Plans for the next several days are made loosely over the course of the entire day. Canada and America both reason that Leipzig is their best chance to get out, but can't agree on whether or not it is a good idea. They both want to find England and France and get everyone out safely, and America wants to get Canada home for a cure, but Matthew doesn't want to be a burden or risk to anyone's safety. After being updated on the state of humanity in Europe by way of stories from Denmark, he becomes especially resistant and spends over an hour trying to convince them to make for Leipzig without him.

"Ivan can come find me when he brings the submarines," he tries. "I can hold out until then."

Denmark is quick to remind him that without his eyes, he's going to have a damn hard time feeding himself and keeping the fire lit.

By the time they reach an agreement, it's well past midnight and Peter is only half-awake, resting under a blanket with his head in Denmark's lap, listening groggily while Denmark's fingers run through his hair. He's tired of hearing America's loud arguing and Canada's shy martyrdom. It seems stupid to him. It's obvious that Alfred has no intention of changing his mind and Denmark can't get a word in edgewise one way or the other, so, as Peter sees it, the discussion should have been over hours ago. They could have spent the time in town collecting supplies and getting ready instead of wasting it going back and forth, repeating the same things over and over again. They don't have any time left to waste.

In the end, just as he predicts, they agree to come with them to Leipzig, but only if they are able to find some way to easily transport Canada.

"There's no snow or anything, so a sled would be dumb," Alfred muses while he restocks the fire for the night. "I've seen shopping carts at the trading post before though. That would be big enough, right?"

Peter can feel Denmark sigh.

"Anything with wheels means we can't go through the woods. We're going to have to follow the highways and roads." His hand stills on Peter's head. "That's going to make it twice as dangerous."

Canada nods. "I understand if you don't want to accompany us."

"That's not what I mean," Denmark snaps. "We aren't just going to leave you to fend for yourselves. Alfred didn't even know he was in Germany, I'm not even going to imagine him trying to navigate it by himself." He exhales loudly and resumes stroking Peter's hair. "We'll take you as far as Leipzig. But I want to make something very, very clear before we go."

Alfred peers around the chimney. "What?"

"If there is ever a situation where our safety is in jeopardy, he's my first priority, got it?"

"Well, yeah, I figured."

"I mean it." Denmark stares intently at him. "If we're being chased or run down or anything, you're on your own." He looks down and Peter pretends to be asleep. "If getting him out alive means leaving you behind, I'll do it. End of story."

"We understand," Matthew smiles. "We'll try to find our own map in town tomorrow, just in case we have to separate."

"Good." Denmark doesn't look up at them, still focused on Peter. He pulls the blankets up and tucks them around his shoulders. "Do you have any weapons you can bring with you? Knives, guns, anything?"

America snorts loudly. "You kidding? Of course I've got a gun, who the hell do you think I am?"

Denmark finally tilts his head up to stare warily at him. "Okay, you've got a gun, good. Do you have any bullets for it?"

He grins sheepishly. "Well… I have a few left." He reaches around to grab his bag off of the hook and draws out a silver revolver. "Smith and Wesson .38," he says. "It holds six and I've got four left."

"I don't believe it for a second that you only came in with six rounds."

"Of course I didn't!" He huffs and stuffs the gun away. "I had a ton, but the boxes all went out when we crashed. Flew right off with the wings and exploded somewhere."

Denmark gives him a blank stare. "You have got to be the luckiest mother fucker on the planet, you know that? It's a miracle that the people here didn't immediately find you."

"Good things still can happen," Canada says lightly. "Besides the revolver, we also have a hunting knife and a lead pipe."

"Let me guess-"

"Yes, it's Russia's."

"Right." Denmark shakes his head and leans back, his hand dropping to Peter's shoulder. "So, we have a plan then?"

"Yep!" Alfred slaps the chimney door shut and hangs his pack back up. "I'll take you to the trading post tomorrow morning and then we can leave the day after." He starts to slip into bed next to Canada, but pauses to look back at Denmark. "It's kind of a scary place. Peter can stay here with Mattie if he wants to."

Denmark's hand tightens around Peter's shoulder. "No. We stick together."

"Are you sure? I mean, the people there are kind of spooky. Like, horror movie spooky."

"He's been with me to one market already, he can handle it."

"I'm serious, it's really, really sc-"

"Alfred." Denmark cuts him off sharply. "He's a lot braver than a boy his age should ever be. He's made it this far just fine and he's seen some gross shit. He's not a little kid; give him some credit."

"Right," Alfred quickly switches off the lamp to avoid looking Denmark in the eye, dropping the plane into complete darkness except for a thin line of orange that borders the chimney door. He ducks down under the covers and cuddles up to Matthew. "Sorry. I'll see you guys in the morning."

"Goodnight," Canada adds. "If you get cold, we have a few spare blankets."

Denmark carefully shifts Peter out of his lap and onto the floor, pulling their own blankets over them both and settling down beside him. "We'll be fine. Goodnight."

Peter waits until he is absolutely sure America and Canada are sleeping before he reaches out to gently shake Denmark's shoulder. "Are you awake?" He whispers.

"Mmhmm," Denmark murmurs into the covers. "Wassup? Something the matter?"

"No," Peter pauses, smiling to himself. "Um, I just wanted to say thank you."

"What for?"

"For sticking up for me a little while ago. You're the first person who's said I'm not a little kid."

Denmark's hand appears from somewhere in the dark and ruffles his hair, but he says nothing, instead just laughing quietly under his breath. It's then that Peter realizes that he is still wearing the respirator mask. He's never worn it this long while inside before. Peter bites his lip and reaches out to curl his fingers around Denmark's wrist.

"Hey, Denmark?"

"Mm?"

"You're going to be okay, right?"

Denmark sighs, long and heavy, and drops his free arm around Peter's shoulders, rubbing small circles into his back. "Yeah," he says after a moment. "I'm gonna be just fine."

"Do you promise?"

"Promise what?"

"That you won't die."

Denmark shifts up and turns over onto his side to face him. "Everyone dies someday, Peter."

"I know, but… I mean sometime soon."

A pause.

"I'm not going to die yet, kiddo. We've still got too much work to do." He jerks his head somewhere in the direction of America and Canada. "And now we gotta look out for them too. We've got too much to do to worry about dying right now."

"So, do you promise?"

"Yeah, I promise."

Peter wriggles his arm free of the blankets and holds his pinky out. "Pinky swear it."

Denmark is quiet for a moment before he laughs and hooks his pinky with Peter's. "You really are a little kid, y'know that?"

Peter flushes and stuffs himself under the covers.

"Shut up."

Sleep comes to him quickly despite the muffled coughing coming from Canada's corner of the plane and the dull creaks and groans of the plane. Even without walking for the entire day, the constant stream of activity and loud arguing has left him exhausted and the relief that seeps into his bones when his body starts to relax brings the most welcome state of empty mindedness that he nods off within minutes, tucked against Denmark in the blissful quiet. Beneath the covers, he can ignore the sounds around him. He can focus on absolutely nothing and while he doesn't dream, he is more than content with the vast blackness behind his eyes.

His rest is short lived, however.

He wakes in the middle of the night, several hours later, because he is cold. As he pulls himself back to the waking world in slow, steady waves, he's dimly aware that the fire is still lit, popping inside the chimney, but his primary source of heat is missing. That source being, of course, Denmark. He thinks at first that maybe he is still unconscious, but just to be sure, he scrubs his hands over his eyes and blinks the thick, sleepy feeling from them, sitting up and letting the blankets fall around his waist. Canada and America are still sound asleep if Alfred's snoring is any indication, but he finds Denmark seated next to the wall, the flashlight in one hand and his cheek in the other. He's sitting on his knees and peering into the cracked mirror hanging from a stripped bolt in the panel, the light angled enough that he can see his face.

The mask is on the floor next to him.

"Denmark?" Peter mumbles. "What time is it?"

He doesn't turn away from the mirror. "Late."

"What are you doing?"

"You should go back to sleep, Peter. We're going to have a long walk into the city today."

Peter frowns in concern. He pulls the covers off of his legs and starts to crawl over next to him. "What's the matter?"

Denmark glances over at him. He has a thin line of blood streaming down his temple, a trail that starts from near his hairline where the butt of a pistol struck deep several weeks ago, leaving a thick scab that is now missing entirely. "Nothing's the matter."

Peter's eyes widen a fraction and he stops in front of him. "You're bleeding."

"I know."

"What happened?"

"Nothing." He lifts his free hand and wags his index finger, the tip of which is stained red. "I did it on purpose."

His eyebrows knit. "What?"

Denmark turns back to look in the mirror. "I don't want it to heal all the way. I want it to scar first."

"Why?"

He shrugs and looks over his shoulder. "It's the last thing he gave me." He wipes the back of his hand across his cheek to clean it off. "I want to keep it."

"Oh."

"Do you think that's weird?"

Peter shakes his head. "I guess not." He shifts forward and catches the last, rogue smear of blood with his knuckle, drawing it away from Denmark's skin and onto his own, and scuffs it away on the leg of his jeans. "You should try to sleep."

Denmark offers him a lopsided smile. "Yes, mom."

Peter rolls his eyes. "Take your own advice, dummy." He grabs Denmark's arm and drags him back to their nest of blankets on the wall, rolling his eyes when Denmark tips over dramatically.

"What, no story?"

"Just go to sleep." He clicks off the flashlight and flops down next to him. "Jeez, and you call me a little kid."

Denmark chuckles, but relents, and tugs the blankets up. Again, the plane settles into an easy silence and Peter spends a long time lying on his side, just staring through the dark at the dim outline of Denmark's face.

"It's not weird," he murmurs to himself and runs the tip of his finger over the pad of his thumb, over the hard, vertical strip of calloused skin that rests there; an old paper cut from a week before The Calamity. It's healed now, but is well scarred over thanks to his constant picking at it over the months spent alone in the bunker. He had wanted it to scar too. It's not exactly battle damage or a badge of combat. But even still, it was something he wanted to keep.

It's the last inane little scrape that Finland ever kissed better.

In the morning, Alfred rouses them by way of ripping the covers off and shouting a far too enthusiastic good morning.

"Good morning, ladies!" He chimes and throws their blankets into the pile surrounding Matthew. "Time to get up and moving! Up, up, up, lot's to do!"

Peter groans and sits up, fixing a hard glare on America as his attention is diverted to packing up his bag for the day and opening breakfast for he and his brother. The plane is still dark, lit only by the lamp, but there is enough light streaming through the door that he can tell that it's at least past dawn, something he assumes he should be thankful for given the excited manner he's been woken in.

"Do you always wake up this happy?" Peter yawns.

"Huh?" America's head pops out from behind the chimney. "What're you talking about? I'm in a terrible mood!"

Peter stares at him through his bangs. "If this is you in a bad mood, I don't ever want to see you in a good mood."

Canada laughs from under the covers. "You saw him in a decent mood yesterday when you found each other, didn't you?"

"Ugh, yeah." He scrubs his eyes and yawns again. "Let's not do that again."

He turns slightly to look down at Denmark. Remarkably, he's still asleep despite America's loud puttering and rude awakening, turned on his side with an arm beneath his head and eyes lightly shut above his mask. Peter pauses and studies him for a moment. Shadows run deep in his face, caught in crevices around his cheeks and eyes, and already, he is in need of another haircut. But through the bruises still lingering on his skin and his gaunt appearance, he looks peaceful in rest. The perpetual worry lines around his eyes are eased and his eyebrows aren't creasing his forehead like they always seem to. He looks calm. He looks relaxed.

He looks like a ghost.

Peter reaches out to shake his shoulder. "It's time to get up."

Denmark makes no move to do so. He continues to lay still, head cradled in the crook of his arm, his eyelashes not even fluttering when Peter shakes him again.

Peter frowns. "Denmark, c'mon. We gotta get ready."

Again, nothing.

Something hard and cold begins to settle into his stomach. He curls his fingers into Denmark's sweater. "Denmark?"

America appears beside him, a fork in his mouth. "Step aside, little man, I've got this." He pops the utensil free of his lips and sets his can of string beans aside, licking his index finger a few times before he bends down and sticks it straight into Denmark's ear.

Denmark's eyes snap open and he flies upright, smacking his palm over his ear. "Dude, what the fuck?" He furiously wipes the sleeve of his shirt against his face. "What are you, five?"

America laughs heartily and resumes eating his beans. "Got you up, didn't it?" He slaps Denmark's back, knocking him forward, and goes back to help Canada with his own breakfast. "Get a move on, sleeping beauty, we gotta get going."

Denmark glares at him and scrubs his wrist over his ear one last time. "Dick," he coughs. "Who the hell does that? Eugh, that's so gross." He drops his hand into his lap and sighs, an eyebrow rising when he catches the stricken look on Peter's face. "What's the matter? Did he wake you up like that too?"

Peter stares at him. "I kept trying to wake you up," he murmurs quietly. "But you wouldn't…"

"Oh." Denmark pulls the mask down around his neck, leaning down to peer at him. "I was just having a good dream is all." He reaches out to muss Peter's hair. "I'm sorry if I scared you."

"I'm not scared, I'm just…" he trails off, frustrated. "Worried. Or something. I don't know."

"Hey, I promised you, didn't I?" Denmark grins and pats his back. "I don't break promises, kiddo. Even Sweden can vouch for me on that, as much as I'm sure it pisses him off to do so." He catches Peter's chin and turns his face up to look him in the eye. "You don't have to worry, okay? Now come on, I think Alfred's going to explode if we don't start getting ready soon."

Peter snorts and starts to pull his coat on. "I wish he would explode. Maybe then we could get some sleep."

Denmark laughs. "Yeah, but then we'd also have a plane full of exploded American." He snaps his mask back on and starts to lace his boots. "And that's disgusting."

America throws a pillow at them. "Hey, I can hear you, y'know! And I'll have you know, my insides are just as awesome as my outsides, so even if I did explode, I'd still be just as cool as I am now."

Peter and Denmark exchange deadpanned glances and roll their eyes.

"So, how is this going to work?" Denmark asks after a moment. "Matthew, are you just going to stay here?"

"Yes, I'll be waiting here."

"Isn't that kind of risky?"

"No less risky than if I were to go with you." He sits up and motions toward Alfred. "He's generally quick whenever he goes out. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure you don't want Alfred to stay with you? I mean, he can just show us on the map where the trading post is and we can find it ourselves."

"No can do!" America pops on a pair of dirt-streaked goggles and starts to put on his backpack. "I don't know how to find it on a map. I gotta just take you there. Mattie will be fine. We've done this lots of times!" He turns to face them completely, hands on his hips. "Are you ready yet?"

Peter looks up at Denmark and then back to America. "I think so."

"Good, let's go then!" He spins around and gives Canada a quick hug, pausing just long enough to run his hand down his matted hair. "We'll be back soon."

Matthew smiles. "Stay safe."

"You too!" A quick salute and America moves to push the plane's door open a sliver, slow and cautious, peeking out and waiting, then shoving it up all the way and pulling himself out. "Come on!" He calls in. "Everything out here's fine!"

Denmark pats Peter's shoulder. "I'm gonna go ahead and go out first this time, okay? I'll help you out in a minute."

"Okay."

While Denmark hauls his way free of the plane, Peter sidesteps to crouch down next to Canada, tapping his arm to get his attention.

"You really can't see anything?"

"Not a thing."

"Does… does it hurt?"

Canada tilts his head slightly. "Being blind?"

"Yes. Well, no. Everything, I mean. Like breathing? Does breathing hurt?"

Canada's smile is small and just as empty as his eyes. "Worse than anything."

From above them, Peter can hear Denmark coughing and it makes his stomach twist.

True to his word, Alfred is able to lead them straight to the trading post in the middle of the city. Unlike the last one they stopped at, this one is indoors, placed in the gutted remains of blackened community center. It has no roof and the windows are all shattered, but there are enough streaky footprints in the ash that blankets the floor that Peter can still see the faded yellow and black lines that run along the sides. A basketball court, he reasons. If he squints through the dim light, he can even see the frayed remains of a net, still mounted to a crooked bar above the vendors. He momentarily entertains the idea of crumpling a piece of paper to throw through it, but shakes the thought free almost as quickly as it comes; it's a childish want and they don't have time for it.

Denmark suggests that they split up and meet back at the front doors in half an hour, taking Peter by the hand and leading him to the first row of stalls while Alfred flounces off to try and find something to carry Canada in. Though this one is bigger, much of what is being offered is exactly the same, just in larger quantities. He can see stacks of cardboard boxes, filled to the brim with newspapers and bits of plastic, and more stuffed animals than he can keep track of. Like the first, the whole structure reeks of humanity and it only gets worse as they get closer to the center line of peddlers, an overwhelming stench of mud and sweat washing over them so thickly that Peter actually gags and pulls his scarf up around his nose.

They stop in front of two young women seated in rusty lawn chairs. They have a blanket spread out beneath them, several dented cans and a bin full of passports arranged neatly by their feet. At first, Peter thinks that they are just going to move on to the next stall. The people just a few steps further have bottles of water and ration packs, all of which are in much better condition than what the women have, but Denmark stops directly in front of them and snatches up one of the cans. It's the only one that has a label still, a dingy light blue with red letters.

"Where did you get this?" He demands and shoves the can at them.

The two women exchanged worried glances and explain to him that they brought it with them. They both have thick accents, almost a stutter, and at once, Denmark's eyes widen and he begins to speak to them in a rapid language that Peter does not understand. It's not Danish, he knows that much. It's too fluid and pretty. Musical, even, spoken from the tip of his tongue unlike the hard curses that he's taught Peter to choke through.

There is a pause in the conversation and they hand Denmark the box full of passports, showing him the crest on the front. Before Peter can see what the writing says, it is dropped back into the box and Denmark is grabbing the hands of the one who showed him, kneeling low and pressing his forehead to her wrist.

"Thank you," he says quietly. He lets go of the startled brunet and pulls a blanket from their pack, pushing it into her arms in exchange for the cans, which he places back in the bag all except one. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you." Again, he slips into that fluttery language and blathers his way through what Peter assumes to be more expressions of gratitude for several more seconds, eyes shining when he straightens up and takes Peter's hand again.

He leads him out of the stalls and to the wall, too quick for Peter to get a word in, and promptly collapses onto the floor once they are out of the way, pulling the mask down and laughing into his hands. Alarmed, Peter drops down beside him and tentatively reaches out to take the can with the blue label. The words are written in a thin, swoopy font, pale red and bright against the label. It's torn on one side, but Peter couldn't make heads of tails of it even if it weren't.

He looks up at Denmark, who still has his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with barely subdued chuckles. He taps his shoulder, blinking in surprise when Denmark lifts his head and meets his stare with wet, red eyes and the biggest smile Peter has seen him wear since finding Netherlands.

"What's so funny?" He asks and holds up the can. "What is this?"

Denmark laughs again and gingerly takes the can from him, turning it around to face him and pointing at the label. "Grænmeti súpa," he says, voice just barely wavering. "Grænmeti súpa, fuckin' vegetable soup. It's vegetable soup."

Peter stares at him. He knows for a fact that they have at least two cans of vegetable soup of their own left. "What's so funny about it?"

"Nothing's funny. I just never thought I'd be so goddamn happy to see this crappy soup again." He waves the can, grinning. "There's only one place I've ever seen this before."

"Where?"

"Discount grocery stores." He breaks out in another watery grin and wipes his eyes on the back of his coat sleeve. "Discount grocery stores in Iceland. It costs a hundred krónur for one can and it tastes like salty piss and it's from fuckin' Iceland."

It takes a moment for this to sink in, but as soon as it does, Peter's face bursts into a wide smile and he grabs the can back, spinning it in his palm and running his fingers over the label. "So, you were talking in Icelandic back there? Those ladies are from Iceland?"

Denmark nods enthusiastically. "They said that the North side of the island is in ruins, but Reykjavík is still standing. A German ferry picked them up a few months ago and brought them here. They said there's another boat that came a few times." He grabs Peter's shoulders and shakes him happily. "A boat flying a Norwegian flag."

Peter drops the can and throws his arms around Denmark's neck, laughing hysterically when the star struck Dane stands up and swings him around, clutching him tightly and laughing right along with him, completely oblivious to the confused stares being shot their way by passersby. By the time they manage to calm down, Denmark's face is flushed and he's still laughing, hard enough that he has to pull the mask back on before he can pull Peter back into the crowd.

"C'mon!" He calls. "Let's hurry so we can finish and get going!"

Peter agrees heartily and scurries after him. They're able to haggle themselves enough food to last a week and America finds a shopping cart with a rickety wheel, but as they leave, Peter knows they've already found their most important item at the market.

They've found a new sliver of hope.