Francis wished he was brave enough to burn the map, cut the resistance out of his future like he had his past. Gilbert had always been able to do that so easily, to cauterize wounds that Francis would keep nursing for years.

Freedom. That's what the West had promised him. That's what he had received, running from the East that night. The freedom of art and the future, the freedom to learn Matthew, all his humour and wonder. Freedom from the resistance. Francis had become his own man, or so he'd pretended. He'd always been someone else's, and Matthew had been the sweetest.

He folded the paper over in his hands again, as if hiding the message and the map would hide the fact that he was falling right back into Gilbert's bloody thrall all over again. If Mathias was reaching out to them both, it was something more dangerous than ever.

He thought of Antonio, his tanned warm hands and the quiet darkness in his eyes. He was still loyal to the cause. Francis would see him again. The idea of it twisted his chest into sharp pains, and he tried not to think of it anymore. Him, and Antonio, and Gilbert, all together again.

He folded the letter up again, trying to preserve the last traces of creasing. He'd already handled it so much it was tending to flatten out, but he pressed on the folds hard and slid it beneath his paint set. He didn't want to see it again.

There had never been a question about going. Gilbert's hold on him still ran blood-deep. He had to go, to try to fix something of this shattered city. For Ludwig, or Feliciano, or Matthew. Whatever had happened, he had a feeling it would be his last run with the Berlin resistance, and why not go out with fanfare?

No, there was no such thing as invincible in Berlin, but the Americans thought they were and that would be enough. Francis strode over to the phone and dialed the military base number. As the tone rang, he leaned his forehead against the cool wall, trying to breathe. His chest had gone tight.

The man who answered sounded young and exhausted, mumbling into the receiver.

'American Air Force, stationed in Berlin. Who are you trying to reach?'

Francis closed his eyes. If this went wrong, it would not be only him who died for it.

'I need to speak to Alfred F. Jones.'

'Jones?' The young man made a sympathetic sound. 'Yeah, I know him. Everyone does. I'll go get him.'

Francis waited until the phone clattered again.

'American Air Force speaking?' the staticky voice yawned.

'Alfred. Is that you?'

There was a sudden silence. When Alfred spoke again, his voice was quiet and tense. 'It's me. What do you need me for? Other people want to use the phone soon. Military phone and all.'

The subtle emphasis on military made him grimace. He wouldn't put it beyond the army to spy on their own soldiers, especially one like Alfred. He glanced over at his gallery, thinking of what to say.

'I need you to come pick up that painting I did for you immediately. I need to put another project up.'

'Right.'

'Be here immediately after your drill,' Francis instructed. He didn't wait for Alfred's answer, instead slamming the phone back into the cradle. His heart was hammering in his chest.

He knew Alfred would agree. He would because he had never questioned his own bravery, because he starved for heroism and devotion like artists did for beauty. He would agree, and so Francis had set the fuse on something he feared might light this gunpowder city aflame. Whatever was happening with the resistance, the Americans were involved now, and they would win. Francis prayed the only thing that would be won would be a scuffle in the backstreets of Berlin, and that this would not be the spark of another war.

He stumbled back to bed, lying half-awake, paralyzed with nightmares and cold sweats, wondering if he would be remembered in the years to come as the man who sparked the Third World War. They would win, come morning, but at what price?

0o0o0o

When he heard the knocking, he jerked open the door, squinting into the wintry sunlight and motioning for Alfred to sit at the table. There he was, their own nuclear warhead, their secret weapon. A nineteen year old pilot with sky blue eyes and a broken heart, young face still carved deep with loss, body curled tight with kinetic energy. Francis lingered for a moment in that time, the last moment he had before he would change everything. It was a heady feeling, the power of knowing others would do what you wanted. He could get drunk on it. He knew Gilbert had.

'Swear that you will not repeat what I tell you to anyone.'

'What is it?'

'Promise,' Francis ordered. Alfred jerked back, body knotting tighter. His eyes were panicked and blank for a heartbeat before his body suddenly went slack in the chair.

'I promise,' he murmured. His eyes seemed to be staring into a different time.

Francis sat down at the chair across from him, breathed in, and spoke.

'There was a resistance in the East. There is, still. I was once part of it.'

'Why aren't you now?'

The question made him taste blood for a moment, so suddenly furious at himself, but he pushed it down. He had been angry for a long, long time. He could control himself a few days more. Better to be angry at the Stasi than himself. 'Because I was given the chance to leave, at the price of others' lives, and I took it.'

Alfred looked like he was struggling with a new question. 'Why?'

'I don't know,' Francis lied through his teeth. The sharp difference between his and Alfred's heroism ached. 'I survived. Other people paid the price for it. Isn't that always how it works?'

Alfred's body tensed, eyes staring into memory again. 'It is.'

'I want to repay that now. My resistance has contacted me. They would not do that if it wasn't serious.' Francis stood to pace again, unable to look at him. 'You are- you would be a powerful asset.'

Silence. Francis was nearly horrified at himself, talking about how Alfred was an asset, just their powerful weapon, the way he'd been thinking of the young man. He turned to apologize.

'What is it?' Alfred asked softly. He burned with some strange new energy, every trace of the lethargy gone, eyes blazing bright. 'What do you want me to do?'

'Alfred?' Francis fumbled for words. 'What do you mean?'

'I'll help,' he said simply. His hands were curled into fists, body swaying slightly with emotion. 'I need to help. I need to do something.'

'It will be dangerous, I don't want to force you…' Francis trailed off. Alfred wasn't listening. The burn of his eyes and the sudden crooked tilt of his grimacing smile made Francis' chest feel tight again. He reminded him of Gilbert, the way he had been before everything changed. Their secret weapon, driven by a wild energy none of them knew how to tap into.

Alfred walked closer to him and Francis fought the urge to shudder at the pain and delight in his eyes. Gilbert had always looked the same way.

'What do you need me to do?' he asked. Francis pulled out the letter with shaking hands and showed him the map, told him when to be there, and watched as Alfred left, face tilted up to the sky. He heard him crow to himself with exultation at the end of the street, and wondered if he'd made a mistake.

Alfred, ace pilot, golden boy, who'd lost so much and hurt so deeply that he grabbed at the chance to fix it with both hands and bared teeth, so desperate to make something in this wrong world right again. Francis sank down into his hands at the table and knew he was the same way.

He turned his mirror to face the wall that night. He didn't want to see if he had that wild pained energy in him now as well.

0o0o0o

Francis dressed slowly the morning of the meeting. His long coat, good gloves, his second best shirt, dress pants. It was silly and simple, but it comforted him. It was something that was still right and warm in this cold world.

Alfred greeted him at the corner. Apart from the shadows beneath his eyes and the glitter of his eyes, the energy was dormant again. He wasn't wearing most of his uniform, thankfully. This whole plan was a death sentence for all of them, but Francis didn't want to die sooner than he had to by walking the uniformed American ace to the meeting. There was only one problem.

'This is supposed to be covert, Alfred. You can't wear your bomber jacket.'

Alfred's hand jumped to the pocket over his heart, brows furrowing. 'I need it.'

Francis pressed his lips together. 'You're already conspicuous, Alfred F. Jones,' he said pointedly.

Alfred took the jacket off and folded it under his arm. He would always stand out. He moved like he was bursting with pure kinetic energy, nothing like how Matthew had been. And yet there was still a chord of similarity in the young-bird way they both held themselves. Francis swallowed back memory and began to walk.

'When we get there, do not speak to anyone. Never reveal your real name. If they want to lead us anywhere, don't follow when I go.'

'I can be careful,' Alfred assured him. He offered a slight smile when Francis glanced over, and he was suddenly aware of the weight and experience on his young shoulders.

'I know you will be,' he said, suddenly ashamed again of how he'd been thinking of Alfred. He'd been through hell and come out burning brighter. 'I trust you.'

They walked and Alfred whistled. The whole thing was so absurd that he felt like laughing and singing along. The day was warm and bright blue, and he was walking with the American ace to discuss with a resistance. He was a dead man walking, and the path to the gallows was rather cheerful.

When they turned the corner, there was a man leaning against the wall. Alfred fell silent. When Francis leaned casually against the bricks and lit a cigarette, the man glanced up from the high collar of his long coat. He recognized him from raids long ago.

'Jean.'

Francis nodded. The man's eyes slid toward Alfred, who was glancing down the street, listening in. 'Who's that?'

Francis felt that absurd laughter rise again. 'He's American Army.'

The man froze. His cigarette, fallen from his open mouth, smouldered on the pavement. And suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing off the buildings, sounding like the cawing of crows, magnified in the quiet.

'What a way to come back, Jean,' he whispered. 'We've got our own nuclear warhead now.'

Francis felt a bitter smile pull at his mouth. That was what Alfred would always be, to the commanders of armies, to the Stasi. The spark of nuclear war.

He'd lain awake thinking of it, of how foolhardy he must be to bring the pilot into the split heart of the East itself, lightning in the stuttering pulse of Berlin. If the mission failed and they were caught, it would be war.

'I'll tell Kalmar about him. He'll enjoy it. This will be our last mission, after all, and what a way to go out.' He jerked his head at Alfred. 'Bring your soldier in, he deserves to know how we'll die.'

Francis frowned, motioning Alfred closer. 'How do you know that?'

'We're raiding the Stasi prison,' he said simply.

Francis staggered. The idea was more than impossible. It would fail, and everyone else would pay the price for it.

'Why?'

The man turned away, his swaying posture slumping. 'Gilbert's brother. We're going to save him and everyone else. Aim to blow the place sky-high and die trying.'

Alfred leaned forward, face alight with wild desperation, and Francis realized with a jolt, Ludwig. 'We can save people,' he said. Not a question, but a demand.

The man regarded him soberly. 'If you die at the hands of the Stasi, do you understand what the West will do in revenge?'

'I won't die,' Alfred said, lifting his head. He sounded so sure of himself, voice resonant against the buildings, that Francis even believed it for a moment. The man kept his eyes on Alfred when he spoke.

'We'll be back tomorrow to bring you home, Jean. If you're smart, you won't come.' He pressed an envelope into his hands and walked away with hunched shoulders.

The walk back to what should have been life was silent. Francis could say nothing. Alfred stared up to the blue sky as they followed the streets back of the gallery. He looked peaceful. The calm before the storm.

They stopped outside the gallery and Francis turned to him, hands twisting, words spilling out of place.

'Alfred-'

'I need to be a hero, Francis. For someone.' He shook out his bomber jacket and slipped into it, hand pressing over his heart, and smiled like the sun. 'I won't die. I can't. Artie still needs me.'

Tears stung his eyes. 'You don't have to do this.'

'I need to.' Alfred turned to face the sun, arms spread wide. 'You get it, Francis, I know you do. I have to do something good. I'll be back tomorrow, okay?'

He did understand. Their fatally soft hearts were the same, chasing after kindness in a harsh world, unable to stop trying to make something better. Alfred laughed and ran down the street, and Francis watched until he'd turned the corner to stagger back inside. His life was now measured in hours instead of years, and he ached to have his last be in Matthew's arms, but his gentle Canadian was hundreds of miles away and Berlin was cold without him.

He rolled over. The pillow was damp with tears and stuck to his cheek, and he pressed further against it, trying to muffle the choking noises clawing out of him. He could die in the East. He could die without ever seeing Matthew again. He could die, and he could watch not just Berlin but the world burn. All for what? Some futile hope to make things better?

Wasn't that always, always what he fought and breathed and died for, in the end? He would gladly die in service to a war waged for freedom. He would gladly devote his life to love, to Matthew. If he died this way, it would be rather poetic. He only hoped nobody else would have to.

Francis dreamed of being dead, and of Matthew, and of the moonlight dancing through the blood spilled like the spring flowers across this gunpowder city.

0o0o0o

:: Water on concrete just after rain