Every day, Feli had begun noticing small things outside of camp. Yesterday, he had seen a cloud so thin and long that it looked like the path of a wayward star. Today, he saw a pretty flower blooming from the farthest corner of camp. He had risked his life foolishly, and Antonio had fretted over him all night for it, but Feli snatched the flower of purple.

Later that night, it had been crushed by the other bodies huddling together for warmth on the bunk. Feli had cried, and it was over something so pitifully irrelevant and small. Romano had always considered him a crybaby.

"Feli?" the hoarse whisper woke him from his plagued sleep.

Feli glanced around worriedly, before realizing that Antonio was gripping onto him tightly. Antonio's eyes were wide, and their green depths didn't seem to even be looking at Feli anymore.

"Antonio?" Feli whispered back, moving so he could properly see the Spaniard.

A fit of raucous coughing broke out from Antonio's shivering body. He had been having the chills for many days now. His nose was streaming, but he didn't seem to care. His lips were in a broken smile.

"I'm tired, Feli," he told the Italian.

Feli shook his head. "That's because you're tired," he answered. "Go to sleep. I'll wake you up in the morning."

Antonio only sighed. Feli rustled around before seeing a few squashed petals of violet. He held it up for Antonio to see. "A flower, see Antonio?"

Antonio smiled for real now, his eyes visibly fondling the remnants of beauty. "Violeta," he murmured, leaning his head back to relax. "Púrpura…I wonder how beautiful Spain looks today."

Feli swallowed. "I wonder how beautiful Palermo looks today," he echoed similarly. He could remember the layout of the old streets as if they were sketched on the back of his hand.

Antonio sighed again. "I wonder where Romano is right now. He was always so obstinate. You should have seen him the first nights we were here. We had the same barrack. I never knew how cute he looked when he was sleeping."

Feli didn't know why Antonio was trying to recall that. Wherever Romano was, it had to be better than here. "You love him," Feli stated both dumbly and wisely.

Antonio chuckled lightly in a cracked voice. His green eyes, which so strikingly resembled beautiful jade, became distant in the dark light. "I do," he murmured.

Feli shifted. "How did fratello survive here? He would have hated the crematoriums."

Antonio shook his head. "Romano dug trenches like you and I. You're right; he would've died of guilt and grief in the crematoriums. The nights made up for it, I suppose."

"The nights?" Feli asked. Feli was aware that the night gave the prisoners safety from bullets and soldiers. However, he didn't like lying there and listening to the coughs of the sick and the sobs of the heart-broken.

Antonio chuckled again. "I had imagined it many times, Feli. I never thought your brother's lips would be so perfect."

"Oh," Feli replied dumbly. His head held images of his Fratello and Antonio kissing. But the images were hard to imagine. Feli always thought that Romano wanted to have his first time in a nice place. "You had sex."

Antonio shot up from lying down to sitting upright. "Sex?" he asked incredulously. "No, Feli. We didn't do it here in all places. We just kissed. I'll never forget the look on his face when I told him just how much I loved him."

"The soldiers would punish you for that," Feli choked out. "Isn't it bad to be gay? Grandpa always said it was, and so does the Church! Romano was Catholic, like me! How could he be gay? I thought that the Pope didn't like that kind of stuff!"

Antonio watched Feli for a long time. "It's perfectly fine to love someone of the same gender, Feli. Your Fratello understood that, and I think that's why he was alright with confessing to me his own feelings. Your Pope doesn't like it, true, and most of the Church doesn't either. But it isn't a bad thing, Feli. It's just like loving a girl, only it is more to your preference."

Feli stayed silent. "Is that why Romano always went to you for help, Antonio?"

Antonio forced a laugh. "Romano loved me since he was a kid, but I don't think he's realized just how long he's loved me."

"How long have you loved him?"

Another sigh. "A very long time."

Three months later, in the March of 1944, Antonio was deported to a concentration camp very close to the Italian border. When the Spaniard had heard the name of the camp, he brightened. Feli, confused, asked why.

Apparently, that was where Romano had been sent a year ago. So, Feli reflected, Antonio was desperate to see Fratello again. Feli was just as desperate, but he could guess from Antonio's shining eyes that Antonio was happier than Feli could ever be. Even in this state, Feli didn't think he had ever seen Antonio so hopeful.

When April rolled around, and the snow began melting away from the land of Poland, Feli saw a group of birds fly by overhead. They sang pretty songs as they passed by and, during the night, Feli tried to copy their song through his own whistles.

It was terrifying the next day. Apparently, there was a new group of soldiers coming to the prison camp of Auschwitz. To make an example of the expectations for the new shift of soldiers and commandant, the former authorities held an execution in the middle of each group of barracks.

Ten barracks watched as a number, a number belonging to one of the barracks, was called. Feli held his breath as the soldier in charge of his barrack readied to call the number of barrack to be executed. Barrack 14 was called, and Feli hid a sigh of relief.

The men lined up as ordered, and the soldiers drew their guns to the back of the prisoners' heads. Feli pretended to blink when the shots went off, and pretended further that he needed to keep them closed long than necessarily.

When he opened his eyes, he just wanted to close them again. The spared barracks shuffled back into the cramped rooms, and into the cramped bunks. Stiffness laid in each of them.

Feli didn't know what to think. When he had to dig the graves the next day, he tried not to look at the piles of ash they pour into the holes. The ground was unforgiving.

"Sie," a low voice spoke.

Feli jumped and spun around, meeting the unmistakable German that had spoken. The German had blonde hair, steely grey eyes, and a hissing scar across his chin. The German beckoned for the brunette Italian to follow.

Feli did so obediently, and met up with a small group of other prisoners. They were marched to the nearest town, something Feli was not expecting. Confused, he tried to see as much of the world as he possibly could.

When they arrived in town, the streets seemed deserted. Feli had never been more confused. This was Poland, shouldn't people be bustling about? At a street corner, he caught a glimpse of a newspaper. His heart caught in his throat. He saw Italy written in bold there on the headline.

Dashing over, he fell to his knees beside the paper with a loud wail driven straight from his heart. On the cover, it showed that Italy had surrendered. Mussolini was gone. Italy was once again free. Romano was right; loyalty to their country had paid off.

Feli cried out loudly, in a mix of pure blissful joy and despair. He didn't know why he was despairing and why he felt so shattered there on the sidewalk corner in Poland, just two miles away from Auschwitz.

All he did know was that he didn't remember ever being so happy. Mussolini was away from Italy, and Italy was now safe from the war. Feli shook with sobs. He clutched the newspaper fragment to his chest, and then a thought occurred to him. Reading through teary eyes, he caught sight of the date.

September 8, 1943. Italy had been free for seven months now. The joy was fantastic.

He turned back to the others, and saw them all watching his heart break there on the grimy street. The German soldier watched him through his steely eyes, but didn't make a move to point his gun.

Feliciano was horribly, horribly confused as to why the soldier wasn't angry. That was until a click sounded behind him. Feli spun around to see the barrel of hand gun only millimeters away from his forehead. The German holding the gun did not have a shaky hand. He was a dirty blonde with light blue eyes and an evil glare that made Feli shrink.

Feli couldn't think of anything. So, he said one of the dumbest things he could have.

"Siamo liberi."

The man hesitated. Feli didn't know what from. Perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of the Italian language to German-born ears. Maybe it was the boldness of the words Feli had spoken. Either way, he hesitated. One of the other Jews in line ran.

The Jewish prisoner crashed into the armed man. Feli's breath caught in his throat. He scrambled away, back to the group he had come with. The leader of their small patrol began hitting him with the hilt of his gun.

A shot rang out into the air, and Feli flung his head up to see where the bullet had done its damaging purpose. Lying on the street was the man that had saved Feli by distracting the German soldier. Feli screamed loudly and cowered when the patrol leader began beating him with the hilt of his gun.

He couldn't understand German, but he understood the spite behind the foreign words. He cried out and begged for mercy until he was roughly pulled up by his shirt collar to look the patrol leader in the blue eye.

More words were being yelled at him, and Feli loudly wailed in between the harsh syllables that made up the Germanic language. Everything froze in Feli's mind when yet another gun was pointed at him.

It would have gone off if it had not been for a shout down the street. Feli glanced around the man holding his shirt to have his head spin with confusion. Romano stood there, fully clothed in the uniform of the Gestapo. Feli hoped that Romano hadn't been tortured into working for the Nazi's: he would die if he had to fight his Fratello.

"Aufhören!" Romano yelled, stomping up. In German, he continued so that Feli could not understand.

"What is your business, shooting a member of the Italian Resistance?" Romano demanded. "He is in the custody of the Gestapo. What is your name, lieutenant?"

The soldier shifted. "Kemmelst," he responded. "Why is an Italian in the Gestapo?"

"Some Italians know which side they're on. Tell me, Kemmelst, do you like skiing?" Romano questioned. When the soldier merely looked confused, he added, "I'll have you written up for deportation to the Russian Front. I've heard that the winters there are very beautiful."

The soldier paled. "Nein, Herr. Take the Italian prisoner."

Romano motioned for Feli to come closer. Feli had to restrain himself from not rushing to fratello's side and sobbing into the dark charcoal uniform. Instead, he hunched beside Romano. His Fratello finished up curt words with Lieutenant Kemmelst before walking away.

When they turned the corner onto a different street, littered with glass and old belongings dirtied by the street's grime, Feli turned to Romano. "Fratello?" he asked softly, his voice betraying the tears he was forcing himself to not shed.

"Shut up," Romano growled; he pushed his brother down and into the basement of one of the stores.

"How did you esca-"

Feli was cut off by a viciously murderous glare curtesy of Romano. "I said shut up," Romano growled, closing the cellar door. The room went pitch black.

Feli shivered, until the flare of a match made him jerk away and crumple into the corner. Romano stood with a match in his hand and a lantern burning beside his head from where it hung from the flakey ceiling.

"How did you escape, Fratello?" Feli felt the tears still streaming down his face, but his chest no longer convulsed uncontrollably with screeches of grief and sobs of unbearable thought.

Romano sighed and slid down to the concrete floor. Feli had never seen his older brother so ragged and starved. "It was a bad idea," he mumbled. "That damn Spaniard never has good ideas. He got himself caught because of his damn idea. Damn him, Feli. Damn him…damn me."