Alfred ordered himself beer. Matthew didn't ask why he hadn't taken the bourbon.

'I'm really gonna miss you,' Alfred said with the slightest hint of his old smile. 'You're the only other person here who understands. I've still got a year in this job, threatening innocent people- God, it sickens me. Wish I could openly be a pacifist like you, but they'd ruin my record and call me a Soviet sympathizer and I am not a Soviet sympathizer.'

'You're not a pacifist either.'

'I'm reasonable with aggression,' Alfred insisted, pointing at him, eyes wide with conviction. Matthew decided not to comment on that.

'I do understand, though. It was hard enough having to go to the border that one night, and I'm not even the one who would be fired on.'

Alfred clinked their glasses together. 'To getting out of this damn job.'

'To getting out of this damn-' Matthew gestured to themselves and their uniforms and the grey hopelessness just across the Wall. Alfred's eyes hardened, and he threw back the rest of his beer.

'Last day in Berlin,' he said, electric fervour sparking in his eyes again, standing up and ruffling his bomber jacket. 'Come on, let's enjoy it. And take off your uniform jacket, I don't want to be a soldier for a second more than I have to.'

They wove into a new, burning tapestry in the streets, brushing shoulders, drinking and slipping through the clubs. Berlin was a city of vitality, not elegance, but there was beauty in the twisting bodies of dance and worship. Matthew bought them both beers and Alfred leaned against his shoulder at the end of their night, watching the stars and moon.

'I've been lookin' for poetry,' Alfred declared loudly, staggering forward, hooking an arm around a lamppost to twirl in a drunken circle. He slowed to a stop and promptly pointed a swaying finger at in horror. 'Oh, God, Mattie, is that gonna fall on me?'

Matthew was starting to wonder if they should have done that last drinking contest, but it was too late now. 'It'll be fine.' He groped around for the nearest bench. 'Come sit down.'

'I'm not tired,' Alfred argued, flopping down. Matthew had to squint to see properly through the blur of winning that drinking contest, and he'd remind Alfred of that if his tongue didn't feel very disconnected from his face.

'You're never tired.'

'It's 'cause I'm a hero.'

Matthew dragged more words out of his pleasantly hazy head. 'Why are you looking for poetry?'

'Because Arthur said he used to have a book of it. Annotated all of Keats' poems and everythin', but he sold it. Or maybe I can buy him music.'

'Francis likes music.'

Alfred nodded seriously. 'Music is real important. I wanna get good music for when I go stargazing again.' He reached up, hands splaying against them. 'They're better in the countryside. Mattie, can you believe Artie's never been to the countryside? I'm gonna take him there one day, and everything is gonna be okay once I can do that.'

Matthew stroked his hair. Even Alfred's sun-bronze skin was pearly grey under the wash of moonlight. It made everything look rainwater-soft. He felt half-asleep and wonderfully peaceful.

'Everythin's gonna be okay,' Alfred slurred, eyes fixed on the constellations. 'I'll be with Artie soon, and then I can fix this whole war, I'll be the hero.' His face suddenly lit up, finally looking like the electric, brash pilot he was before the trial. Like Matthew's friend. 'Mattie! I know what I'm gonna do after I'm out, 'cause I'm never coming back to this job. 'M gonna be an astronaut! And Artie's gonna be a writer so he can write all about me going to space, and-'

He kept babbling on, looking peaceful and happy, his accent thickening with sleep and joy.

'That's right,' Matthew soothed, coaxing him back down. Alfred quieted and sighed, deep and satisfied, eyes sliding shut, and then his head dropped onto Matthew's shoulder with a snore.

If Matthew closed his eyes too, he could imagine the moon's silvery sheen sparkling across his skin like Francis' touch, gentle and full of deep, thrumming energy. The gardens stretched around them, green and tranquil and moon-soaked, and he felt present, grounded for a moment, the moon a silk cord tying him to Francis, an anchor to hold onto in this shifting world. Here, everything was peaceful, everything could be okay with the world for a moment.

Alfred talked in his sleep, murmuring happy nonsense, and Matthew stayed on the bench for a long time, savouring the moon and Berlin. Alfred had promised him a good, carefree final night in this city of art and war, and he'd delivered.

Finally, Matthew carried him back to base, took off his bomber jacket, and settled him in bed. He sat there for a moment, looking at his friend. His wildly brave, unapologetic, thunderstorm of a friend, who he'd never really known how to feel about. For now, he loved him entirely for his goodness, his conviction to take the world into his own hands and do his best for it.

'I think you're a really good hero, Alfie,' he whispered, tucked the blankets further up around him, got a glass of water for Alfred's inevitable hangover once he woke up, and left him to rest.

He laid half-awake and dreaming of the future in bed, whispering the lyrics of a song to himself. He'd show Francis his work, the perfect curves of equations, the awed looks of students' faces when they finally understood. He'd show him Canada once all of this was done and safer, the lakes and snow-capped mountains and they could go hiking and watch the birds migrate and be happy and free and safe together.

He woke up with tears on his cheeks and a smile on his face. He cleaned up the few things he wanted to keep, slowly packed away his math textbooks and his precious maple leaf poem, and waited for the commanders to come. They silently led him away, and he tilted his face to the sun and breathed in.

As the plane rose, he watched Berlin fold away beneath him. This was what Alfred would have seen, before the button was pressed. From here, he couldn't see the people or the details of art, only the split heart and the glow of the lights, glimmering in a bluegold split between the halves of the Wall. From up here, everything was different, but he still wondered if Francis was watching the moon and thinking of him.

0o0o0o

Matthew was dropped off in London. The next plane would be a day later, they told him. None of the higher ranks seemed able to look him in the eye, and it gave Matthew a slight sense of satisfaction to be so wrong in their eyes that they barely dared to meet his gaze.

London was a different city from Berlin. Matthew had grown used to the bloody, harsh, slick gratification of a city torn to the pieces by its wars. London was lacerated with its own scars, burned and gashed with a war that had left marks in the very soil, but the streets here didn't roar and roil and riot. There was no defiant, grinning wildness sliding like dark blood through the streets, born from people who didn't know if they'd see the next week through. Most importantly, as far as Matthew knew there was no London Wall.

He strolled the streets, mildly amazed that if he chose he could walk from one end of the city to the other without crossing into a land of boy soldiers and grey fear. He wandered through different shops. One shop, selling books, caught his eye. Perhaps he could find a poetry book for Alfred there.

He walked in and the bell jingled. Matthew discreetly removed his uniform jacket again. He didn't want to wear it if he didn't need to protect himself from the drizzle outside. His hair was a mess, too, dark and straight with rain. He heard someone come through the back, and raked his hair out of his face to see better.

'What are you looking for toda-' The shopkeeper cut off with a gasp, rushing forward, and Matthew stumbled back in shock.

For a heartbeat, they stared at each other, the man's green eyes wide with shock and pain.

'Arthur?' Matthew asked, stunned. Arthur carefully stepped back, brows furrowing,the pain etching deeper in his face.

'You look like him,' he said, hands shaking slightly. He clenched them into fists. 'I didn't think.'

Matthew didn't know what to say. Any apology felt too weak. They stood quietly, tangled up around the shadow of a pilot as the rain grew heavier on the windows.

'Did they throw you out too?' Arthur finally said, far too light. He turned to re-adjust a book stand that wasn't crooked. 'I thought I would have been a good enough example of what not to do.'

'You didn't do anything wrong.'

'I love an American. A brilliant, wonderful American, and he taught me how to love things so much that you'd take anything for them. It wasn't his fault.' He eyed Matthew again. 'So did they find you out as well?'

'I'm damaged goods to them,' Matthew said dryly. 'A pacifist.'

'Well, that's nearly as bad.' Arthur looked him up and down, a hint of amusement on his face. 'You did well.'

'Can I stay here for a while?' Matthew asked quietly, looking out the window, streaked by pounding rain. 'I'm supposed to fly back home soon.'

Arthur flipped the sign on the door to Closed and invited Matthew into the back. The bookshop was cozy and warm, and smelled like old paper and wax. A safe smell.

'What were you looking for?' Arthur asked, busting himself with making tea.

'A poetry book. Alfred wanted one.' Matthew shifted on his feet. 'Actually, it was so he could send it to you, but I guess I could cut out the extra shipping costs and hand it over to you now.'

Arthur paused in pouring tea and closed his eyes. 'He's such an idiot,' he said softly.

'He wants to become an astronaut after he gets out of this.' Matthew accepted the tea and stared into the depths. His throat was thick. 'I wish he'd been one all along.'

Arthur sat down across from him, stirring his own cup.

'He deserves better,' he agreed. Matthew missed his friend and he missed Francis even more now, running fingers through the messy damp curls of his hair, heart aching more at the muscle memory of his hands cupping Francis' cheek. He wished he was with him.

'Is this where you worked before all of it?' he asked, gesturing around. 'I'm going back to teaching after this. They didn't expect me back so soon, but…'

'No. Even if it was, it wouldn't have taken me back. My older sister runs a few shops, she let me work in this one.' He laughed dryly. 'My record is rather incriminating.'

Matthew knew that legally, his own record showed shell shock. The doctors had spoken about it and Matthew had stared at them without being able to understand. He was shocked by the inability of everyone to help, at the nuclear bombs, at how many good things could be ruined, not at any specific conflict borne with bruises and blood.

'I have someone too,' he admitted. 'He helped me realize that job was...it was killing me.'

Arthur nodded in understanding. 'I'm glad you two didn't end up like us.'

The admittance had sharpened the pain and awareness of how much he'd changed and lost, melancholy acknowledgement of the endless fight to scrape together something gentle in this world. Matthew rummaged in his pockets for the emergency bottle of maple syrup he'd bought earlier that day. He'd intended to make some pancakes later on, good comfort food, but the pain of missing Francis made him want something familiar now. He poured some into his cup, stirred and drank.

He looked up to see Arthur looking completely horrified. Matthew immediately realized his mistake.

'Sorry, I should have offered.' He held out the bottle. 'Do you want any? It's not the best, but at least it's not butter flavoured.'

'No thank you,' Arthur said faintly. He eyed Matthew's tea with great apprehension before dragging his eyes up. 'The man you're with. Is he still there?'

Matthew added some more syrup and drank, warmed by the sweetness and the open acknowledgement that they were allowed in the back room of this bookshop to call Francis his. 'He's not military. He's the artist type, actually.'

'If he's not military in Berlin, he must be the other kind,' Arthur said absentmindedly, stirring his cup. 'What's his name?'

Matthew savoured the moment before confession for a moment. 'He's Francis Bonnefoy, the poet.'

Arthur dropped his spoon and made the same face he had when Matthew put the syrup in his tea.

'Francis?' he asked.

'You know him?'

'Unfortunately. He's who I lost that damn bet to and had to sell that poetry book for.' Arthur grimaced. 'Alfred mentioned you didn't have the best taste, but…'

'Alfred only said that because I put a little bit of syrup on his burger once,' Matthew defended. He decided not to repeat what Francis had said about Arthur. 'I heard you used to drink together.'

Arthur sighed. 'We did. Different times. He was an arrogant bastard, but I suppose he was a very solid partner.' He glanced up. 'Are you...happy with him?'

He had been happier than he'd ever been, and known more love and loss and want than he'd ever known before. Francis had changed him so much.

'I am,' he confirmed confidently.

Arthur sighed and went back to stirring his tea with a slight smile. 'Well, I wish you the best.'

They finished their tea and Arthur gave him the one book in the store with Apollinaire's poems. He said he didn't want it anyways, it being French. Matthew put his jacket back on, smoothing himself back into the shell of a perfect soldier for the flight back home.

'In my opinion, you're one of the better soldiers this whole thing has made,' he said, pausing to fix Matthew's jacket, eyes lingering on the American signs there. 'I'm glad you're somewhat better off now. Alfred said you were- it's Canadian, isn't it? I've heard it's beautiful there.'

'It is. When Alfred is out, we'll see each other again,' Matthew promised. 'The stars are unbelievable up there. I've got a cabin Alfred borrows from me every year, if you're ever interested.'

Arthur looked happy, nearly peaceful, eyes bright with pride. 'Once this whole damn thing is done.'

Matthew walked out into the rain and tilted his head back before he went back to base, body full of pooled moonlight and poetry and silk.

The flight home wasn't like he'd dreamed it would be for months. Canada was still where his heart was, but his dream had changed from a quiet existence in the wilds like he'd had before. This flight was supposed to be with a happy Alfred at his side and Francis to show the whole world to.

They'd have that one day. Matthew traced fingers over the lines of the poems in the book, the face of a woman with a broad sunhat, and dreamed about how he'd trace the same shapes of Francis' skin and whisper him a different kind of poetry.

0o0o0o

:: Singing love songs to someone you wish wasn't a stranger