A/N: I had way too much fun with that cliffhanger in the last chapter. xD

Well anyway, this is the final installment of this fic. Consider this chapter an epilogue. It's even much shorter, and all I'm doing is tying up loose ends.

Facts—

a) World War Two officially ended on September 2, 1945. I did some research about when soldiers started coming home, but I couldn't really find anything. So I'm just going with my gut.

b) Japanese Americans were sent to internment camps during the war.

October 1945

Part Seven: Leaves in the Wind

On the first night back, Antonio stumbled into the nearest church—it wasn't even Catholic—sat in a pew right in the center, and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. He needed to. He just had to. He didn't move to go home or anything. There was no home.

There. Was. No. Home.

Where would he stay? What was left of home? Antonio couldn't even remember the idea of it anymore. New York was quiet.

He pressed his head on the back of another bench.

New York was dead silent.

The war was everywhere and nowhere all at once.

And now history had swallowed it like a bitter pill.

All of this…this loss would one day be just another story. Christ, there was so much loss, there was so much pain, and there was so much goddamn noise.

The next morning, still homeless, he took whatever little he had—just one small bag—and walked. And walked. And walked. He had no idea where he was going. There was no direction. Was there ever any direction? People walked and marched and ran into war and there was no point to it all, good versus evil, right and wrong, no fucking point.

At mid-afternoon, he found himself at the edge of Little Italy. His steps became more cautious, more controlled, because there was one person there, one person who was neither noise nor silence, just sound, a pleasant sound, like the rustle of leaves in the wind.

Lovino.

Antonio almost broke down when he said the name out loud.

"Lovino."

He needed to see Lovino.

So he walked down the road familiar, where pockets of memories hid in the shadows. If only Antonio could reach out and touch them. If only they could pull him in and hold him forever. But he needed Lovino now. Lovino would have to bring those memories back, bring that feeling back, because Antonio could not do it.

He could not do it anymore.

And there, nestled between the mechanic's and the grocery store was—what.

A bookstore. That wasn't right. Wasn't Lovino's shop right here? Antonio turned his head. Had he come to the wrong place? He went down one alley, then came back to the same spot. No. No. This was it. Why was there a bookstore?

Where was Lovino?

Where was Lovino?

God, where was Lovino?

Why was there so much silence and so much noise at the same time?

Antonio thought he was going to faint. He couldn't breathe. He wanted Lovino NOW. He wanted him like the nostalgia of his Spanish childhood and he wanted him like the forbidden love affair New York had offered and he just wanted simplicity.

That was all Antonio had left.

Broken, faded simplicity.

"Whoa, there, son." Someone—who?—directed him indoors, in where the warmth was, the smell of books and dim lighting, a chair, some water, a person speaking to him.

"You all right? You looked like you were going to faint!" the man asked when Antonio stared up at him, heart still crashing into his rib cage.

"I'm…fine," Antonio said slowly.

The bookstore was peaceful. Like the breath of a child in deep sleep. Antonio closed his eyes to it. Opened them again. The man was still there. Italian, old, unremarkable, as most people happened to be.

"There used to be a shop here…a tailor's shop…Vargas Tailor."

The man before him blinked. "You've been away a while, haven't you?"

"I just—the war—what happened?" Antonio exhaled softly, burying his head in his hands.

"The mafia is what happened."

No.

Antonio's head shot up. "What?"

The man shook his head. "I don't know the details, son, I'm sorry. But the owner had a disagreement with the mafia. They attacked him. It was pretty bad."

No. Lovino could not be dead. No. No way. It wasn't possible. No. This was all Antonio's fault. Lovino had to be alive. What was Antonio going to do without—this was his fault—Lovino was dead because of—

"Jesus, calm down! Do I need to call a doctor?" Antonio found old hands clamped around his cheeks, and someone speaking to him slowly, clearly. "It's all right. Just breathe. Don't panic like that. It's not good for you. Just breathe. That's right. Good." He let go slowly, regarding Antonio with pity and confusion. "Did you know Lovino Vargas?"

"Know him? I—" Antonio's heart skipped a beat and he had to stop talking. He was so anxious, so anxious, everything was so loud and bright and the was the war—the war was over—there was—there was—Lovino—

"He's not dead. Listen, just calm down. He's not dead."

Antonio stopped. Everything stopped. The noise, the chaos, all of it just fell down, limp.

He's not dead.

Antonio hung onto those words, held them in his mouth and swallowed them, went over each syllable in his head, slowly, because each sound had meaning and the meaning was Lovino. Lovino. Lovino.

"Lovino Vargas. He's alive. Miracle, if you ask me. But he moved away. I can give you his address. He's still my tailor, you know?" the man smiled encouragingly at Antonio's return to reality. "Are you good? Yeah? Look, here, let me write down his address…"

Coloured leaves, like something out of a story book, drifted towards the quiet little street. It was so orderly. Lined with trees, boxlike red brick buildings and respectable establishments, prim and upright, as though cut from a painting.

Antonio found himself staring at the familiar grammatically awkward name. He saw black suits in the shop window and a sense of hushed warmth inside. From out here, Antonio couldn't see if anyone was inside. Not even a customer.

Vargas Tailor. He stared at the name some more. His mind had just zoned out now. He was so tired of thinking, so tired of feeling.

"Daddy!"

Antonio turned sharply. The girl had a very high-pitched voice. She was only about four, with auburn hair and golden eye—like Lovino. Antonio stared openly, uncaring if it seemed rude. Could she—would Lovino—was it—

The girl's mother was a rather striking woman, with the bluest eyes and short blonde hair that curled at its ends. She stood across the street with her daughter, looking on exasperatedly as the little girl puffed out her cheeks and crossed her arms and yelled, "I. Want. Daddy."

"Daddy's working," her mother said simply, tiredly. She offered her hand. "Come on, Celestina. Let's go."

Antonio watched them cross the street, approaching him. This girl. She looked so much like him. Her hair was a little lighter, a little redder, but she had his eyes. They walked past Antonio without so much as a glance, completely unaware that he was internally screaming.

Lovino—would—would he?—just marry some woman—have children—there was no way—it was possible. Antonio had just abandoned Lovino. It was very possible. Everyone got lonely. Oh god, no. Antonio needed Lovino right now. He couldn't—just the thought of him having a wife—

He felt like he was going to faint again, so he took a few steady breaths. His nerves got so easily affected these days. He just had to stay calm. He was jumping to conclusions. He needed to sort this through, properly.

(What would he say to Lovino when they met?)

(Would things ever be like they used to?)

"Lovino!" the woman called out in an airy voice. Antonio's head snapped up, and he took a step closer towards the store. "Lovino, we're here. Celest—"

"Uncle Looooovi! Uncle Loooovi, how are youuuu?"

"Hush, Celestina!"

Uncle Lovi? What in the world…?

Antonio's heart stilled as he saw a figure appear from a back room. The man walked with a heavy limp and leaned on a stick. He looked older, tired, but with the same auburn hair and the same sharp golden eyes. He didn't notice Antonio, turning his attention to the little girl and her mother.

"Hello, Celestina," he said gently, with a small smile. It was so incredible. Antonio could remember Lovino's softness, but this was different. It wasn't shy, he wasn't ready to run from his own show of affection. This just seemed so much…happier.

"Hello, Uncle Lovi!" she sing-songed. "Mama told me that you're very busy and I mustn't bother you but we'll have fun, won't we? Won't we? I want to teach you a new dance I learnt at school!"

By this point, her mother basically looked defeated. "I'm sorry," she said in a quieter, more discreet tone. "You know just how much like her father she is…always excited…"

What? What? What?

"It's all right," Lovino said with a chuckle. "You know I love having her, Monika. You go on to your hair appointment. We'll be perfectly fine, won't we, vita mia?"

"Si!" Celestina giggled ecstatically.

Antonio couldn't take this anymore. He had to know. He just…he just wanted…needed…he couldn't stand waiting a second longer. This was desperation like he'd never felt it before.

He stepped into the store.

Lovino still didn't catch on, only partially turning his head away from Celestina, saying, "Si, what can I do for—" and then his eyes met Antonio's, and he just stopped.

Antonio watched his lips part, trying to express a sentiment he just couldn't quite voice. His eyes were wide, like he'd stepped into a dream, and Antonio watched him ball his fists.

"Lovino?" Monika asked, looking between him and Antonio.

"Can…" Lovino started, but his throat was dry, his words weren't sounding right, "Can you…take Celestina to the back room? Just…please."

"Lovino, is everything all right?" Monika asked firmly, taking hold of Celestina's hand.

"Please, just…I need a moment."

Her blue eyes darted towards Antonio in a look of protective warning before she quickly whisked Celestina behind the counter, ignoring the girl's questions. The door of the back room swung shut, and the silence that followed seemed to swallow them whole.

"You…look well," Antonio began slowly.

"Antonio?" Lovino asked, and now he looked scared. Antonio watched him draw into himself, come closer, as though defending his heart from assault. When he spoke, it was like each word had been forced out of a keyhole, as though he'd prevented himself from thinking like this, locked away his hope pretended it didn't exist. "You're…alive?"

Antonio smiled. It was the smile of the beaten. "Yes."

Lovino couldn't have said it better if he'd said, "Fuck them all." He just wordlessly walked out from behind the counter with his stick and his terrible limp, and they hugged and hugged and cried and cried, too afraid to let go.

It was on a bench on the street, and it was a slight struggle for Lovino to walk there. He waved off the help Antonio offered, insisting he'd done this before and he could handle it. They sat. They said nothing for a while. Too afraid to touch, too desperate to talk.

Finally, it was Antonio who broke the quiet. He had to know. He was still verging on madness, that need, that craving for conversation, that craving for Lovino.

"What happened?" Antonio croaked. "To you?"

Lovino's dry chuckle sounded like a cough. "Salvatore. From the mafia. He and I…well, I tried to fight him. He had a baseball bat and a gun."

"He shot at you?"

"He got me at the side of my stomach." Lovino's eyes were suddenly panicky with the fervour to convey, to explain. "I know you must have waited, Antonio. That day, outside the recruitment office. It used to keep me up at night, the thought of you waiting for hours and hours…I was going to come. I was. And then…"

"You don't need to explain yourself—"

"I want to!" Lovino snapped, and Antonio physically recoiled.

Lovino lowered his head in his hands. "Sorry. Sorry. I didn't mean to shout, it's just…I almost died. I broke five bones and bled out onto the floor of my shop. I almost died." But then he looked up, a wry, proud smile. "But I'm a fighter too, you know."

"Oh, Lovi." Antonio's eyes suddenly filled and he had to look away and bite his bottom lip. "I'm so sorry. I'm just so damn sorry for everything. It's my fault. I shouldn't have goaded you, I shouldn't have made you feel weak. I don't know what I—I was just—I'm so hateful."

Lovino laughed softly, shaking his head. "No, no. You were right. Whatever happened, things worked out. The mafia doesn't bother me anymore. I live in a nice neighbourhood not too far away from here. I'm happy."

How could Lovino be so relaxed about all of this? Antonio was tearing himself down from the inside. It was all his fault. How could Lovino pretend like this was no big deal?

"I have a family now," Lovino said suddenly, breaking Antonio from his train of mental hell. He looked up, towards Lovino's open smile. "Feliciano…my brother, remember? He…Apparently, he immigrated to America with his wife—Monika, she's German, part Jewish, if you can believe it—in the thirties. But they were in California. They tried looking for me but they couldn't find me. That's their little girl, Celestina." His smile only grew, a sort of unfamiliar light entering his eyes. "They found me when they moved to New York in 1942. He makes propaganda posters for the government. Feli, always the artistic one, you know?"

"…Wow…" Antonio exhaled softly. "That's…that's just amazing."

"Yeah. She's a good girl, Celestina. Very spirited, just like her father." Lovino laughed suddenly. "I can't believe it. He's not dead. Years and years of zero correspondence, and he was alive the whole time!"

Antonio laughed too. It felt good to laugh. It had been a while. "I'm happy for you."

"Thanks." Lovino reached out, and his fingers just grazed Antonio's knuckles before he pulled away. "And you. You were in a war."

"My friend Alfred enlisted. And died," Antonio mused quietly.

"I'm sorry, Antonio."

"Gilbert enlisted too."

"I thought as much. I never saw him around. Where is he?"

"Where do dead people go?" and Antonio looked to the sky.

Lovino swallowed.

"His brother, Ludwig, died at Stalingrad. Against the Russians. Gilbert died in France. D-Day, you know? Fighting for the Allies…Proving his loyalty to America…just like he said he would."

"That's so fucked up," Lovino said quietly, looking away. "That's just so fucked up."

"I never found out about Francis…" Antonio went on. "You remember Francis?"

"Of course I do. You told me about him."

Antonio shrugged. "Not a word from him. Couldn't even find a grave. Nobody knew anything."

"I'm so sorry, Antonio."

They said nothing for another while.

"I've been keeping tabs on the people here," Lovino confessed. "Amelia's got three kids now with that Englishman, Arthur."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. And Madeline…she's in Boston. Married. Two kids. Hates her husband."

"Poor thing."

"And your neighbour, Kiku. It was harder to find out anything about him, but it was a fucking tragedy." Lovino just shook his head and looked to the sky. "Died at an internment camp."

Antonio took in a sharp breath of air. His eyes filled again. He cried silently, and this time, Lovino pulled him into another hug. Antonio buried his head in Lovino's shoulder, sobbing because he had to. For now, he pretended like there was no social convention, pretended that there were no passers-by who were witnessing this. Pretended that the two of them were normal, heterosexual men in a normal, war-torn world.

That was all Antonio could do now.

Pretend.

"We're the only ones left," he heard Lovino say quietly. "We're the last ones left."

Could they go back to what they used to be? Could they just start from where they left off? Antonio wanted to ask, wanted to know. But Lovino didn't give him the chance. Because when Lovino realised Antonio was homeless, he offered up his own little apartment.

For good.

"But we can't—"

"Antonio," Lovino said firmly. "We can."

And so what if the neighbours had a problem with it?

Lovino lived alone. He introduced Antonio to the rest of his family. Feliciano and Monika had heard of him. They invited Antonio and Lovino over for dinner.

Lovino was right.

That's what mattered, at the end of the day. That the people who loved them accepted them. That was far more important.

Antonio couldn't sleep that night. He couldn't do anything. He knew he was broken. Inside him, something had shattered. He was never going to be the same person again. He watched his ideals and his beliefs and his convictions burn to cinders, his hope for a home go up in smoke. New York was just has foreign as it used to be.

Peaceful, but foreign.

Antonio didn't know what to believe. He didn't know what his dreams had added up to. He was defeated.

Nations won wars. People never did.

"Can you do things my way, this time?" Lovino asked into the darkness.

"Your way?"

"When things don't go as planned, you just get on with it. That's how normal people survive."

Antonio's chuckle was hollow.

"You've never been what I consider normal," Lovino went on, sounding amused but warm as he held Antonio tight. "You've always been an idealist, a dreamer. That's why you stay firm in what you believe, because if you don't, you'd just dissolve. And that's a wonderful thing. But dammit, Antonio, you open yourself up to so much heartbreak." Lovino paused, stroking his hair. "And I've always been a realist. I've kept my dreams chained to the ground because I never believed they could come true. And life's shown me that they can. When you fight for them."

Antonio buried his head in Lovino's shoulder again, smelling him, holding him, just being with him.

"So now you do things my way," Lovino went on. "You try and be a realist. You grit your teeth and get on with it. And you'll survive."

"What was the point of it all?" Antonio wondered softly. "The war. The dreams. What was the point?"

"Some things don't need to have a point."

"It hurts to be human," Antonio whispered. "It hurts to feel human."

Lovino kissed him, and made it seem like it was the only thing that mattered. It was the only moment that life led up to. And when he pulled away, they didn't speak.

Antonio still didn't know what it all added up to. His beliefs, his dreams, all those things he'd fought for. He didn't understand why people were born with the ability to hope and kill. Why did beautiful things have to die? Why did empires at the height of their glory crumble? What did it mean?

But right now, those questions could wait. In this moment, he was safe, warm and loved. And when he woke up tomorrow, he'd still be alive in the city of dreams.

A/N: What a rollercoaster.

Monika is Fem!Germany (like I mentioned in chapter one). I've described her a bit differently than what the fanart suggests. The art makes her look really badass and war-like, but I really don't think that image makes sense in 1945. So I made her more feminine.

Thanks so much for reading. I personally am very fond of this fic, because history is cool. Please review :D