#i bet even roderich is taller than him

[val-taire]

I did not need to spend all this time on a "gilbert is short" post. But I did.

[the-observant-frisbeetarian]

Chapter 2

Lily of the Lamplight by George deValier

Gilbert sat on the hard, bare bed, rubbing his swollen jaw and staring impatiently at the locked door. The night had passed fairly quickly, thanks to a quiet room and a near concussion. Strangely enough, locked in this provisional cell with a battered face, an aching back, and a death sentence, Gilbert had slept better than he had in months. But now the cold Russian sun filtered lazily through the wood-barred window, reality started to set in, and Gilbert sat waiting to be thrown into a prison truck and sent to his final posting. He almost laughed. Four years. Four years he'd survived the war in Europe. Four goddamn years of killing Brits, killing Russians; of avoiding bullets and dodging bayonets; of pissing off every superior officer who came his way. Four bloody, tiring, sickening years Gilbert had survived; and one damned hour after meeting that prissy Austrian, he was sentenced to a prison unit.

Gilbert normally wouldn't have given a shit about some soldiers staring and gossiping about a new recruit. Hell, if he were bored he probably would have joined them. Whether fortunately or unfortunately however, it was hard to forget a face like that, and Gilbert immediately recognised the beautiful Austrian sitting alone and wary in the mess hall. He had no idea what a rich, upper class musician could have done to end up in a German base on the front lines, but Gilbert felt immediately furious about it. After everything Elizaveta had done to protect this fool, after the man had been lucky enough to hide his Jewish heritage and avoid a work camp, he'd gone and gotten himself sent to the Russian Front. Gilbert was pretty damn sure Eliza had not given this man her name and fled to Switzerland so he could die at the hands of the Russians.

Gilbert sighed wearily, tapped his foot on the ground, and peered around the window bars to see how high the sun was in the sky. It was no use. Dark grey clouds obscured most of the light overhead. Impatience and boredom ate at his mind where perhaps fear and anxiety belonged. But he'd been in worse situations than this, and fear had long ago given way to indifferent acceptance. He could only imagine how Roderich was handling it in the cell next door, however. He almost felt glad at the thought. All right, sure, the Austrian hadn't asked for those filthy, gutless bastards to attack him, but he had been stupid enough to wander off alone on the base. Gilbert could see that protecting this little prince, even for Eliza's sake, was going to test every ounce of patience that he just didn't have.

Gilbert's sigh turned to a growl. "Hurry up, you lazy bastards," he muttered. When the hell would the guards come to handcuff them and… Gilbert blinked in sudden realisation. Handcuffs… He quickly dug around in his front pocket, past a small bag of supplemental candy rations and the last packet of coffee he'd been saving, until his fingers closed around the tiny metal pin he always carried. He tucked the pin into his sleeve, smiled smugly to himself, and silently thanked Francis for the one useful thing the depraved Frenchman had ever taught him.

.

"Right, time to go, Héderváry." Roderich's head snapped up at the words, and the cold dread he had spent the night suppressing fell like a rock in his stomach. He swallowed dryly, his head swimming. He started to nod, but instead held his head high as he got to his feet, praying his legs would not give way beneath him. The military guard marched across the small cell, grabbed Roderich's wrists roughly, and snapped the cold metal handcuffs around them. Roderich focused on breathing deeply and keeping the fear from his eyes. I am better than them. They will not see me afraid. I am better than them. Roderich repeated the words in his head like a mantra as the guard grasped his arm and led him from the cell.

Roderich did not know where he was going. He had no idea what was happening, no idea what to expect. He had barely slept; the entire restless night spent replaying the colonel's words in his head… They'll be heading on to the prison unit stationed at the next village… The charge is perpetration of illicit activity… Congratulations, Beilschmidt. You're now a walking dead man. And still, none of it made sense. Roderich did not even know what a prison unit was. He had thought he was in the most awful place on earth; but apparently, there was somewhere worse.

The guard pulled him through the hallway and into the square outside, where a large military transport vehicle sat idling in the nearly empty street. Everything was suddenly both too real and strangely dreamlike. Roderich blinked slowly, the street spun around him, and for a brief moment, he sincerely feared he would be physically ill.

"Morning, Héderváry. Sleep well?" Roderich turned his head sharply, both stunned and annoyed by the sweeping feeling of relief that rushed over him. Gilbert stood confidently beside him, smiling brightly despite the handcuffs on his wrists and the guard's rough hand on his arm. Roderich did not have time to respond before they were both abruptly dragged to the back of the truck and practically thrown through the open doors.

The dozen or so soldiers in the truck stared silently as Roderich stumbled into the vehicle behind Gilbert. They all looked to be regular army, of various ranks, and all had their hands handcuffed before them. Another wave of angry fear settled in Roderich's stomach. Why did everyone out here keep staring? He straightened his shoulders, forced himself to keep his face impassive and his head held high. I am better than them. They will not see me afraid.

The truck door slammed shut with a condemning thud, leaving just enough light from the high windows to see dimly. Roderich's breath caught in his throat, but he calmly followed Gilbert into the truck. He wanted nothing to do with any of these uncivilised people. But the brazen German had come to his aid the night before, and for some unfathomable reason, he seemed to be somewhat concerned for Roderich's safety. Roderich told himself he did not need the man's help, but was all too aware it was a lie. It made him intensely angry that he had no choice but to trust this loud, brutish soldier he did not know.

Gilbert pushed a few men aside on the narrow wooden bench that ran the length of the truck. Roderich wondered if he even noticed the men's angry mutters. From what Roderich had gathered so far of this brash German, Gilbert did not seem to care much about aggravating people. But doing it in this situation was just asking for trouble.

The truck took off almost the second Roderich took a careful seat at Gilbert's side. Another row of soldiers sat opposite them, and Roderich raised his eyes to stare past them. Surely if he just stayed silent, no one would even notice…

"Morning, boys! Pleasant day for it, am I right?"

Roderich's stomach fell and his eyes snapped sideways. The soldiers glared silently, but Gilbert just continued merrily, a broad grin on his face. "Summertime in Russia. Can't beat it for a drive through the countryside. Cheer up, lads, you look like you're going to a funeral."

"Gilbert." Roderich spoke as quietly as he could manage, disturbed and alarmed. These did not look like the type of men to make idle conversation with. "What do you think you're…"

"Think you're funny, do ya, Private?" snarled a man sitting opposite, an angry looking sergeant with a bloodstained collar and a large scar across his face. Roderich's eyes widened and his skin turned cold. Gilbert, however, seemed to bite back a giggle.

"I'm hilarious, I know, there's really no need to point it out."

The sergeant leant forward, his hard, focused eyes boring into Gilbert's in a blatant attempt at intimidation. In the dim light Roderich could just make out the name on the man's jacket. 'Hesse.' "You know, I really don't think I'm in the mood for this shit."

Roderich felt his entire body tense. This 'Hesse' was bigger, taller, and a hell of a lot angrier than Gilbert. Just what did this stupid German think he was doing? Roderich glanced at him warningly, but Gilbert simply smiled benignly at the sergeant. It took a few moments for Roderich to realise that he was also twisting his cuffed hands slowly and almost imperceptibly against his stomach.

"Just having a friendly conversation about the weather, friend." Roderich felt frozen in place. It was almost like Gilbert was trying to provoke the man. But for God's sake, why?

Hesse spat loudly on the floor by Gilbert's foot. Roderich recoiled in disgust. "That's what I think of your 'friendly conversation.' Friend."

The soldiers watched the exchange with interest, those on the end of the benches leaning forward for a better view. Roderich was reminded unpleasantly of a pack of bloodthirsty wolves. Gilbert nodded pointedly at the spit on the floor, his smile unrelenting. "That's a filthy habit, Sergeant Hesse. You almost got my boot."

"Maybe that's what I was aiming for," growled Hesse threateningly.

"Really, it was?" Gilbert's hands continued to twist and Roderich formed the smallest suspicion in the back of his mind. But no… surely Gilbert wasn't that stupid… "If so, you've got terrible aim. I bet you're popular with the Russians." Hesse snarled, snorted, then spat again. Roderich could not hold back a small noise of revulsion when a large globule of saliva landed directly on Gilbert's left boot. Gilbert glanced at it indifferently, his hands went still, and he stared directly into the sergeant's steely eyes. "Come on then, on your knees and finish the job. You look like the type used to licking a man's boots."

Hesse squared his shoulders, raised his chin, and Roderich's heart seemed to stop in his chest. Gilbert had gone too far. Sure enough, Hesse rose to his feet, handcuffed hands extended, and hurled himself towards Gilbert. Roderich shrunk back instinctively. But instead of being crushed by the man's hurtling weight, Gilbert reacted. He tossed his handcuffs to the ground before reaching up, grabbing Hesse's bound wrists, and twisting them until the sergeant stumbled. Gilbert didn't pause. He used his foot to drive the man's ankles out from under him, pushed him face-down to the floor, and dropped to his knee onto Hesse's back. It was done in a matter of seconds. Gilbert spoke immediately in a pleasant, friendly tone. "Well, goodness me, now that was just rude! Here I am, having a friendly conversation about the weather, and you go and…"

"Who the f…" Gilbert cut Hesse off with a swift thump of his head to the ground. Roderich's head felt unclear as his ears rung with shock. Had Gilbert planned this the entire time? For what possible reason? Did all soldiers act like this, or was Gilbert simply insane? Gilbert just laughed and rolled his eyes at the quietly observant soldiers.

"Do you see what I mean? Rude!" Gilbert turned his attention back to the struggling sergeant. "As I was saying – and you might want to stop twisting like that because you'll hurt yourself – when someone starts a friendly conversation you do NOT go and spit on their boot! Did your mother never teach you anything?"

"I'll teach you something, you goddamn son of a…"

"Uh-uh." Gilbert smacked Hesse's head to the ground again, a little more forcefully this time. "Don't interrupt! Now I'm going to give you one chance to let this go and be nice, because I'm reasonable like that. Before you make your decision, however, I suggest you think very hard, and very carefully." Gilbert dug his knee deeper into the man's back and dropped the friendly tone. "Do you really want me as an enemy?"

The silence in the truck was absolute. The soldiers' surprise seemed to mirror Roderich's own. He could even tell what they were thinking: how had Gilbert removed his handcuffs so quickly? How had he so easily sent this man to the floor? Roderich's heart stammered again when Gilbert's eyes unexpectedly met his own. In the dim light, just like in his anger the night before, they appeared to glow red. Roderich felt his eyes widen with astonishment and his lip curl with disgust. It was just as he thought: this man was nothing but a violent, uncivilised brute. Roderich's heart sunk at the realisation. If he couldn't trust Gilbert now, what did he have left?

Gilbert's crimson eyes turned back to the man trapped beneath him. Hesse obviously realised that he did not have much of a chance in handcuffs, and grunted in reluctant surrender. "Let's just forget it."

Gilbert released Hesse instantly. "I think that's a wonderful idea!" He stood quickly and offered the sergeant his hand. Hesse just glared at it before pulling himself back onto the wooden bench.

"Suit yourself." Gilbert shrugged cheerfully, picked up his discarded handcuffs, and sat back down beside Roderich. Roderich carefully edged away. "Now where was I… oh yes! Summertime in Russia. Now, I thought winter in Berlin was cold, but for the middle of August this weather is just fucked. Shit, friend, aren't you freezing?"

Gilbert directed to question to the corporal beside him, but the man didn't answer. Instead he asked warily, "So how did you end up here?"

Gilbert's smile fell, he narrowed his eyes, and the corporal leant away. Gilbert pointed his thumb at Roderich then spoke in a slow, stern voice. "Someone messed with him."

The truck fell silent again. Gilbert just smirked smugly to himself. Not for the first time, Roderich wondered just what Gilbert could possibly be thinking. He had undone his handcuffs, provoked the biggest man in the truck, effortlessly crushed him to the floor, and then… Roderich paused, blinked, and tilted his head as he remembered.

Every year, Roderich competed in the prestigious Austrian Music Competition. He would turn up to the hall each day during the week beforehand, take out his violin, and practice onstage. Word quickly spread of his incredible skill. Other contestants would come to listen, then talk amongst themselves. And every single year, at least a quarter of contestants pulled out before competition even began. Roderich studied Gilbert through narrowed eyes. Of course Gilbert had planned this. He wanted these soldiers to see what he was capable of. He wanted them to know it was a bad idea to mess with him. Yes, there were only a dozen men in this truck. But a dozen men could spread a story very quickly.

Gilbert met Roderich's calculating eyes and gave him a tiny wink. Roderich slowly looked away, his heart still racing and his skin still cold. Maybe he had underestimated this German soldier.

.

Gilbert clicked his handcuffs into place just in time to have them removed by a military guard as he followed Roderich off the truck. The sound and smell of revving engines and shouting men was both suffocating and familiar. He blinked in the clouded sunlight and took in the view around him. Another small village, almost identical to the last; almost identical to all the tiny villages he had passed through over the years. A narrow road, piles of sandbags and weaponry, battered looking wooden buildings. One place blended into another after a while. A small assemblage of trucks and vehicles crowded along the street and military guards shouted at the men as they disembarked. The prisoners wore a diversity of different uniforms. Most were regular Wehrmacht - army, navy and Luftwaffe - but there were also some foreign units, even a few filthy SS. Gilbert kept close to Roderich and followed the row of soldiers down the village road.

Gilbert breathed the cold, oil-scented air. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind at all - he could do this. This was nothing. He'd been shafted to a hundred different regiments, been sent to a hundred different towns. He'd been in worse situations than this. But glancing sideways at the pale, silent, aristocratic man beside him, Gilbert felt a strange, nagging anxiety he was utterly unfamiliar with. This was completely different to the hopeless situations he had easily survived. This was so much worse. "Stay beside me, okay?"

Roderich looked utterly out of his depth, staring around wide-eyed behind his glasses, rubbing his wrists where the handcuffs had cut into the skin. He looked sick, and he looked scared, and he looked like he was trying really damn hard to hide it. "I don't know what to do."

Gilbert groaned softly. Oh, for God's sake… "Just do what you're told, and call everyone 'sir.' Some get real pissed when you don't do that. All right?" Roderich did not answer. Damn it, the guy looked like he was about to fall over. Gilbert closed his eyes briefly. "Hey, when was the last time you ate something?"

Roderich's forehead furrowed slightly. "I don't remember."

Gilbert gritted his teeth and choked back a growling, frustrated sigh. Keeping this silly little prince alive was not going to be easy. He reached into his front pocket to check what rations he had stashed away. "Do you even want to survive? What did I tell you last night about eating?"

Indignant anger quickly replaced the fear in Roderich's eyes. He almost seemed to come back to himself. "Don't speak to me like that…"

"And you can stop with the bratty aristocrat act. There are men gonna speak to you a hell of a lot harsher than I do, but you're gonna shut up, and you're gonna listen - if you want to see another day, that is. Now here." Gilbert pulled his last candy ration from his pocket and pressed it into Roderich's hand. "Fruit candy. It's packed with sugar so you won't keel over for a few hours at least."

Roderich looked down at the candy for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he raised his chin and glared. "I don't need your charity. You're nothing but a thug."

Gilbert snorted. "Damn straight. A thug who quite literally saved your arse last night, and got sent to this hellhole for the privilege." Roderich winced in distaste. "And a thug who's gonna see to it that you make it through this mess alive."

Roderich's eyes clouded with doubtful confusion. "Why?"

"Why?" Gilbert paused. Because the only woman I ever loved risked everything for you, and I'll be damned if her sacrifice will be for nothing. Gilbert smirked. "Because I'm such a nice guy, that's why."

Roderich's leant forward as they walked, his expression proud and suspicious. "I don't believe you."

Gilbert just grinned back at him. "You don't have a choice, little prince."

Roderich's indignant response was promptly disrupted as they reached the tiny town centre. Military guards lined the broken and bullet-riddled buildings that surrounded the little cobblestoned square. Gilbert stayed determinedly by Roderich's side as the armed guards shouted and jostled the soldiers into rows. Roderich looked appalled and affronted at the slightest touch, until Gilbert found himself growling and glaring at anyone who came too close. He was practically ashamed of himself - reduced to being a damn guard dog for a precious little prince.

Thankfully it did not take long before the surging rabble assembled into a few haphazard lines. Surprised at the speed of assembly, Gilbert realised that there were only about fifty men standing at various states of attention. Somehow, in the commotion, it had felt like more. Gilbert and Roderich ended up in the front row between two blond soldiers, one short and one tall, both in unfamiliar uniforms. The tall blond wore a strange side-buttoning blazer with no medals and held a rifle by his side. Annoyance rose swiftly in Gilbert's chest. He'd been stripped of his rifle, his pack, and his treasured pistol the night before. Why the hell was this enormous bastard allowed his rifle? He was just about to broach the subject when a roaring shout rang out. "ATTENTION!"

Gilbert's eyes snapped front and he felt Roderich tense beside him. From the battered little building before them, between a line of guards, marched a short, scowling officer with a captain's insignia on his green jacket. His hair was shaggy and blond, his movements swift and precise, his expression cold and severe. There were two rifles strapped conspicuously to his back and a pistol at his hip. Gilbert almost laughed. He knew this type - a short little man compensating for something with too much firepower. Oh hell, this would be fun.

The captain snatched a folder from a guard and marched to the front of the line. As he passed, he happened to glance sideways at Roderich. He stopped, blinked, and his blank demeanour broke for just a second. Almost before Gilbert registered it however, the captain's face turned unemotional and he motioned over a guard. After a few muttered words, the captain's eyebrows shot up and he looked straight from Roderich to Gilbert. Roderich shifted on his feet. Gilbert stared the captain evenly, warily, in the eye.

Gilbert knew what was coming. He'd been lined up and yelled at countless hundreds of times, by sergeants, lieutenants, a dozen different commanding officers. Gilbert knew how this worked by now. Stand straight, keep a blank face, answer when you're spoken to. Gilbert wasn't too good at all that, though. If there was one thing he had in common with Roderich, it was that he didn't like being told what to do. Gilbert just didn't know how to accept authority. He did know that you shouldn't laugh, you shouldn't talk back, you shouldn't roll your eyes, and you really shouldn't ash your cigarette on an officer's boots - as three months on latrine duty had taught him all too well.

The captain marched before them, piercing eyes travelling along the disorganised lines of men, then stood still and silent. When he spoke, it was not with the deafening pitch Gilbert was used to, but just a deep and steady tone of command. "As of this moment, you are stripped of your rank. I don't give a damn if you were a corporal, a sergeant, or a goddamned colonel. Congratulations - each and every one of you is now a private. You're in my unit now. My name is Captain Zwingli, and you answer to me."

Gilbert chanced another glance around. A captain in charge of fifty prisoners? What had this guy done to get such a shitty assignment? The captain continued, his voice heavily accented. It was clear he was not a German.

"I don't know what you all did to end up here. Frankly, I don't much care." Captain Zwingli surveyed the row of condemned soldiers coldly, his hands clasping the folder behind his back, his eyes hard and narrow. Standing shorter than every man in line before him, he still managed to exude an aura of intimidation and utter authority. "This is the end of the line. You have been sent here to die. You can try to put it off as long as you like, but in the end, it won't matter. None of you will see the end of the war."

The foreign captain let silence fall, let the words sink in. His sweeping gaze fell upon the tall blond beside Gilbert, and he marched to stand before him. The soldier just stared down calmly. "Oxenstierna, wasn't it?" barked Zwingli. He looked down briefly at the folder in his hand. "Known as the 'Lion of the North.' Volunteer to the Finnish front, originally of the Svenska Frivilligkåren." The Swede stayed silent, only inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment. Zwingli looked the man up and down. "What's this on your rifle, soldier?"

"'s'a picture," the Swede mumbled, his voice deep and detached.

"Well, I can see that clearly enough. Who is it of?"

Oxenstierna's expression was almost terrifying in its complete lack of emotion. "M'wife."

Zwingli raised an eyebrow. "Your… wife?" The Swede nodded and Zwingli stared again at the photograph taped to the rifle by the man's side. "Oxenstierna, either your wife is a rather unique looking girl who has cut her hair short, grown an Adam's apple and, judging by the uniform, joined the Finnish army, or marriage customs in northern Europe are rather different from what I had been led to believe." The captain waited silently, but Oxenstierna did not reply. Zwingli shot a pointed glare directly at Gilbert. "Wonderful. Looks like I've been given the homosexual unit."

Roderich stiffened and Gilbert's indignant response was prematurely cut off. "Oh, thank God," piped up the little blond soldier beside Roderich. "Do you know, I was totally starting to worry I'd been sent to the wrong place."

Zwingli snapped his head sharply at the words, turned on his heel, and marched the few steps to stand before the little blond. From the corner of his eye Gilbert saw the soldier take a step backwards.

"Stand steady, Private!" barked Zwingli.

"Okay, yeah, right. I mean, yes. Sir. Um."

Zwingli looked the soldier up and down then glanced down at his folder. "Feliks Łukasiewicz." His head shot up, his eyes narrow and slightly puzzled. "That sounds suspiciously Polish."

"I am Polish, sir."

Gilbert turned his head in surprise. He could hear a few low murmurs from behind. Zwingli just nodded once. "Now this I am interested in. How the hell did you end up here?"

Łukasiewicz let out a short giggle. "Well, come on, I didn't exactly volunteer now, did I?"

"You've been fighting for the Germans?"

"No, man, I tell you, it was crazy, yeah? One minute I'm in Berlin - I'm a singer in a cabaret, you know - living with my boy - my part - my, uh, my friend, Liet… well, his name is Toris, but I call him Liet, because he's Lithuanian, right?" The murmurs grew louder. Łukasiewicz didn't seem to notice the looks and just kept chattering obliviously at the bemused looking captain. "I mean, everything was fine until, like, a war happened, or something. And then, Liet and I… well…" The Pole broke off for just a second before continuing. "Well, he went home to Lithuania. Not, you know, like I care or anything, because I totally don't. So I said to myself - 'Feliks,' I said, 'If there's a war, you should go and, you know, fight, or something.'"

Gilbert could barely restrain himself from bursting into laughter. A brief sideways glance showed that, surprisingly, Roderich looked like he felt the exact same way. Tiny smiles broke on both their lips before they looked away. Gilbert expected the captain to stop Łukasiewicz, but Zwingli made no move to interrupt the prattling Pole.

"So I went into town and I asked, you know, where the Polish unit was." Gilbert felt the laughter die in his chest as an unpleasant suspicion formed in his mind. He knew where this was going. The little blond continued. "But the unit they put me in, it wasn't Polish. Like, they all spoke Polish and that, but they weren't… well…" Łukasiewicz broke off again. When he spoke, his voice was softer. "They weren't very nice. I mean, I didn't realise we would be fighting for the Germans. The things they said, and the things they did to our own..." Łukasiewicz shook his head firmly. "No. Those men weren't truly Polish. So, I asked to leave."

A rather confused silence fell. Roderich sighed almost inaudibly; Gilbert snorted softly. Poor, stupid Polish bastard. Zwingli gave the Pole a look that clearly stated he had never met anyone so simple in his entire life. "You joined the Polish division of the Waffen-SS, and you asked to leave?"

Łukasiewicz lowered his head. "I asked nicely."

"And now here you are. Fighting for the Germans after all."

Łukasiewicz looked at the ground and scuffed his boot in the dirt. "The way I choose to look at it, sir, is that I'm fighting against the Russians."

Zwingli widened his eyes, exhaled an exhausted sounding breath, and turned away, shaking his head. His focused stare turned directly to Roderich. Gilbert straightened, immediately on guard. This time, Zwingli did not look at his folder before he spoke. "Roderich… Héderváry." Gilbert clenched his fist. He did not like the way Zwingli said Roderich's surname… almost suspiciously.

Roderich did not seem to notice, however, as he replied. "Yes." Gilbert cleared his throat. Roderich paused. "Sir."

Zwingli raised his chin appraisingly and tapped his fingers on the folder. "You don't look like much of a soldier."

Roderich shrugged almost undetectably. "I am not a soldier."

"What are you doing in my unit, then?"

"I don't really know."

Zwingli's eyes were too bright, too discerning. "A composer from Austria, with a Hungarian name. Did your music displease the wrong person?"

Roderich spoke quietly, but firmly. His dignified air never once wavered. "Rather, it pleased them too much. There are certain things I will not be associated with. Nor let my music be associated with."

Zwingli's eyebrows shot up. "So we have a political dissident, do we?"

"No." Roderich breathed out sharply, sadly. "I'm just a musician."

"And you are of no use to this unit." Zwingli moved along the line. "You, however."

"Sir." Gilbert used his superior height to look down at the captain. He had long learnt how to appear intimidating without being outwardly insubordinate. Insubordination generally followed fairly quickly, however... he couldn't seem to help it.

Zwingli read from the folder. "Gilbert Beilschmidt." He looked up, interest and amusement in his intense, green eyes. Gilbert held his gaze easily. "No relation to the pilot, Ludwig Beilschmidt?"

Gilbert felt the entire unit's gaze on him and rolled his eyes. Oh, here we go... If he was asked that one more time… "Yes. He's my little brother. I'm the bad one." He glanced around pointedly. "Obviously."

"So, Private." Zwingli stopped and tapped his chin. "Hmm. Private. Your younger brother is a Lieutenant, isn't he?"

Gilbert gritted his teeth. Scathing little bastard. "Like I said. I'm the bad one."

Zwingli nodded, his expression carefully dispassionate. "Interesting. Tell me. How does it feel to be standing in a prison unit on the Russian Front while your little brother brings glory to the Reich from the West?"

Gilbert narrowed his eyes. He was all too aware of Roderich listening to this exchange, and wondered why the hell that bothered him. "What is this, you interviewing me for the newspaper?"

"Just having a 'friendly conversation.'" Zwingli leant forward and flashed Gilbert a sly, tiny smile. "Friend."

Gilbert snorted, his heated anger replaced by a sense of accomplishment. Oh, how quickly twelve men could spread a story. "Ah. I see, sir."

"Well." Zwingli started to walk away. "At least we have one German in this pathetic little company."

Gilbert grinned and shouted after him. "Actually, I always considered myself Prussian, sir."

Zwingli laughed humourlessly. "There ain't no difference anymore, soldier. MEN!" Zwingli stood again before the assembled unit, his chest puffed out and his hands behind his back. "I suggest you get some rest. We will be pushing out tomorrow behind the regulars. You will be armed in the morning. I'll be giving you your orders soon, and I can assure you, you aren't going to like them. I wouldn't worry about it too much, however. Half of you will be dead before the week is over. Fall out!"

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Disclaimer: This story belongs to George deValier. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I own nothing.