When the three of them arrived in Mijas, the first thing Francis did was seclude himself in a corner of the main room of the small house, scribbling away at a piece of paper. Antonio and Gilbert, who were still unpacking their things, watched Francis intently, noticing every little smile, every little twitch of his eyebrows.

"He doesn't usually write letters," Antonio said.

"Who do you think they're to?" Gilbert asked.

Antonio shrugged, looking away when Francis glanced up at them and caught their eyes. Gilbert continued to stare at the Frenchman, who raised an eyebrow.

"Is there something on my face?" he asked.

Gilbert shook his head, and then went back to unpacking the things he had brought with him. He really hadn't brought much from Berlin in the first place, and most of his possessions consisted of the clothes that Francis had bought.

"Who's your letter to?" he asked.

"Someone I met in Paris," Francis said coolly, keeping his eyebrow raised at Gilbert even as he continued writing.

Antonio put a hand on his shoulder. "Lay off, Gilbert. It is none of our business."

"But I'm curious," Gilbert said. He stood and walked over to Francis, crossing his arms over his chest. Francis looked up at him, and met his eyes. They stared for a few moments before Gilbert shot his arm out in a quick motion and caught Francis' letter in his hand. He let out a wild cackle as he avoided Francis with the letter still in his hand, managing to hold it away from the other man. "Let's have a read, eh?"

"Gilbert, it would be wise of you to give that back," Francis said, eyebrows furrowed.

Gilbert snickered, holding the letter so he could read it, but still keeping it away from France. He cleared his throat, and began reading. "Dearest," he paused, "now who could dearest be? Dearest, we have begun travelling again. I am writing you now from Spain, and I do not know when I will return to France. It may be in a year, it may be more. C'mon, Francis, just tell us and I'll stop reading."

"I think you should take Antonio's advice and realize it is none of your business," Francis snapped.

Antonio, on the other side of the room, didn't know what to do or handle the situation.

"Every day I will miss your eyes and your accent. Ah, a foreigner, huh? It seems as though we will be gone from each other for so long, though I promise it will not be as long as it feels."

"Gilbert, stop acting childish," Antonio said, finally deciding to cut in.

Gilbert huffed as his fun was ruined by Antonio, the letter snatched from his hand by Francis. "Aw, Antonio, it was just a bit of fun! Besides, aren't you just more curious now?"

"Yes," Antonio said, "but I owe it to Francis to not interfere. He has feelings just like both of us."

Gilbert groaned and rolled his eyes, crossing his arms again. "Don't turn this into some sort of emotional crap, we didn't come here to discuss this kind of stuff."

"No, Gilbert, we didn't," Francis said, "but you should still be acting like a decent person. Ever since we left from Berlin you've turned into quite the bastard, cher."

"I have not!" Gilbert snapped. "I'm awesome! I'm always awesome!"

"Then maybe we should ask you how Elizaveta is doing." Francis' tone was cold, as though he knew something.

Gilbert narrowed his eyes at Francis. "I don't talk to her anymore, you should know that."

"No, Gilbert, I meant the Elizaveta that is dead."

"That's none of your business," Gilbert snapped. "It doesn't matter anyways, it's not like me telling a lie hurt you in any way."

"It didn't, but that't not the point, Gilbert," Francis said. "We know you still have feelings for her, Mr. Prussian."

Gilbert glowered at France. "Why does it matter to you?"

Francis shrugged, and Gilbert felt something inside of him snap. He was just trying to rile him up at this point, and it was working more than Gilbert would have liked to admit. "Are you trying to prove something with how many women you've slept with?"

"Francis, please stop," Antonio said. "Gilbert, calm down."

Gilbert balled his hands into fists, his anger was at the breaking point. But it wouldn't be awesome to hit someone he was friends with. It wouldn't be awesome to hit someone like Francis. He did everything for a purpose, Gilbert just didn't know what the motivation was. He turned and stormed out of the house, slamming the door after him.

"Francis, what did you just do?" Antonio asked, turning to his friend with wide eyes.

Francis had a sad smile on his face, but he cheered it up the moment his eyes met Antonio's. "He was being a stupid boy, and needed a shove in the right direction," he said. "It doesn't matter if he hates me now, at least I've fixed some other part of his life for him. Stubborn German," he muttered with a light laugh.

.

Hours later, Gilbert was still moping on the front steps to Antonio's house. He'd torn the grass to his left to pieces, and had even dissected a few of the flowers growing along the walkway. He tensed up when Francis abruptly sat down next to him, but when he was offered a glass of wine he took it. Francis leaned back on his spare hand, his other occupied with his own glass of wine, he casually sipped at it, while Gilbert steamed next to him.

"What's your problem?" Gilbert snapped.

"Nothing," Francis said. "I have train tickets for you to go back to Berlin."

He couldn't have said it any calmer, but Gilbert felt as though he had been punched in his gut. "What the hell?" he hissed, glaring at Francis. "Why would I go back to Berlin now? We came all the way out here."

"Gilbert, you came with us because you were running away," Francis said. He held up the hand holding the wine as the German opened his mouth to say something else as thickheaded as before. "Don't tell me you didn't. You were scared of your father, scared of what was happening to your life."

Gilbert scoffed, and turned away from Francis. He couldn't bring himself to drink any of the burgundy liquid in the glass.

"You're a kind person, Gilbert, both Antonio and I were worried for you in Paris."

"Well you were wasting your time, I was fine."

"You can't tell me you didn't feel bad about all of it, Gilbert," Francis sighed.

The two fell quiet. Francis set down the wine, and then dug a few scraps of paper out of his pocket. He handed them to Gilbert, who reluctantly took the papers.

"The train leaves from the station here at seven, make sure you're not late," Francis said. "I won't accept you wasting my money, so at least go back to Paris. There is a key to my house in one of the windowsills, stay there and continue hiding, if that is what you so wish." Francis stood up, and took the wine with him back inside, leaving Gilbert to think.

"Fine," he snarled after Francis shut the door. "If they don't want me around anymore, I'll leave." He waited at least another hour before he went back inside, train tickets stuffed begrudgingly in his pocket.

.

Gilbert stood outside of his house in Berlin, staring up at the glinting, perfect windows and the gleaming, painted exterior. His stomach felt weird, he was meant to be in Mijas, relaxing on the beach and getting drunk every night. Instead, he was back in Berlin, back with Ludwig and his father and Mr. Kappel.

He approached the door, and knocked three times.

How would his father react? Gilbert was expecting him to spit in his face, call him some names, yell at him, and accuse his friends of doing something they hadn't. He cringed as he began noticing all of the Nazi flags hanging around the house. Two were draped outside of the front windows, one was hanging on a pole just to the left of the door, and another miniature one was in a potted plant.

The door opened, and Gilbert prepared himself for the worst.

"Who are you?"

He didn't recognize the voice. When he looked up, he didn't recognize the face either. His eyes widened as he stared at the woman in front of him.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Are the Beilschmidts here?"

"You mean the man and the young boy who lived here?" she asked. Gilbert nodded, panic rising in his chest. "Oh, well I've heard they moved to a town somewhere along the Polish border."

Gilbert felt his heart sink, but he nodded and grinned for the woman. "I'm sorry to have bothered you, please go back to enjoying your day."

The woman smiled at Gilbert, and shut the door. He turned and walked down the familiar steps, taking one last look back at the windows he had so often spent his nights staring out of. He walked to the train station, a small wad of money in his hand. He clearly didn't belong in Berlin anymore, so he figured he would go home.

.

Gilbert stepped off of yet another train, something that was becoming far too familiar for him. The station was still a mile away from town, so he walked the rest of the way. His heart was doing some sort of strange flutter of excitement, despite that he was nervous.

"You can't be nervous," he said to himself as he walked. To his left was a hill that he would never forget. A grin broke his solemn expression as he remembered the night he had spent there with Elizaveta and Roderich. All three of them had gone home covered in bug bites, and Roderich's eyes hurt from trying to read in the dark, but none of them had regretted that day.

As he approached the town, everything gave him a heart warming sense of nostalgia. The houses were all the same, and the air was fresh and clean. The cobblestones under his feet had become less flat as time passed, but everything was the way it was supposed to be. He wasn't nervous or scared to be here, it was awesome to be here. He felt like he was home.

"Beilschmidt, is that you?" some man called from were he stood on his lawn. A small child played with his dog. Gilbert had no idea who this man was, but he nodded and laughed loudly.

"Damn straight it's me!" he announced. He walked over to the man, who saluted him. He saluted back, knowing it was what he had to do. "It seems like nothing has changed here."

"Everything's changed, you just haven't been here in years. How many has it been since you left?" he asked.

"Too many," Gilbert said. "What's changed around here, I'm clearly behind on the news."

The other German thought for a moment, crossing his arms. "Well, old man Petersen died around the time you left," Gilbert felt a pang of guilt somewhere in his chest, though he didn't know why. "A new family moved into your house, but that Jew girl chased them out." At the vague mention of Elizaveta, Gilbert found himself instantly curious.

"What happened to that family?" Gilbert asked.

"Oh, right, you used to spend a lot of time with them," he said, giving Gilbert a scathing glare, "but hopefully you've learned better."

"Of course I have," Gilbert said, "I just want to know what happened to that scum." The words caused him physical pain to say, and he knew later he would gladly eat a whole bar of soap if it prevented him from ever saying something like that again.

The man laughed, slapping Gilbert's shoulder. "That's good to hear. No one knows about the girl, she managed to get away somehow. The other three were carted off to some ghetto."

Gilbert's heart dropped through the floor, his good mood crushed in only two sentences. Elizaveta was probably alive, but there was no way he would find her now. As for Roderich and his parents, he didn't want to think about it. He didn't know what a ghetto was, but it sounded like something bad.

"Thank you," he said, and saluted to the man as he left again. He heard a faint 'heil!' behind him as he tried to walk as calmly as he could in the direction of the Edelstein house.

The pristine white paint was covered in mud and what looked like char. All of the windows were broken, and the car was smashed to pieces. As carefully as he could, Gilbert entered the house, only having to nudge the front door to get it to open. Everything was in disarray, and it was nothing like the place he remembered.

All of the furniture had been destroyed or broken, the pictures that hung on the wall smashed and torn. Someone had clearly tried to burn the house down, but either the fire didn't catch or it was stopped to save the rest of the town, as only a few parts of the house were badly singed.

Fear bubbled in Gilbert's stomach as he entered the pretty sun room that had once been where Roderich played music every afternoon. The beautiful black piano that sat in the center of the room was hardly recognizable. Every other instrument Roderich owned was just as broken.

Gilbert found himself drawn towards the wreckage of the piano, the torn pages of a book sticking out from the splintered wood and cut wires catching his attention. He carefully moved the shattered wood, and lifted the book with his free hand. The pages were torn and brown from being left to rot. In the corners of the pages were little symbols, presumably songs that Roderich had mastered.

It was hard to tell at first, but it was the music book Gilbert had stolen for him.

.

Somehow, Gilbert found himself back in Berlin, guzzling beer after beer at a bar. The prices were higher than usual, and at first it made him mad, but he had nothing to do with his money anymore. He'd spent most of it on train fares from Berlin to his home to Berlin again. The only thing left to do was drink until he couldn't see and maybe stumble in front of a car.

He cursed Francis for ever making him leave Mijas and go back to Berlin. He cursed Francis for being the one to help him up the day he had crashed his bike. He cursed himself for leaving Berlin and letting his father take Ludwig somewhere he wouldn't be able to find them again. A small town along the Polish border was what the woman had said. How many of those were there?

He realized he could have gone to Joachim's, but the old man wouldn't have known he was there, and there was no way Gilbert could have walked from the town to his house. Perhaps he could have gotten a car ride from someone in town who was generous enough to take a shit out of luck kid to his grandfather's house.

Gilbert didn't even have the energy to pay any mind to any of the girls that approached him. He had started to tell one the story of Elizaveta, but quit halfway through and told her to go away. She'd reacted negatively, of course, but Gilbert didn't mind the bright red slap mark across his face.

"My friend told me you're having a hard time," one girl said. She sat next to Gilbert, her green eyes sympathetic. "Would you like to tell me what's wrong?"

Gilbert rolled his eyes, but looked the girl over. She was pretty, with bright green eyes and full lips. That wasn't the only part of her that was nicely filled out, and Gilbert grinned a bit. That was one of the few things he missed about Berlin while he was in Paris, German women always seemed to be more filled out.

"Let me buy you a drink," he said, waving at the man running the bar, indicating he wanted another round of drinks.

The girl smiled at Gilbert, raising her eyebrows. "Oh, how kind of you," she said. Her voice was sweet like honey. "So, what's been bothering you?" she asked, leaning forward and resting her chin in her palms.

Gilbert instantly dove into the part of him that told the story of Elizaveta, the part of him that was serious, and had no time for smiles. "It's the anniversary of the death of someone I once knew," he said. The girl fell quiet, leaning forward a bit more. "She was a girl I had grown up with in a town not far from here," his story was becoming a bit different than usual, the alcohol in his blood changing his words without him realizing it.

"What happened to her?" the girl asked. She was just the same as every other girl.

"She died," he said. She gasped, but in some way Gilbert couldn't describe it seemed fake. "Her name was Elizaveta, and I loved her. I've never loved anyone else in my life," he said, giving Francis' trademark sad smile.

The girl had her eyebrows raised, and was grinning at Gilbert. That was certainly a reaction he had never seen. "Oh no, poor Gilbert," she said. He didn't remember telling her his name. "Losing the love of your life so tragically, it's your own fault for moving to Berlin."

That certainly caught Gilbert off guard. He stared at the girl, trying to figure out who she was, and how she knew him. Her green eyes were bright and playful, and Gilbert was hit with a wave of memories from the summer of nineteen twenty seven. He shot up in his seat, his eyes wide.

Her eyes reminded him of a summer day.

Her eyes were like all of the leaves on the trees.

Her bright green eyes looked up at him.

Her eyes were avoiding his, shy from having kissed him.

"Elizaveta!" he screeched.

Elizaveta stood as well, and Gilbert pulled her into a tight hug, he spun around with her in his arms a few times, and then stood still, hugging her as tightly as he could. He didn't know if he was dreaming or not, but if he was he hoped he would never wake up.

"This is, this is awesome," he stammered, keeping her body pressed against his. She had changed so much, Gilbert hadn't even been able to recognize her.

"It's good to see you, too," Elizaveta said. "You better not have told all of Europe that I was dead!" she snapped.

Gilbert laughed and shrugged, diverting the topic. "How did you know I would be here?" he asked.

Elizaveta laughed as well, eventually pushing Gilbert off of her. "I didn't know you would be here, I just knew you would be in Berlin. Your friend, Francis, seems to have connections everywhere," she said.

Gilbert shook his head. Francis. He had been the one to force Gilbert back to Berlin, and apparently for good reason. He couldn't even bother to be sorry, he was just glad he was with Elizaveta again.

"It's good to know that I'm the love of your life," Elizaveta said, a coy grin on her face.

Gilbert blushed a dark red and looked away from Elizaveta. "I didn't know it was you," he said. "If I had known it was you, I never would have said those things."

Elizaveta gave him a sharp punch to his chest, and all of the air was knocked out of his lungs. "Gilbert, that's not how you tell a girl you've missed her," she said.

He gave her an apologetic grin, and took her hand. "I can't believe I'm seeing you again," he said.

She nodded, and fell quiet. For a long time, they both just looked at each other, taking in the differences. Gilbert had finally become taller than her, and had grown into quite the man. Elizaveta, of course, had become quite a beautiful woman, not even the prettiest girl in the world could compare to her. She was like a flower, as much as Gilbert hated sounding like Francis, it was the only thing he could think of.

They hadn't even realized they were leaning closer to each other, until their lips met. Gilbert wrapped his arms around Elizaveta's waist and pulled her closer, her own arms draping over Gilbert's shoulders. Their kiss was broken for long enough to allow a couple shy laughs, but then they were kissing again.

Gilbert's face felt like it was on fire, and everything was becoming too hot. He ran his fingers through the ends of her long brown tresses, softly prodding at her lips with his tongue. She opened her mouth for him, and their tongues met. It was a bit sloppy, with clacking teeth and bumping noses, but it didn't matter to either of them. All of Gilbert's nerves felt charged with lightening, and his heart was as light as a feather.

Elizaveta was the first to pull away, softly laughing and looking up at Gilbert. He leaned down and softly kissed her forehead, brushing aside her bangs with his hand. She lowered her arms to his chest, and pulled him into another hug. His hands rested on her lower back, one finger tracing small circles at the base of her spine.

"You're beautiful," he whispered. Never before had he said that to any of the girls he had slept with, but Elizaveta was different. She wasn't a prize to be won or a trophy to have, she was Elizaveta, and she was the love of his life.

"We can't stay here," she said, pulling away from the hug and grabbing Gilbert's hand.

He didn't understand what she meant until he was pulled out of the bar, and they were in the brisk Berlin air. His heart began to race, and he gripped Elizaveta's hand too tightly as she led him along the streets.

"Do you have a house?" he asked.

Elizaveta nodded. "I haven't exactly been spending all of these years doing nothing but sitting around and wasting away my time, Gilbert. I've worked and I've earned money."

Gilbert laughed, giving Elizaveta's hand a squeeze. "I wouldn't expect anything different from you."

Her house was dwarfed by the others around it, but it was nice, and cozy. Elizaveta was never the person to have more than she needed, and the house suit her perfectly. They had barely gotten through the door and shut it after them before they were kissing again. At some point, Elizaveta began to cry, and Gilbert pulled away from the kiss, tilting her chin up so she would look at him.

"I knew you weren't," she was saying, "but I thought you were dead..."

Gilbert shook his head, and roped Elizaveta to his chest. "I'm here now, you can stop crying."

Elizaveta, with tears still streaming down her cheeks, hit Gilbert's back, sniffling a bit. "Don't make fun of me for crying, you jerk."

"Well maybe if you didn't look so stupid when you were crying, I wouldn't make fun of you," Gilbert retorted with a snicker and a grin.

Elizaveta shook her head and hit his back again, then grabbed his hands. "I missed you so much," she said.

"I missed you, too, Elizaveta," Gilbert said. It felt good to say her name without it being some lie about how she died. It felt even better to see her, to hold her, to have her there again. It didn't matter to him what he had heard in their hometown, she was there with him and it was all that mattered. "I love you," he whispered, blushing all over again.

She nodded and gave out a tiny, choked-back sob. "I do too."

Gilbert followed Elizaveta as she led him towards the back of her house, and they fell onto the bed in her room, entangled for a few moments before they righted themselves. She was laying beneath him with a warm smile, all Gilbert could hear was his racing pulse, and all he could focus on were her beautiful green eyes.

Elizaveta reached up, and undid the buttons of Gilbert's shirt, and pulled the material off of him. For the first time, Gilbert was nervous. What if Elizaveta decided she didn't like him? What if she kicked him out? Her hand reached out, and she softly touched Gilbert's chest. He could have sworn his heart sped up even more.

She lowered her hand, and undid the buttons of her blouse. Gilbert swallowed hard, watching every movement her hands made. As she finished the last button, Gilbert helped her remove the blouse, and then leaned down. He softly kissed her collar bone, and then trailed his mouth down. He could tell Elizaveta was trying her hardest not to, but he could feel her muscles tensing and relaxing as he kissed her, pleased with himself that he'd made such a beautiful girl squirm.

His fingers hooked under the hem of her skirt, and he looked up just long enough to see her nod. He slid the fabric off of her hips and down her legs, caressing every inch of skin as he went along. Elizaveta's breathing had become ragged, and as Gilbert removed her skirt, he sat up and raised his eyebrows.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

She nodded. "Of course I'm sure, otherwise I would have kicked you out by now."

Gilbert laughed as he leaned down and then kissed the brunette again, making short work of her panties and bra. When he sat back up and began to remove his own pants and underwear, he couldn't take his eyes off of her.

"You really are beautiful," he said. She blushed and shook her head, giving Gilbert a half-hearted glare. He snickered, but then fell quiet again as he removed his own pants. Already he was hard, and arousal was pooling in him.

As he lined himself up and then pushed into her, the world frond them became all hot heat and oversensitive nerves. Gilbert's vision was clouded with stars, and he was in such bliss he could barely breathe. Below him, Elizaveta was gasping and moaning, crying out his name. Gilbert's stomach felt tight, and he couldn't help the small sounds that escaped him, or the times her name was hissed from between his teeth.

He didn't know how long they were together, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that when they were both too exhausted to move, they were together in Berlin, panting hard and basking in each other's warmth.


A/N: Hhhhhh I know this chapter is late, but please try to forgive, I wasn't too late, after all! Over here it's only 40 minutes after midnight. Also, did I say things were going to happen in Spain? I lied, I couldn't think of anything, so I mashed the next three chapters into one, and I am surprisingly content with the result. This is the first time I've ever written a sex scene that wasn't overly explicit, I'll have to improve upon that skill.