Dro: It's that time again! So have at it! The final arc of this story is beginning! Expect epic clashes all around starting next chapter!

Chapter Summary: Alfred contemplates what to do about Matt's feelings. The team executes their plan and breaks into Russia's mansion, only for Ludwig to come face to face with his worst nightmare.

Warnings: Violence, Language

Disclaimer: Dro will never own APH.

Alfred strapped on one handgun. His mind was a battlefront again, as it had been the night before when he laid awake for three hours just thinking about the pros and cons of letting Matt release his tensions through him. On the one hand, Matt was obviously hurting, and he needed a release for his pent up feelings. On the other hand, this had the potential to hurt him even more. Alfred was going to leave this world. Matt knew that. So why was Matt getting attached to him? If they got too involved, then Matt would be only be worse off at the end of this ordeal.

He wrapped another holster around his leg and clipped it on tight. And that was only Matt's side of the problem. In any normal situation, Alfred would've been fine receiving Matt's feelings. Sure, it kind of hurt that the other man was using him as a replacement for the other Alfred, but Matt was still his brother, and he still cared, and he couldn't stand to see his brother suffer like that. But, Alfred had left his own world with a budding relationship with his own Arthur. And now, here he was betraying the man already and they hadn't even had a first date yet.

Damn it! Why are relationships so complicated? Maybe I should swear off love. He sighed deeply, slipping a sheathed knife into his belt. He glanced at the clock on the wall. He had ten more minutes. They'd be leaving at noon to drive the rest of the way to Russia's mansion, where they would create a base camp, wait until nightfall, and then attack. He strapped on another knife. His body started feeling a little bit heavier. How many guns did he have now? Six? Plus the rifle that was laying on his bed. Well, to the resistance's credit, they were certainly well armed. Victory would no doubt come to who had the best strategy. Unfortunately, that one could go either way, as Arthur had explained to him yesterday. Russia probably already knew they were coming. Which—as Alfred had learned in the Cold War—meant Ivan was playing a game. Which, for them, could either be a good thing or a bad thing. Either he severely underestimated them, or he was more than prepared to take them out in a heartbeat.

He shook his head. Okay, when did I get so pessimistic? I'm the hero! I'm supposed to be upbeat! I'm supposed to be…Someone opened the door with a creak and pulled it shut behind him. Alfred paused with his weapons and turned around, spying Matt walking towards him. His rekindled resolve suddenly flickered out. Matt had a dreamy look on his face as their eyes met. Oh boy. He wanted to say something. He really did. But before he could get a word out, Matt wrapped his arms around Alfred's neck and kissed him again. A rush of emotions shot through Alfred's body. Passion. Attraction. Guilt. The third one was the strongest. He was leading Matt on, but how could he tell him the truth? How could possibly tell Matthew that he was also in love with Arthur without it killing him? The answer was, of course, he couldn't. If he told Matt he was also in love with his own Arthur, it would crush him. And Alfred would never willingly hurt Matt. Not after the wars he'd had centuries ago. He'd sworn it. He couldn't bear to see the pain of betrayal on Matt's face again. The pain of a brotherly bond breaking in half.

His arms grabbed Matt's hips and pulled them closer, their chests flush against each other's. Matt deepened the kiss, and Alfred caught his tongue with his lips, grunting. He pushed back at Matt's tongue with his own, fiercely battling. Seriously, where did he learn to kiss like this? I'm really fucking curious! Suddenly, Matt broke away from him, but before Alfred could ask why, Matt's lips attacked his still exposed throat. I should've put my coat on first. But then Matt probably would've just pulled it off…Alfred held Matt close while he worked on his throat, his tongue lapping at the skin. One of Matt's hands dropped from Alfred's hair and trailed down his chest. Alfred could barely feel the touch due to his bullet-proof vest, but he certainly felt it when the hand dropped to the inside of his thigh. Okay, whoa boy!

"Oi! Are you two ready to—Holy fucking hot twin make out!"

Alfred pushed Matt away so hard the other boy stumbled. They both looked at the doorway, where Gilbert was staring at them wide-eyed, a light pink tint on his cheeks. Alfred tried to break the silence with a good comeback, but he was at a loss. It was bad enough that Poland had caught them and kept giving them suggestive glances and giggling, but now the worst possible person who could find out just had.

"You know we're not actually twins, right?" Matt finally mumbled.

"Close enough." Gilbert said, red eyes darting back and forth between them. "But, wait…you're the parallel world one though, right?" He pointed at Alfred.

"Uh, yeah…"

"Uh-huh." Gilbert eyed them both suspiciously before settling his gaze on Matthew. "Living out your fantasies, eh Mattie?"

Matt frowned. "It's none of your business, Gilbert." His tone was dark.

Gilbert shrugged. "Maybe not. But don't think I can't see what you're doing. And if I can see it, then so can everyone else."

Matt crossed his arms. "Just leave, Gilbert."

"Hurry up, we're leaving in ten." He flicked his eyes over to Alfred, mentally sending a harsh accusation. Alfred had the sudden urge to hang his head in shame, and he looked away. "By the way, Matt. You know it's a little weird to have the hots for your brother, right?"

Matt scoffed. "Right, like you wouldn't sleep with Ludwig."

"I wouldn't!" Gilbert mocked hurt. "Well…maybe if I was drunk." He thought about it for a second. "Scratch that. Maybe if he was drunk."

"Can you just get the fuck out?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going now." He shuffled out the door.

Alfred just glanced from the door to Matt, who was huffing and mumbling something in French that didn't sound particularly nice. Alfred took the opportunity to put on his coat and zip it up before slinging the rifle over his shoulder.

"We should get going." He rubbed the back of his head and picked up his helmet.

Matt finally met his eyes again, and after a moment of hesitation, nodded. "Yeah. Let's go."

They headed for the door, but Alfred paused as Matt's hand wrapped around his wrist. He turned just as Matt leaned for one last slow, deep kiss. When they pulled apart, that dreamy look was back on his face. A dream. Because that's all this is. Alfred thought. But how can possibly wake him up from it without hurting him?

Ludwig steadied his breathing. He reflexively crouched lower as another guard passed by. They'd been scouting the perimeter of Russia's heavily fortified mansion for three hours now. The sun was dipping low in the sky, and as soon it dropped below the horizon, he knew he would get the signal from Arthur to initiate the plan. He glanced to his left, where Gilbert was hidden in a bush, then to his right, where Antonio was situated behind a tree. They were split up into three teams. Both Americas and Canada were lying in wait on the other side of the of the house. Arthur and Francis were to the east, preparing to enter through the door that led to the large kitchen on that side of the house. They would be slipping in when the cooks left for the night.

Ludwig ran over the plan again. He, Gilbert, and Antonio were to enter through the garage and hold the lower level after barring all exits. The Americas and Canada would head up to the second level and do the same, with this world's Alfred breaking off and heading up to the third floor, where Russia had been—visibly—sitting in his office for most of the day. Ludwig shifted uncomfortably. Something about this just didn't feel right. If Arthur's hunch was correct, Russia already knew they were coming. Granted, he probably didn't know what day or time, but it was Russia, and therefore, he was likely prepared to take them on whenever. This could quite possibly be a suicide mission. In reality, he knew, it depended on how seriously Russia took them as a threat. If he'd underestimated them, they might gain an edge, but if he'd properly guessed how strong they'd be—their numbers, weapons, strategy—then they were doomed.

He thought of Feliciano again. For all he knew, he would end up fighting this world's Italy. He could only pray that Gilbert or Antonio or someone else would be the one to fight him. He knew for a fact he wouldn't be able to kill Feliciano, corrupted by Russia or not. He adjusted his rifle. A movement caught his eye. Gilbert was signaling to him. He look across the yard, where Arthur was barely visible through the trees, giving them the signal to move. He mimicked the signal to Antonio, who nodded. Now or never.

He waited two seconds for the guard he'd been watching for hours pass by once more. He lunged without a second of hesitation and took the man down silently, breaking his neck with a muffled crack as Ludwig landed on top of him. He heard a dying gasp as Gilbert plunged a knife into his target and a single grunt that broke the deathly silence as Antonio slammed the butt of his rifle into the third guard's head. He caught sight of Arthur and Francis finishing off their phase one, and he assumed it was going well so far.

They headed to the garage door, still open from people leaving for the night. Antonio walked up to the keyboard entry pad and typed in something. The door the house popped opened. Then they were in. Rifles loaded, they filed into the hallway. Six guards were waiting for them. Ludwig dived around the corner just as they started firing, took a breath, and whipped his rifle around, firing off three successive shots. Two of the men went down. A third fell to his knees as the bullet bit into his hip. The remaining four didn't last much longer. Antonio mowed down two of them, and Gilbert took out the last two as they tried to flee.

A whistle alerted them to Arthur and Francis' approach. "Keep watch here. Don't forget to lock the doors. There are some more guards in the other wing, but I think Alfred and Matthew, and…Alfred took care of them. We're heading up for phase two."

"Be careful, Arthur." Antonio said.

He nodded. "You too. Russia knows we're here now, so we need to be extra vigilant."

Ludwig eyed Francis, who looked really nervous. The man was a bit of a coward, sure, but when it came down to it, he was an excellent fighter. But right now he looked ready to drop dead from fright. Is he really that terrified of Russia?

Then they were gone, two pairs of boots resounding as they headed up the stairs. "Don't forget to secure these too." Arthur muttered as he disappeared from view.

Gilbert looked around. "Me and West will scour the hallway. Antonio, you stay here, lock up that door, and watch the stairs."

"Got it."

"Come on, West."

He followed Gilbert's lead, pushing himself ahead of his brother as the man motioned for them to change positions. They passed the bloody bodies of a couple of dead guards, and Ludwig winced. Arthur had not been kind. He wondered how the victims of the other team looked. They slowed to a crawl as they reached another intersecting hallway, and Ludwig peered around the corner, staring down another empty hallway. He signaled for them to continue, and Gilbert followed close behind.

He'd taken four steps forward when a force suddenly shoved him, causing him to stumble. "Down, West!" The sound of a blade hitting the wall rang in his ears. He twisted around and looked up, eyes widening as he saw a knife had embedded itself several inches into the wall. And less than an inch from Gilbert's face. It felt like it took him ten years to turn his head and look down the hallway. And once he saw them, he wished it had taken twenty.

Now, in the middle of the hallway, standing side by side, dressed identically, posed identically, were the Italy brothers. One was the reflection of the other, backs almost touching, opposite legs bent at the same exact angle. One left arm and one right, each holding a knife in its opposite fist, hovered less than an inch apart in the air. It was like a fun house mirror brought to life, and Ludwig thought he was going to be sick.

Their faces were identical masks of hostility. One pair of green eyes and one pair of brown were narrowed, the aura of their stares bleeding down into fierce snarls that snagged on their lips. Feliciano's eyes bored right into Ludwig's, ferocity, rage, and the utter sense of impending murder lingering in the brown pools. But behind it all, Ludwig could see something else. Something…something that didn't match the rest of him.

"W…West…" Gilbert's voice was caught in his throat. "Don't let him get to you. He's…We need to get out of here. Now." His heart was pounding in his chest. This had been his worst fear, of course, that he'd be the one who ended up fighting the Italy brothers. But, of course, Russia had probably planned it that way. The Italy brothers fighting the German brothers. One of Russia's little games. He tried to muster an unaffected front to put them off, but neither brother seemed to take notice of it. When they killed, he knew, they cleared their minds of all but their objective. And then, he knew…then they moved in synch.

"Feliciano…" Ludwig whispered. And the floodgates burst.

The brothers took off so fast that Ludwig didn't respond until they were mere feet from him, their coattails flying sleekly behind him, their knives flashing brilliantly. Gilbert and He jumped back in opposite directions, separating as two knives sliced through the air where they'd both been standing milliseconds ago. The Italy brothers passed a brief glance between each other, and then they split. Ludwig staggered up and ran, barely avoiding Feliciano's knife as it swung right by his head and cut a weeping gash into the wall, red paint flinging past like specks of blood.

Ludwig's feet took him around a corner, and then to the left, and then down. Basement level? Shit! Feliciano was following him. Fast. Very, very fast. Faster even than when his own Feliciano was running away in terror. Ludwig turned a corner, and ran straight into a dead end. He whipped around and held up his rifle, listening for Feliciano's approach.

But he didn't hear it.

Ludwig swallowed nervously. Feliciano had been behind him less than two seconds ago, so where was he? Waiting right around the corner for Ludwig to scamper out, thinking he was safe? Hiding in the one of the many rooms he'd passed on the way down here, knowing Ludwig would have to pass them on the way back? It was then that Ludwig realized something, something that shook him to the core. As he stared down the dimly lit hallway, knowing he was cornered like a mouse, the idea struck him in the chest so hard he almost lost his breath. But once it was cemented in, he knew it to be true. And that scared it more than anything.

It hadn't just been the skills to kill that Russia had passed on to the Italy brothers.

It hadn't just been indifference in the face of death.

Russia had also given the Italy brothers something else, something so harmless in the hands of others that a threat of it by anyone else would warrant a laugh. But receiving this gift from Russia's twisted hands, even in rumor alone, was enough to make Ludwig fear for his life.

Russia had given the Italy brothers his love of games.

Dro: Well, that's not good...

Next Chapter: Ludwig struggles to overcome Feliciano's incredibly clever strategies. Meanwhile, Gilbert tries to escape from Lovino's rampage, but only ends up dragging Antonio into the fight, which dredges up some painful memories for the Spaniard. All the while, Russia watches from his perch on the third floor, highly engrossed in his chess game.