why he was so interesting after all.


Tunnel Tom was progressing beautifully. Berwald and Tino were well into the earth now. Already, the entrance of the tunnel was infrastructured with wood, and adorned with lanterns—helping them work. Right now, Tino was deep in the tunnel digging (he and Berwald took turns), only pausing when his wooden crates of dirt had reached his limit: then he'd tap the railing they'd constructed with his shovel, and the men on the other side would pull the wagon of boxes down by the rope. Berwald, of course, was one of them.

Arthur descended into the tunnel while Berwald was tugging the wagon out. He wasted no time with formalities, and got straight to the point as he crawled on his suit. "How's it coming, Berwald?"

"No good," Berwald said roughly, setting the crates aside aside to empty it. He gave Arthur a grave look. "Today, three times…" He stopped when he heard earth fall, and his heart stopped too. Tino.

Without another word, he lunged onto the wagon and pushed himself along the railing, plunging deeper into the tunnel. When he found Tino's feet, he grabbed them and pulled roughly to loosen him from the avalanche of dirt. Eventually, Tino fell into his arms coughing and wheezing.

His voice was strained when he pulled Tino's face close and demanded, "You all right?"

Tino's face was covered in dirt but he managed a terse nod.

Berwald yelled over his shoulder, "PULL!"

At once, Arthur and the other men present grabbed the rope and tugged it backwards, pulling Berwald and Tino on the wagon. They eventually reached the entrance, and Arthur was fast to pull Tino off, just as Berwald kicked the wagon aside and stood as far as he could manage over them, watching in concern as Arthur brushed the dirt from his mouth and forced a canteen of water down his throat.

Tino coughed, and Berwald hovered tense and helpless beside him. After some time, Tino turned to Arthur, and breathed, "you're going to have to shore this whole tunnel, Arthur. All 335 feet of it."

Knowing Tino was sound, Berwald gained some strength again and turned stone. He gave a stern look and said, "now, four times today!" His eyes were venomous green. "This way we never get through. We must have more wood."

"That's a," Tino coughed breathily, "a lot of timber, Arthur." He seemed to be acclimating again, and was able to turn his head. "Can you get it?"

Arthur was still and ice beside them, thinking, thinking. He had to make a promise. He had to find a way. His gaze to the both of them was resolute. "We'll get it," he said. "We have to get it." His voice was more confident and he matched Berwald's glare particularly. "We'll get Carriedo on it. And if he has anyone he recommends, them too. We'll get more timber, don't you worry."

You could say a lot of things about Arthur Kirland/ 'Big X', but one thing no one could ever manage is he's 'lazy', or 'good-for-nothing'. Because in fact, when Arthur wanted something, it came true like magic: or more reasonably, like the force of his willpower commanded him.

The very next day, Arthur set Lovino to work on distractions - which once again meant leading a choir of Christmas carols (damn it all) - as Antonio, Francis and the rest of the team stole extra wood from under the bunk beds, from the rafters, and when convenient, from the walls too. Alfred was so eager to help in someway, Antonio put him to work too; and boy, for an American was he thorough. He about rounded all of the unoccupied and occupied bunk beds, lifting any planks he thought… "oh, well they won't miss that."

Alfred's last stop was Feliks and Feliciano's room - obvious by the aroma and decor, mind you - and he had already lifted a good twenty-plus planks from various rooms. He hesitated at Feliciano's top bunk, once, twice, then lifted another plank. (Feliciano was light, right?) And carefully, oh-so carefully, Alfred began the process of carrying the full stack of wood against his chest. His legs were wide and he took slow frog steps towards the door. As he walked, Feliciano skipped by.

"Hi Alfred! How are you doing? You look tired. You should take a nap! That's what I'm going to do!" he sing-songed, and before Alfred could manage a clear warning behind the wood, Feliciano had already climbed the ladder and flopped onto the top bunk. It fell hard to the second bunk, and Feliciano lay flabbergasted amongst the mess. He turned wide-eyed, wobbly, and hanging on the bottom bunk, to Alfred.

Antonio bowed with his bouquet of wood. "Sorry, man." And kept walking.


Alfred had been thinking about Arthur on and off since he had gotten out of the cooler. And by on and off, that meant on and, when he was asleep, sometimes on. Alfred didn't even know much about him! But Arthur was intense and intriguing, and against all better judgment, Alfred wanted to help him as best he could. Of course, breaking out 250 people wasn't a walk in the park? Shouldn't Arthur need Alfred's help? Well, Alfred gave it as much as he could, but he'd be damned if he received any sort of emotional compensation. Arthur was a statue. A marble impersonation of what a captain or general should be like.

Well, if that didn't tick Alfred the wrong way. So one day, after collecting another enormous pile of wood, he stomped down to Arthur's room, didn't knock (because why would he think of that?), and roughly pushed the door open.

Oh.

Oooh.

Well, Alfred suspected/predicted a great many things delving into Arthur's room alone and unexpected. But this was not one of them.

Alfred swung open the door to see Arthur, standing and being pressed against the frame of the bunkbed, kissing Francis. Well, to pat Alfred's ego, it seemed like Francis was doing most of the kissing. But when Alfred's entrance finally reverberated to the two of them, only Arthur had the decency to look embarrassed. Actually, he was more than embarrassed, his face was red and mortified. Alfred almost felt guilty.

He was almost guilty enough to leave on that look alone, but then Francis turned around, and his eyes were malicious and oh. How was Alfred supposed to live that down? No matter how shocked and silent he was.

"Why, Alfred dearest," Francis purred and he sacheted forward. He cornered Alfred against the door, resting his hand beside Alfred's face, and his eyes were the darkest blue. "Do you knock in America?"

Alfred's eyes were wide. They flicked between Francis and Arthur.

"Francis please," Arthur called. He was adjusting his shirt, and his face was still red.

"What is it? I'm just asking," Francis replied smoothly, and his eyes stayed on Alfred. "You seem very shocked. What do we have to do to keep you quiet, hm?" His fingers brushed some hair away from Alfred's brows. "There's nothing I despise more than a tattletale."

Arthur grabbed Francis's hand roughly, and forced it backwards. "Francis," he commanded. "Back off."

Francis's eyes were narrowed like he was trying to discern something, or see more clearly. "I'm just talking to him. Why are you getting so worked up?"

"You're scaring him."

"Oh, and do you think you're a friendlier face?"

Arthur ignored him, and continued pushing Francis to the side. He looked to Alfred a little warily, his eyes struggling to keep contact. "Um, Alfred," Arthur coughed. "I would very much appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone about this, all right?"

"Oh my god," Alfred breathed.

"I know it must be a shock to you. But you have to understand that not all men are attracted to women, and it might sound strange, but men can be attracted to other men and—"

"Oh my god," Alfred repeated, and his eyes focused on Arthur-still wide and blue. "I can't believe I missed my chance."

Arthur was so surprised he actually took a step back. "What was that?"

Alfred shook his head and pushed hair away from his forehead. "Shit. I can't believe it," he mumbled. "I just can't believe it." Then he tossed his head back and sighed, and without another word, left the room, and closed the door quietly behind himself.

Arthur was stunned, and stood motionless in front of the door. Eventually, he said, "well, what the hell was that?"

Francis had settled on a chair and was looking out the window. "Hm, I think you may have been just confessed to. How does it feel?"

"Confessed to?" Arthur shouted indignantly. "Is that what you call that inscrutable muttering? For god's sake Francis, that man is the textbook cover of straight American playboy."

"That's a high compliment. He seemed rather silly to me," Francis quipped, and he pulled out a cigarette sullenly.

Arthur crossed his arms and glared. "You're sulking."

Francis waved his unlit cigarette and flashed a smile. "I'm not sulking. I'm just talking."

"You're always talking. But your eyes are doing that faraway thing," Arthur waved his hands in front of his face, "I don't like it." Francis just shrugged his shoulders. "Look—even if that kid thinks he likes me, I'm sure it'll pass. It always does. He's probably confused being in here. Being in the cooler for however long."

Francis breathed a puff of fresh smoke and met his stare. He rolled his eyes and turned away. "Whatever you say, darling."

Arthur's hands kneaded at the fabric of his shirt. "That's right."

He tried to forget the American, the strong figure, the bright eyes, and the energetic aura. It didn't matter. It didn't matter. The plan was what mattered. The escape was what mattered. Why did Francis always have to focus on such ridiculous, meaningless things at a time like this? Damn it all.


Francis was leading the forgery team at work in the recreation hall when Antonio glided through. He saw Francis hunched close over papers with a magnifying glass, and he took the liberty of pulling a seat beside him. Francis heard the noise and lifted his head up.

Antonio retrieved something from his pocket and set it on the table. "A present from our friend, Gilbert," he said. "I hope it's all in order."

Francis picked up the camera and held it close to his face: a slow smile spread across his lips. "Oh, how wonderful," he murmured. "How very beautiful. This should do very nicely."

Antonio watched him tinker with the camera and he felt satisfied with himself. There was a loud echo above, and he turned to the ceiling.

Francis barely looked over the camera. "Oh, that's Tino's men," he reassured easily. "He requested to dispose of some dirt in our attic."

Antonio raised his brows. I guess they were utilizing everything now, he thought. Arthur really had no limits.

He slapped his hand on the desk and lifted himself off again. "Well, I hope this helps. I'll see you later," he said, offering a short wave to Francis.

Francis was still admiring the camera very close to his face. "Of course, my dear. And send my thanks to dear Gilbert."

Antonio laughed. Oh, if only that were a possibility.


Inside tunnel Tom, Berwald had reached the end of where he and Tino had carved. He planted the end of a string into the earth, making sure it was secured firmly and tied by a nail. Then in labored breaths, he crawled on top of the wagon set onto the railing. He glanced over his shoulder one last time to make sure the end of the string was safe, then proceeded to push himself along the railing, letting the ball of string unfurl as he went. He was sweating, and wearily uncomfortable, but he kept going. Fortunately, the tunnel was lit by candles as they worked. It wasn't complete darkness.

He eventually reached the entrance of the tunnel and Eduard was there waiting for him. Without a word, Eduard snatched the ball of string from Berwald's grasp and held it close to his chest, pulling the string taut along the tunnel. The string had been measured off in calculations, and Eduard took note of that in his small book. He was trying to calculate the distance as best he could.

The next morning, Matthew discussed the results with Arthur and Francis outside in the compound.

"Tom has reached just beyond the pile of wood, Arthur. Still in the compound," he gestured to the pile outside the fence, but still within the perimeter of Luftwaffe territory.

"Tunnel Harry, of course, isn't as far as that," Francis replied, brushing long hairs from his face.

"How much further to the trees?" Arthur demanded, looking to Matthew.

Matthew hesitated, then replied, "about fifty feet, Eduard says."

Arthur nodded his head and clasped his hands behind his back. "Dark of the moon is the seventh?"

"Eighth and ninth," Francis added.

"And a day earlier in August," Matthew reminded.

Arthur bit his lip and began pacing near the fence, but not far from Francis and Matthew. He was deep in thought. Contemplation on what to do next. He paced back and forth between the group and the warning wire of the compound. As he was distracted by the plan, Matthew and Francis were caught off-guard by Alfred and the Vargas brothers.

Most prisoners were at work gardening now, and Alfred was one pushing a full wheelbarrow of potatoes across the compound. He met eyes with Francis and Matthew (the ones looking at him), and smiled. "Morning guys." He kept strolling with his wheelbarrow, and Lovino and Feliciano followed him a few minutes later with their own wheelbarrows

"Why is he piling up all of the potatoes in the compound?" Francis complained dramatically. "He knows that we're sharing the gardens, right? That it's not all for their taking?"

"I've been working on that," Matthew said: he sounded resigned. "But I can't seem to find out." He tossed his head over his shoulder and watched the Americans fade away. "Alfred and the Vargas brothers lock themselves in their room every night. Sometimes Lovino's in there with him, and other times he's on guard outside."

Arthur had finally returned from his stewing near the wire and approached Francis and Matthew very confidently. "Matthew, we're going to close down tunnels Dick and Harry: seal them off. And we'll pour all of our resources into Tom, and press right on into the trees."

Matthew nodded. "All right, Arthur. Will do," he promised. Francis sighed beside him, and Arthur turned his gaze fervently to the trees.

Matthew bit his lip. Tom had better pull through for them. He didn't know much more he could take of this tension. Among Francis and Arthur, and everyone else for that matter.


Late at night, Feliciano stumbled across the hallway lugging a sack of potatoes. His steps were short and uncoordinated, but eventually he reached what was his old room, and awkwardly banged his shoulder on the door. Alfred was the one to open, and he swiftly pulled Feliciano in at the same time he threw the sack over his shoulder, relieving Feliciano of the burden.

"Oh, thank you, Alfred," Feliciano laughed and rubbed his shoulder. "Potatoes are so heavy, you know?" He watched Alfred throw the potatoes into the large barrels. Meanwhile Lovino was concentrated over distilling the older patch of potatoes. He cranked hard on the contraption, turning it round and round. Alfred resumed help, and Feliciano watched curiously. They all stopped when they heard liquid drip. The three of them crept to the sound, and Alfred was the first to stick his hand under the drip.

He pulled the drop onto his tongue, and his eyes boggled. "Wow."

Lovino scoffed and did the same. He tasted the liquid, and managed a weaker, "wow."

Alfred and Lovino looked to Feliciano now, and he puffed up confidently to take the next sip. He coughed, and stuttered a weak, "wow."

Lovino and Alfred went back to work, distilling the potatoes continuously, all through the night—as they had done for days. Eventually, and by eventually it was a good time later, they managed to procure enough liquid to fill a large multi-liter canister donated so kindly by Antonio.

Now, they took verified real sips poured into a tin cup. Alfred was the first.

"Wow," he breathed, and a grin spread across his lips. He turned to Lovino and Feliciano excitedly.

Lovino grabbed the tin cup from his hand and gulped down a sip. He almost barfed, but fortunately just coughed. "Wow."

Lovino passed the cup to Feliciano, who glanced between the two of them cautiously, but refusing to dwindle under the pressure. He forced a gulp down and his amber eyes went wide: "W-wow."

Alfred grinned triumphantly and Lovino took that as his cue to cork the bottle up. Seemed like their work was going too well.


Francis was leaning wistfully outside his bedroom window one morning when he heard a voice that sounded very familiar. And the voice was not loud really, but it was distinctly brash and German: just like the one named Gilbert who secured his camera some time ago.

So Francis leaned a little further out and tapped his cigarette outside. He couldn't quite make out anybody, but he definitely heard a voice. Was it behind him?

"Come on, now Gilbird. You gotta fly away at some point. Don't ya want to be free?"

Francis understood more of German now that he was preparing for his escape, but he still felt as though he got something wrong in his translation. Who was Gilbert talking to?

"Ah, Gilbert darling," Francis called delicately. He hadn't yet deciphered where Gilbert was hiding. "Is something the matter?" There was a long enough silence where Francis thought perhaps Gilbert all but disappeared, but then there was a tap on his shoulder and Francis turned his head to find Gilbert's bright, red eyes staring deeply into his.

"Francis, right?" Gilbert confirmed. "Antonio's friend?"

Francis's lashes fluttered and he smiled. "The one and only."

From such close proximity, Francis could detect a slight smirk on Gilbert's features, and then he was talking fast. "Okay, look. I did you guys a favor, so now you have to do me one," he ordered, sounding much more like the German officer than Gilbert. But then his voice turned meek and he added, "see, I have this bird that I found…"

"A bird!" Francis laughed ecstatically, almost letting his cigarette drop. He didn't notice Gilbert's glare and continued, "why on earth do you have a bird?"

"Well, I found it, and I wasn't about to let it die in the compound, all right," Gilbert defended gruffly. He pulled open the black lapels of his uniform jacket and revealed a small puff.

"Is that a pigeon?"

"No, it's not a pigeon! It's a collared dove," Gilbert defended swiftly, and the bird disappeared in his jacket, seeming shy again. He sighed. "I found her sitting around the compound some time ago, and I don't know. She wouldn't move! So I put her in my jacket, and now she refuses to leave!"

Francis was fighting back quite a lot of amused laughter now. "How do you know the difference between a pigeon and a dove?"

"I was a boy scout, okay!" Gilbert declared. "And I may have dabbled in bird watching for a time…" He trailed off, seemingly much more annoyed. "Look—you try to spend your days trapped in this barren wasteland with nothing to do. It sucks, man. I'm bored as hell. How was I supposed to let this bird die?"

Oh, how Gilbert was amusing. Did he not even realize what he said? Francis assumed not. Because it was all the more humorous that way. Perhaps Antonio was right in his impression of him—Gilbert was bored. Bored enough to relinquish his duties as a German officer and galavant the compound in search of lonesome birds at least. That made Francis smile. He understood the flaws of humanity.

"Well, well, Gilbert. I certainly don't want to be responsible for the loss of a life. How can I be of service?"

"Do you know how to talk to birds?" Gilbert blurted.

Francis blinked, then chuckled. "I'm afraid not," he said. "But I do have quite a lot of fruit and vegetables from the garden. Could that be of help?"

Gilbert grinned ecstatically and exclaimed, "oh hell yeah! Grab some of it, will ya? I hate stealing from the gardens. The other officers give me such dirty looks. This makes it so much easier."

Francis decided to ignore that comment - he had been suspecting that someone had been stealing from their gardens for a while - but he didn't want to linger on it. Francis retrieved some tomatoes and lettuce, and passed it to Gilbert's ready hands.

"Thanks so much, Frenchie," he replied, and stuffed into the other pocket of his shirt. "Hopefully this'll help. Or else…well, man maybe the bird has just attached to me then."

"There are worst things, no?"

"Yeah, you're right," Gilbert agreed, glancing once more at Gilbird before he disappeared in his jacket. His red eyes returned to Francis looking openly. After some time, his brows lowered and he began to say something stern, then stopped himself. He smiled again and began a sentence a little less stern. "You know, you guys are pretty lax for prisoners of war."

Francis smirked. "Oh, should we be more more uptight like you Germans?"

"Well," Gilbert smiled, and it was warning. "You should know that Germans are never lax. Even if you want to believe it. So just keep that in mind."

Francis ruminated on the words, and replied cautiously. "Well, okay then."

Gilbert gave a half-wave and an awkward smile, before walking off in another direction. Was Francis supposed to make something of that sentence, or just leave it as another annoying German dictation? He didn't know, and he really didn't want to care. He decided to finish his cigarette and talk about it with Antonio later.


One early dawn, Alfred strode across the compound—it was even earlier than the morning German officers patrolled. He strolled to a garbage can he and Lovino had set up and placed a small explosive inside. Swiftly he closed the lid and stepped to the left, plugging his ears. The lid of the garbage can flew forward a few feet with a bang and Alfred stood proudly beside it.

Feliciano was on duty to raise the torn and weary American flag on the small pole, and he did it with a brilliant smile. A few prisoners had crept out of their cabins from the noise, yearning to know what the commotion was about. Feliciano and Alfred took their stances near Lovino and the bottles of liquor. Each of them took a few swigs. Then as people watched, Alfred pulled on a black vest and colonial hat the same time Feliciano tied a bandana around his head and grabbed an American flag tied to a stick: Lovino stayed silent and reluctantly participant. He delicately picked up the drum as Alfred grabbed the flute.

Alfred practiced the flute once, and it was harsh. Everyone on the compound gave him a look.

"About face," Lovino called, and Feliciano and Alfred followed suit. The three Americans formed a small horizontal line and marched across the compound, playing the tune of "Yankee Doodle Went to Town". As they marched, more and more prisoners rushed out in cheers to meet them, curious to know the commotion. They joined the Americans' walk until it finally reached the hut of Big X.

Matthew was the first to peek outside, tugging on his jacket. Arthur swiftly followed looking surprisingly disheveled.

"What's going on?" Matthew asked in confusion, his eyes looking very sleepy.

"Oh my god," Arthur murmured. "It's the fourth of July, isn't it?"

Alfred and the Vargas brothers approached their doorstep and dropped their instruments. Alfred grinned. "Brits and Canadians, you're welcome to the wash-deck for drinks this morning."

"A little present from the colonials," Feliciano added chipperly.

"Down the British!" Alfred cheered, he sounded tipsy already—what was he drinking?

Arthur rolled his eyes, but his lips turned up nonetheless. "Well, thank you for the invitation."

"We can drink to Tom!" Feliciano exclaimed gleefully.

"And to getting home," Alfred added, making a great effort at sincerity. And it seemed genuine. It's not as though Alfred was capable of feigning much else.

"Very well," Arthur nodded. His heart softened a bit, and he tried to ignore the fact it was American earnestness that did it. "We accept."

Alfred's eyes sparkled happily. "Good," he said, and straightened to soldier's attention. "Follow us," he said. "Down the British!"

"About face!" Feliciano called, and the three of them twirled on their heels until they faced the opposite direction. They began marching and more crowds of men followed them to the wash-deck, cheering and chanting. At the wash-deck, Alfred and the Vargas brothers swiftly abandoned their trinkets and set to work on grabbing the large bottles of moonshine and holding them steadily. A line formed and they began pouring cups of drinks to the prisoners. It was loud, happy, drunk, and chaotic—as any fourth of July should be.

The German officers came running with guns to the commotion, but quietly put them away under Gilbert's orders once seeing the Americans passing out drinks. They'd wait for their moment.

"That explains what happened to the potatoes!" exclaimed Matthew and he led the way of Brits to the long line.

"No harm in closing Tom for one day, right Arthur?" Tino offered meekly, and Berwald was right at his side reinforcing his words in stony silence.

Arthur looked from them to the Americans, and a grin betrayed his face. "I suppose it'll do all of us some good to catch a break," he said diplomatically. "There are only fourteen feet left to go. We can draw out the whole bloody camp."

Matthew laughed. "I think that calls for a drink!" And he skipped the space in the line.

Alfred, Lovino and Feliciano were yelling commands as each of them poured glasses.

"Moonshine. American moonshine!"

"Drink it up!"

"Drink it all!"

"Keep it moving!"

"No taxation without representation."

"Hello, Feliks! Don't spill any of that."

"Down the British!"

"There you go! Keep it moving, keep it moving."

"Don't get any on your clothes."

Antonio caught up to Francis in line and grinned. "Before your morning tea?" he jeered.

Francis peered over his shoulder delicately. "Well, why not? How long has it been since I had any sort of alcohol."

"No smoking while you're drinking!" Alfred bellowed, and kept pouring. Feliciano poured moonshine in his mouth and he coughed, but kept going. "Don't get it on your clothes, everyone."

The prisoners, all with full tin cups dispersed onto the compound and chatted merrily. Some laughing hysterically.

"Get good and trashed my friend," Alfred ordered happily, swigging more moonshine down his throat. Lovino had downed an unknown amount, but stayed quiet and diligent at pouring: only Alfred and Feliciano could tell how much he had drunk. Feliciano was certainly tipsy by the way he was spilling the pours. But it was all in good fun.

Matthew raised his glass to Arthur and smiled. "Let's drink to Tom."

He and Arthur chugged down their glasses, and at once both of them coughed.

Arthur leaned forward, hand grasping his chest. "Dear god," he wheezed. "In the three years, seven months, and approximately two months I've been in prison, that's the most extraordinary stuff I've ever tasted." His eyes were wide and green.

Matthew was in about the same state. "It's shattering," he managed softly.

"Quite right," Arthur agreed.

But surprisingly, Matthew licked his lips and his eyes flicked back to the wash-deck. "But, um," he began. "With your permission sir, I think I'd like to go in for a second round."

Arthur gave him an aghast look that meant: Why the hell are you conferring to me about second courses, but fortunately Matthew understood the subcontext and scurried off. Matthew's loyalty was a treasure, but it had it's small annoyances at times like this.

Antonio had finally grabbed his cup of moonshine by a very obviously drunk Lovino—who had poured more liquor outside the cup than in, but Antonio kept his mouth closed. He didn't think he was welcome to interrupt the American festivities, and as quick to sought out Francis's familiar company. Francis was poised on a bench, sipping his own tin cup carefully.

Antonio grinned wide and sat down beside him. "So, what do you think?" he asked. (Antonio had actually had three cups now. Just to see Lovino. So he may be perhaps, a tiny bit tipsy.)

Francis gave a cursory purse of the lips and murmured, "well, it isn't Napoleon brandy, that's for sure."

Antonio burst into laughter, because what the hell did Francis expect in a prison? Oh, gosh. Oh, god. Francis. He was so unusual. Poor him.

The line of needy prisoners had eventually died down to needing only one American on stand-by, so Alfred took his leave to bee-line around the compound in search of Artie the Brit. It took him, maybe about five minutes of eager pestering, and eventually he found his path to Arthur and tried his very best to stoll as chivalrously as possible. (American hero, American hero. That was his mantra.)

"How do you like it, sir?" Alfred asked.

Arthur pulled the tin cup away from his face and about glared at it. "W-well, it's, um," Arthur trailed off, surprisingly at a lack for words. He decided to channel the American insight. "Uh, to the colonies?"

"To independence," Alfred cheered and clinked their glasses with a broad smile. He looked at Arthur closely, expectantly, and Arthur fidgeted under the gaze.

"H-how are you getting along without us, Captain Jones. All right I hope?"

"You can call me Alfred, you know," he laughed easily. "But I think we're getting along okay. No problems yet."

Arthur fidgeted under the gaze, and was unsure of how to respond. How was that so? He always knew how to respond. But the silence lasted, and eventually, sadly, Alfred took his leave with a last smile. Arthur felt guilty.

The Germans weren't oblivious, nor were they distracted by the impulsive acts of the Americans. Actually, they took it as an opportunity for surprise inspections. And while the entire compound was out and drinking, they took their turn inspecting the inside of the huts, one by one.

Ludwig was leading the investigation of course, but it was Gilbert that was carrying it out. They reached hut 105 and Gilbert was the only one left in the room. He knew the prisoners were planning something—he just didn't know what. So he remained in the hut while the others scattered.

Outside, Berwald had noticed the German presence and was lingering near. Tino caught his nerves and hovered beside him, a little helpless, but just as secretly nervous. They didn't say anything, but Tino pushed the cup of moonshine into Berwald's hand and encouraged him to drink.

Berwald was stubborn, and even with a cup of moonshine in his hand, he paced to where Arthur was sitting, and warned, "Big X, there are Germans in hut 105."

"Who?"

"Gilbert Bielschmidt."

Arthur's lips hovered over his cup, but his eyes remained determined, and he took another sip. "Is that so?" he murmured. "Well, we'll have to ignore it. If we make a fuss, they'll know that hut is important to us. Just keep to yourselves, boys…" He said it knowing how futile it was. Not only were the tunnel kings on arm, but Arthur was as well: and that was the least merry trio to have on anxious standby.

But still, Arthur tried to ease their nerves somewhat. "Come on, Berwald. They've searched that hut a hundred times," he said and raised his cup. "To home." He took the sip much more anxiously than he wanted. The alcohol burned its way down his throat.

Fortunately, Matthew was keeping Peter occupied. Talking of stories of Britain and what they'll do once they're home.

"I'm so glad you joined the tunnel with us, Peter," Matthew said happily (he was on his… unclear cup of moonshine. But Matthew's job was stressful, so he permitted the drunkenness for this day).

Peter beamed. "I'm so excited! We're soon going to be home!" He raised his cup. "To Tom!"

Matthew clinked glasses and laughed before they drank to their toast. He laughed afterwards too.

Inside hut 105, Gilbert retreated from the sight of merry-making out the window and turned back to the bedroom. He had been heating a kettle of water above the furnace and was waiting for it to boil. Gilbert heard its whistle and grabbed the kettle carefully, but his thoughts were still distracted by the prisoners and their festivities, and Gilbert clumsily spilled hot water onto his hand. He let the cup drop and cursed under his breath. Without thinking, he brought his hand to his mouth to lick it, but stopped when he heard the oddest sound. The water passed over the tile beneath the furnace, but it didn't sound like a normal drop. It sounded like it echoed.

Gilbert crouched over the tile and ran his fingers over it. Then he grasped the kettle and poured water over the tile again, watching carefully, and listening closely, as the water passed through the cracks in the tiles and fell downwards. There was a long pause before the water finally crashed. Gilbert clenched his eyes shut in frustration, and brusquely brought himself up from the floor. He called out to the other Germans.

They came in hurry and Gilbert demonstrated his discovery. Then at once, one German was plucking the suspicious wood beneath the bunks at the same time Gilbert and the other guard stood up to help. Together they lifted the furnace away by the planks and stood over the bare tile square. One German ran his fingers over it, and Gilbert more carefully peeled away a loose tile, and lifted it up by a knife. They peered inside and found a tunnel. At once whistles bellowed across the compound.

All of the commotion outside seized, and the prisoners went quiet. Anyone involved in the tunnel was looking to hut 105 already, and once the whistle was blown their tipsy high was crestfallen.

Matthew dropped his cup to the floor and murmured, "oh my god, they found Tom." Then left Peter's side and ran to the hut. Peter laid behind, wide-eyed, and with shaking hands. Not again.

More German guards, armed with guns rushed through the compound, surrounding hut 105 and disrupting the festivities. Most of the prisoners eyed them in disdain. Other in disappointment, and some in worry.

Antonio cursed and tossed his cup to the side. Francis cast his head down wearily.

The Americans stood at the wash-deck motionless, but Lovino kept chugging moonshine back to dull the pain.

Only Peter moved. And he moved without any thought, just on instinct, towards the fence. His eyes were far away and all he could see was Britain. Going home. Leaving this place. And being free. His cup of moonshine dropped to his side and he kept walking. Freedom was so near, he could feel it. So he started running desperately, childishly, without concern or thought, he went. And suddenly he felt the wire beneath his fingers and oh God, he was so close! He was climbing higher and higher, and he was reaching. Reaching—he could almost taste freedom. Yet…

In actuality, Peter was stuck on the fence like a bug on a web, and was suddenly victim to the guards of the tower pointed their guns onto him. Alfred noticed what was going on and began sprinting at full speed.

"NO! Wait! Stop!" he yelled.

But it didn't help anything. The Germans shot, and without the ability to move higher or lower, Peter was bombarded with a slew of gunshots—to his legs and chest. Without any power left in him, Peter eventually fell motionless and weak to the floor.

Alfred had been struck in the chest with the butt of a rifle and was curled on the compound dirt watching it happen. When he finally caught his breath, Peter was lying before him curled up and dead on the compound dirt. Alfred was surrounded by German guards with guns pointed at his chest. He stood up and glared at Peter's forlorn body, then took deliberate steps to collect Peter's forgotten hat, and retreated back to Arthur's solemn stance.

For once, Alfred was serious and grave. The charming and infuriating American humor was castaway and he looked at Arthur with desperation and resilience. "Artie," he began. "Let me know the exact information you need. I'm going out tonight."

Arthur's eyes alternated between heavy looks to his cousin and Alfred. Eventually he refound his fire and matched Alfred's passion. "Right," he replied. Arthur turned to Berwald and Tino, who were obedient beside him. "Open up Harry," he ordered. His eyes were dark and green. "We dig—around the clock."

And that was not just an order. It was a command.


As promised, Alfred was able to clip through the wires that night, through the exact "blind-spot" he described. And by morning the German guards were confounded where he could have gotten.

Over his morning cup of tea, Arthur smirked to himself.


Inside tunnel Harry, Berwald continued to lead the digging—paving the way for the rest of the prisoners to escape. He was picking away at the end of the tunnel when dirt began to crumble. His arms encircled his head and he held his breath. It'll pass, it'll pass. And it actually did: was it just a fluke?

Behind him, Tino passed along the bags of dirt down the line. Dozens of men were aligned to carry the bags of dirt backwards out of the tunnel, and they were sprawled along the makeshift railway constructed along the base of it.

Each time the earth shifted, Berwald's heart skipped. But he remembered the plan, Tino, and Arthur's commands, and he kept going. He had to. As long as he could.


The next morning, Alfred strolled through the compound caught and happy. Feliciano tossed his glove and baseball to him, and he caught them before he was searched.

"Welcome home," Felciano called with a grin.

Alfred saw Arthur and Matthew's curious and expectant gaze and he nodded to them: he'd found what they needed and would tell them when he was released. The Germans finished searching, and he was pushed to the cooler.

Francis, who had been lingering on the sidelines, murmured, "I didn't think they'd catch him so soon."

Arthur smiled and turned to the side to hide it. "He wasn't caught."


Berwald was digging one day when his worst fears came true. Tunnel Harry collapsed atop of him and it took desperate minutes for him to crawl slowly out of the dirt. His breath was heavy and his green eyes were impossibly wide and far away. He hated small spaces. He hated them. He despised them.

"Berwald?" Tino called worriedly. "Are you okay?"

But Berwald hated worrying anyone. He was the bigger half of the tunnel kings. The muscle-man. He had to be strong.

His fingers clawed at the dirt until it dug under his nails, and his breath was aching for fresh air. "I'm all right," he muttered. "Bring some shovels, I'm all right," he added, a little louder.

The shovels came, and Berwald resumed his work in the same masochistic, laborious need he had to. He was the strength. The foundation. The manual labor. He had to keep going. It was Arthur's command.


During the forgery meeting, one of Francis's lackey's delivered him a newly made product, and Francis held it close to his eyes under a magnifying glass.

After several tense moments, he brought the magnifying glass down and cursed under his breath. "For god's sake, Smithy. You left out a bloody eagle."

"That's impossible!" Smithy replied indignantly, but Francis ignored him and snatched the paper from his hands—comparing it to the one he had held. Francis's eyes narrowed and narrowed.

"Yes," was all he said, and resumed inspection of the first document. Smithy began looking over his own paper, and Francis shut his eyes. He slammed the magnifying glass to the table and crumpled his document. "Four days work UP THE DAMN SPOUT!" he shouted, and it sent the lackey covering his face in shame.

"I'm so sorry, Francis," Smithy said, covering his face with his hands.

Francis hesitated on the words, but eventually managed a soft, "it's okay." He bit his lips. "It's getting late. Why don't you go off to bed. I'll pack up."

Smithy didn't take a moment's waste and eagerly pushed away from the table and chair, saying, "all right. Good night, Francis."

"Good night," Francis echoed back to him. The lackey walked out of the recreation room, and the door closed behind him, leaving Francis alone. So again Francis picked up the crumpled document to look at it, and he paused. Why did everything look so…blurry? He swiftly grasped his magnifying glass and raised it over. But wait—that wasn't right. Why should a piece of paper be so unclear when it was so near his face? Francis put away the magnifying glass and stared at the document, trying to gain focus of it. But it was just…blurry. Continually blurry. No matter the angle, no matter the light. It was all just blotches of color.

Francis put the paper down and checked his watch for the time. He looked at it from a normal distance, then closer, then even closer and finally he could see. But it was obvious to him now. The nearsightedness he'd grappled with for so long was getting worse. He was going blind.

Francis stared ahead of him and whispered, "I can't see a damn thing."


Antonio was smoking a cigarette out on the compound, staring wistfully outside the gates. His curls of brown hair were tossed in the breeze and they swished over his forehead. He brushed them aside and kept looking.

He heard footsteps nearing, but Antonio paid them little mind. There were always footsteps nearing around here. Except these stopped just beside him, so Antonio begrudgingly turned his head away from the tall gates and faced—Gilbert Bielschmidt. His arms were crossed and his face looked absolutely resolute.

Antonio managed an easy smile. "Why hello, Prussian," he said. "How are you doing this fine day?"

Gilbert didn't smile. That was unusual. Instead he turned to where Antonio was gazing, and said, "I never expected you prisoners to stay idle, you know."

Antonio blinked slowly. "I assumed that of a German."

"And I knew you were all planning something. I knew you were tunneling," he continued. There was a short pause. "I tried to warn Francis, but he didn't seem to understand."

Now Antonio's face contorted. He threw down his cigarette and faced Gilbert head on. "You warned Francis? Why?"

Gilbert appeared to backtrack some, his face reverting to a colder, smoother slate. "I didn't want to warn him, but…he of all people, I thought should know. So I told him that Germans were never idle. That we were always on guard. But apparently the warning didn't sink through. You guys were too lazy."

Lazy?! When every prisoner in the camp was working to the bone for an escape, and Gilbert was telling him they were lazy? Should Antonio retaliate to that? Was there a reason to? Would it cause more trouble if he did? Better respond to the other statements. "What warning did you give him?"

"I already told you. When I saw Francis last, I warned him that Germans were never lazy, and that you prisoners had grown too comfortable."

Antonio's fists clenched at his side and he stepped closer to Gilbert. "That's not a warning. That's an eerie statement! How was Francis or anyone supposed to make anything of that?" His breath came panting. "Were you just trying to screw with him? Or with me now? Just what side are you playing for Gilbert? Because I don't understand!"

Gilbert's red eyes flashed and he stood firm before Antonio. "I warned him because he has the most to lose, or haven't you noticed?"

Antonio looked at him blankly, waiting for an explanation.

Gilbert scoffed under his breath and continued as hard as before. "He's going blind, you imbecile!"

Blind. Blind? Blind?

Antonio heard the word but it processed oh-so-slowly.

"For god's sake," Gilbert muttered, and his hand sought his face. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed."

Noticed? Were the close stares a clue? Or maybe the way Francis held the ends of chairs? Or maybe that Francis worked until the ends of the night to make Arthur's wishes come true. Should Antonio have gained an idea from that? Probably. But obviously, this German—Prussian was all the more observant than he was.

Antonio still hadn't say anything, and Gilbert was watching him expectantly for an answer. Without one, Gilbert added, "well, considering him, you need to rethink that whole 'grand escape' plan of yours. Because obviously he won't make it."

Antonio's eyes hardened. His lips were set in a resolved frown. "He'll make it. I'll stake my life on his that he'll stay alive."

Gilbert sighed and turned his head to the side. "And you're sure you'll make it too then?" He shook his head and began walking away. "You prisoners don't know anything. Nazi Germany isn't a fairytale, you know? There's no simple answer. No clear way out. There's not just one bad guy out for you—the whole world is a bad guy." The last words Antonio heard were, "good luck."

Antonio stood there watching the Prussian retreat. He ended up reaching for his cigarettes, but realized he'd run out. Frustration on frustration. Antonio settled for kicking a clod of dirt and stomping the other way.


Francis was standing in his room and his breath came heavy. He was formulating a plan—a trick on everyone. Would it work? He had to try.

So he grabs a pin Feliciano had left behind and found his way to the door. He stayed there, staring blankly ahead and breath still fast. He closed his mouth and eyes, steadying himself. Then in controlled strides, he walked one step, two steps, three steps, and stopped. He planted the pin on the floor: something so small, no one else would take notice. But it was there in case. In case Francis had to prove himself.

As Francis straightened his back he heard the door opening; without thinking, he turned around and called out, "Arthur!"

Antonio was at the door, and with a slow, wary smile, he corrected, "No, it's just me."

"Oh, yes, yes," Francis hurried and delicately perched himself atop his bottom bunk. "Of course, my dear. I was being very presumptuous. I hadn't seen Arthur in ages—I figured he must turn up at some point. Anyway, what do you think of my escape outfit?" Francis made a small pose on the mattress.

Antonio smiled slightly and replied, "it looks fine." He watched Francis beam and walked a little closer to the bunk, still a few feet away. "How is mine?" Antonio was wearing his military uniform, not his escape outfit. This was a test.

And Francis, so beautiful and assuming, grinned wide and waved his hands. "Oh, Toni it's so beautiful! Feliks can be a wonderful tailor when he wants to, yes? And the color suits you so well. How marvelous."

Antonio's brows lowered and his smile was dry. For god's sake. He hated when a German - or a Prussian - was right.


It was in the middle of the night, Berwald crept across the compound, carrying wire-cutters and nothing else. He leaned against the hut when a surveillance light passed by, and moved again when it was dark. He was going to get out. He was going to get out now and breath fresh, free air. Now.

But he hardly made it two cabins until Tino was running to catch up with him. Their faces were hidden in shadows, but Tino's was very clearly crossed and he made a point of grabbing Berwald's arm. "What are you thinking Berwald?! You're going to get shot if they see you. What's the matter with you?"

"I'm going through that fence—now," Berwald replied, and brusquely pulled his arm out of the grasp and ran to another hut. Tino followed close on his heels, pushing all of his weight to his hands when he tried to pin Berwald to the hut wall.

"Berwald," Tino clapped his hands to Berwald's shoulders and held him close: his eyes were deep blue. "We're going to get out through the tunnel. We're almost clear. We can make it together!"

Berwald's expression was of anguish and he tore Berwald's hands away from his body. "Please, Tino. Leave me alone. I can't go in that tunnel anymore…so I'm going out through the wire." He viciously tossed Tino to the side, pushing him backwards, and ran to the edge of the cabin, waiting to reach the wire. Tino jumped to his feet and once again pushed Berwald to the wall.

"Berwald," Tino begged and his touches grew softer, reaching for Berwald's face. "Please think this through. We're going to get out, but not through the wire. We're getting out through the tunnel. It's finished."

Berwald panted slightly and shook his head. "I go out now." He made a dive for the fence, and Tino grabbed him backwards and lunged him towards the hut again. "Berwald," he pleaded. "If you go through that wire, you're going to get killed."

Berwald appeared to awaken at that threat and finally used his strength to retaliate. He grabbed the cloth of Tino's jacket and swung him from one wall of the hut to the other, and pressed his body close and kept his gaze near.

"Tino," he began. "Please don't do that." His breath was shaking when he released his rough grip and caressed Tino's cheek. "You know that since I was a boy, I hated and feared small spaces—"

"But Berwald you've dug seventeen tunnels—over seventeen now and—"

"I dug because I must get out," Berwald said. "I hide the fear, and I dig. But tomorrow night in the tunnel, with all those men… I'm afraid maybe this time I will lose my head, and ruin the escape for everybody," he stopped and let the words sink. As Tino gazed at him distractedly, Berwald took the opportunity for another lunge, saying, "I must go now."

But Tino swiftly came after him and tripped his footsteps, sending Berwald stumbling after. Tino used all of his strength to pull Berwald upright and press him to the cabin exterior wall again.

Tino held Berwald's face in his hands and looked at him closely. "Berwald, I'll see you through the tunnel." He tore Berwald's searching gaze from the fence and held his eyes again. "I'll look after you . I'll stick with you all the way, I promise."

Berwald was growing antsier by the minute, but less about his safety and more about Tino's. German guards were certainly rounding the corner by this time. He grasped Tino's hands and nodded his head once, "all right."

They disappeared into the night like thieves, and climbed their ways back to their huts.


Antonio lied atop his bunk on his side, smoking a cigarette and letting the ashes fall of the railing. Francis was lying still beneath him, but Antonio knew he was awake. Francis snored when asleep.

There was a knock at the door and both of them turned. Antonio called, "come in."

Arthur appeared at the open door, looking positively distressed. He crossed his arms at once and bit his lips. "Good evening," he greeted solemnly.

At the tune of his voice, Arthur leapt from his bed and to his feet: making a grand show of buttoning his jacket. "Well, Arthur dear…how do you think we look?"

There was a long pause and Arthur shifted his arms behind his back and clasped his hands there. He stepped forward and met Francis's gaze. "Francis, I," he paused and it seemed as though the next words were hard for him. "I want first of all to say that without you, we would not have been ready."

Francis's eyes fluttered and his grin was shy. "Well, that's all right. I had so much help. So much excellent help." He tucked one hand in his jacket pocket and turned away, still smiling. But Arthur didn't reply right away, and Francis grew suspicious, because since when did Arthur not want to have the last word? "What's the matter, Arthur?"

"You can't go," Arthur said. His face was stoic and unreadable.

At those words, Antonio perked up, and he raised himself up to watch the conversation more deliberately.

"What do you mean?" Francis asked dumbly.

"I can't allow it."

"Why?"

"Because you can't see a your bloody hand in front of your face," Arthur exclaimed, and his eyes were desperate, almost pleading. "You'll be caught before you got ten yards."

Francis paled, and he could feel sweat prick is palms. He tried to remain calm. "That's ridiculous," he said, and sidestepped Arthur to walk dramatically to the doorway. "I can see perfectly. Perfectly! I can see…I can see that pin down there. Does that satisfy you?"

Arthur calmly leant against the frame of the bed. "What pin? Where?"

Without answering, Francis took calculated steps forward to grab the pin he had planted on the bedroom floor. Once he grasped it, he held it up proudly to Arthur and waited for confirmation.

Arthur took a seat on Francis's bed and softly sighed. "Francis, do you, um, see the foot of the door?"

Francis's smile disappeared and his shoulders squared. "Yes, of course."

Arthur stuck his leg out and said, "put the pin there, will you?'

"All right," Francis replied. And he began walking. Walking until he reached the surprising barrier of Arthur's leg and stumbled over it, and toppled to the floor with a groan. Arthur hurried to help him up and whispered a small apology. Antonio watched the entire ordeal and crushed his cigarette in frustration.

Arthur picked Francis up by the waist and guided him to the bunk-bed, "come on now, sit down." Francis's body was entirely taught, but Arthur continued to pat it down and tried to ease him. "It was a good try. I hate these last-minute letdowns, but I've only just been told," he stopped and gave Francis's elegant, but obvlious figure a once-over. "It's too risky for you."

Antonio took it as his time to intervene and blurted, "don't you think that's Francis's decision to make?"

"No, I don't," Arthur affirmed.

Antonio laughed and climbed from his bunk to the floor. "Come on, Arthur. We all know the score here. Or at least most of us do," he said and tucked his hands in his trouser pockets. "Your idea of this escape is to start another front to foul up the Germans behind the lines, and that's fine. Fine!" Antonio paced towards the door of the bedroom and tapped his knuckles against the wood and peered over his shoulder, eyes emerald. "But once we've passed over the wire. Once we have them looking all over Germany for us that mission is accomplished. Afterwards, we have ideas of our own."

Arthur's smile was wry. "You mean getting home? To see your family and friends?"

"That's right."

"Good god, man. Do you really believe I haven't thought about that too?" Arthur's face turned cold and eerie.

But Antonio remained pleasant, and replied, "I'm sure you have. I know Francis has. And Arthur, I have too." Antonio crossed his arms and glared. "We think we can make it all the way."

"Not Francis. He'd be an appalling hazard to the whole escape. It's my decision"

Antonio's grin turned wicked. "You want to talk about hazard? Let's talk about you. You're the biggest hazard we have. The Gestapo has you marked. And no one has said you can't go."

It took a few tense seconds for Arthur to finally manage a soft, "it's true." He took step forwards and his voice grew stronger. "But if you're asking how far a commanding officer is allowed to go, or dare go, or should be permitted to play god…I can't answer you." Arthur was quiet until he turned on his heel and faced Antonio straight on. "But can tell you that a blind man is an unnecessary hazard not only to himself, but to the entire plan, and must therefore be eliminated from the operation."

Francis stared glumly ahead and didn't dare contradict. His resolve was crumbling.

Antonio wasn't convinced, and remained strong. Perhaps stubborn. He took a step forward and put his hands on his hips. "Francis isn't a blind man as long as he'd with me. And he's going with me."

Arthur quieted and alternated heavy stares between Antonio and Francis. Softly he asked, "is this all right with you?"

Francis looked ahead of him, indigo eyes wide and uncertain. "Of course. Yes. Very much so."

Arthur tilted his head away from Francis and looked to Antonio. "Very well," he said slowly. "I'll arrange for your escape numbers to be altered accordingly." Arthur didn't look happy at all. He strode forward and brushed against Antonio's shoulder. "Goodnight gentleman," he said. And the door shut behind him.

Antonio lingered nearby and turned to Francis.

Francis was chuckling to himself, muttering, "he's right, you know? I shouldn't be going. I shouldn't go at all. My eyes have been getting worse lately. I think they call it progressive myopia." He brought the pin near his face and continued, " I can see things up here, close to. I can see to work, but…" Francis pulled away the pin and looked in the direction of the door. "You're just a blur."

"I know," Antonio scrunched his eyes together and made a resolve. He was going to get Francis out of here. He was going to. No matter the cost or compromise. He laughed and leaned against the bedframe, looking down at Francis. "We'll make it in great shape, don't ya worry. Now, Francis—do you have any tea?"

Francis's smile was slow and wary. His eyes slowly sought out Antonio's voice and brightened. "Yes, of course."

"Well, then let's have some," Antonio declared and Francis followed the command with a laugh.

Francis slowly found his way to the tea and his fingers fumbled to find their way. Antonio closed his eyes and continued promising: He was going to get Francis out of here alive. He was going to do it. No matter the cost. He was was going to do it. No matter what.


A/N: thank you for reading! please comment :)